(3)
From old, or moderne bard, in hall, or bowre.
Bacchus, that firſt from out the purple Grape
Cruſh't the ſweet poyſon of miſ-uſed Wine
After the Tuſcan mariners transform'd
Coaſting the Tyrrhene ſhore, as the winds liſted,
On Circes iland fell (who knowes not Circe
The daughter of the Sun? whoſe charmed Cup
Whoever taſted loſt his upright ſhape,
And downward fell into a grovling Swine)
This Nymph, that gaz'd upon his cluſtring locks
With Ivie berries wreath'd, and his blith youth,
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a Son
Much like his Father, but his mother more,
Whom therefore ſhe brought up, and Comus nam'd,
Who ripe, and frolick of his full growne age
Roaving the Celtick and Iberian fields
At laſt betakes him to this ominous wood,
And in thick ſhelter of black ſhades imbowr'd
Excells his Mother at her mightie Art
Offring to every wearie Travailer
His orient liquor in a Chryſtall glaſſe
To quench the drouth of Phœbus, which as they taſt
(For moſt doe taſt through fond intemperate thirſt)
Soone as the Potion works, their humane count'nance
Th' expreſſr reſemblance of the gods is chang'd
Into ſome brutiſh forme of Wolfe, or Beare
Or Ounce, or Tiger, Hog, or bearded Goat,
All other parts remaining as they were,
And they, ſo perfect in their miſerie,
Not once perceive their foule disfigurement,
But boaſt themſelves more comely then before
And all their friends; and native home forget
