(19)
That brow this bottome glade, whence night by night
He and his monſtrous rout are heard to howle
Like ſtabl'd wolves, or tigers at their prey
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate
In their obſcured haunts of inmoſt bowres.
Yet have they many baits, and guilefull ſpells
T'inveigle, and invite th'unwarie ſenſe
Of them that paſſe unweeting by the way.
This evening late by then the chewing flocks
Had ta'ne their ſupper on the ſavourie herbe
Of Knot-graſs dew-beſprent, and were in fold
I ſate me downe to watch upon a bank
With ivie canopied, and interwove
With flaunting hony-ſuckle, and began
Wrapt in a pleaſing fit of melancholy
To meditate my rural minſtrelſie
Till fancie had her fill, but ere a cloſe
The wonted roare was up amidſt the woods,
And filld the aire with barbarous diſſonance
At which I ceas't, and liſten'd them a while
Till an unuſuall ſtop of ſudden ſilence
Gave reſpit to the drowſie frighted ſteeds
That draw the litter of cloſe-curtain'd ſleepe.
At laſt a ſoft, and ſolemne breathing ſound
Roſe like a ſteame of rich diſtill'd Perfumes
And ſtole upon the aire, that even Silence
Was tooke e're ſhe was ware, and wiſh't ſhe might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still to be ſo diſplac't. I was all eare,
And took in ſtrains that might create a ſoule
Vnder the ribs of Death, but ô ere long
Too well I did perceive it was the voice
