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The Measure.
Break off, break off, I feel the different pace,Of som chast footing neer about this ground.Run to your shrouds, within these Brakes and Trees,Our number may affright: Som Virgin sure(For so I can distinguish by mine Art)Benighted in these Woods. Now to my charms, And to my wily trains, I shall e're longBe well stock't with as fair a herd as graz'dAbout my Mother Circe. Thus I hurlMy dazling Spells into the spungy ayr,Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,And give it false presentments, lest the placeAnd my quaint habits breed astonishment,And put the Damsel to suspicious flight,Which must not be, for that's against my course;I under fair pretence of friendly ends,And well-plac't words of glozing courtesie,Baited with reasons not unplausibleWind me into the easie-hearted man,And hugg him into snares. When once her eyeHath met the vertue of this Magick dust, I shall appear som harmles VillagerWhom thrift keeps up about his Country gear,
But
