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Comus enters with a Charming Rod in one hand, his Glass in the other, with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wilde Beasts, but otherwise like Men and Women, their Apparel glistring, they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.

 

 Co: The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
 

 Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
 

 And the gilded Car of Day,
 

 His glowing Axle doth allay
 

 In the steep Atlantick stream,
 

 And the slope Sun his upward beam
 

 Shoots against the dusky Pole,
 

 Pacing toward the other gole           100
 

 Of his Chamber in the East.
 

 Meanwhile welcom Joy, and Feast,
 

 Midnight shout, and revelry,
 

 Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
 

 Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
 

 Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
 

 Rigor now is gon to bed,
 

 And Advice with scrupulous head,
 

 Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
 

 With their grave Saws in slumber ly.      110
 

 We that are of purer fire
 

 Imitate the Starry Quire,
 

 Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
 

 Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
 

 The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
 

 Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
 

 And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
 

 Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
 

 By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
 

 The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,     120
 

 Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
 

 What hath night to do with sleep?
 

 Night hath better sweets to prove,
 

 Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.
 

 Com let us our rights begin,
 

 'Tis onely day-light that makes Sin
 

 Which these dun shades will ne're report.
 

 Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport
 

 Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame
 

 Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame   130
 

 That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom
 

 Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
 

 And makes one blot of all the ayr,
 

 Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
 

 Wherin thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend
 

 Us thy vow'd Priests, til utmost end
 

 Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
 

 Ere the blabbing Eastern scout,
 

 The nice Morn on th' Indian steep
 

 >From her cabin'd loop hole peep,        140
 

 And to the tel-tale Sun discry
 

 Our conceal'd Solemnity.
 

 Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
 

 In a light fantastick round.
 

The Measure.