Before the starry threshold of Joves CourtMy mansion is, where those immortal shapesOf bright aereal Spirits live insphear’dIn Regions milde of calm and serene Ayr,Above the smoak and stirr of this dim spot,Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,Confin’d and pester’d in this pin-fold here,Strive to keep up a frail and Feaverish being,Unmindfull of the crown that Vertue gives,After this mortal change, to her true ServantsAmongst the enthron’d gods on Sainted seats.Yet som there be that by due steps aspireTo lay their just hands on that Golden KeyThat ope’s the Palace of Eternity:To such my errand is; and but for such,I would not soil these pure Ambrosial weedsWith the rank vapours of this Sin-worn mould.But to my task. Neptune, besides the swayOf every salt Flood and each ebbing Stream,Took in by lot, ’twixt high, and neather Jove,Imperial rule of all the Sea-girt IlesThat, like to rich and various gemms, inlayThe unadorned boosom of the Deep;Which he, to grace his tributary gods,By course commits to severall government,And gives them leave to wear their Saphire crowns,And weild their little tridents. But this Ile,The greatest and the best of all the main,He quarters to his blu-hair’d deities;And all this tract that fronts the falling SunA noble Peer of mickle trust and powerHas in his charge, with temper’d awe to guide
An old and haughty Nation proud in Arms:Where his fair off-spring, nurs’t in Princely lore,Are coming to attend their Fathers stateAnd new-entrusted Scepter; but their wayLies through the perplex’t paths of this drear Wood,The nodding horror of whose shady browsThreats the forlorn and wandring Passinger;And here their tender age might suffer perill,But that, by quick command from Soveran Jove,I was dispatcht for their defence and guard;And listen why; for I will tell ye nowWhat never yet was heard in Tale or Song,From old or modern Bard, in Hall or Bowr.Bacchus, that first from out the purple GrapeCrush’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 knows not CirceThe daughter of the Sun? Whose charmed CupWhoever tasted, lost his upright shape,And downward fell into a groveling Swine.)This Nymph, that gaz’d upon his clustring locksWith Ivy berries wreath’d, and his blithe youth,Had by him, ere he parted thence, a SonMuch like his Father, but his Mother more,
Whom therfore she brought up and Comus nam’d;Who ripe and frolick of his full grown 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 mighty Art,Offring to every weary TravailerHis orient liquor in a Crystal Glasse,To quench the drouth of Phœbus; which as they taste(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),Soon as the Potion works, their human count’nance,Th’ express resemblance of the gods, is chang’dInto som brutish form of Woolf, or Bear,Or Ounce or Tiger, Hog, or bearded Goat,All other parts remaining as they were;And they, so perfect is their misery,Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,But boast themselves more comely then before;And all their friends and native home forget,To roule with pleasure in a sensual stie.Therfore, when any favour’d of high JoveChances to pass through this adventrous glade,Swift as the Sparkle of a glancing StarI shoot from Heav’n, to give him safe convoy,As now I do. But first I must put off
II
And they, so perfect is their misery,Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,But boast themselves more comely than before.
These my skie robes, spun out of Iris Wooff,And take the Weeds and likenes of a SwainThat to the service of this house belongs;Who with his soft Pipe, and smooth-dittied Song,Well knows to still the wilde winds when they roar,And hush the waving Woods; nor of lesse faith,And in this office of his Mountain watchLikeliest, and neerest to the present aydOf this occasion. But I hear the treadOf hatefull steps; I must be viewles now.[Exit.
Comusenters, 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 com in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.
III
They com in making a riotous and unruly noise.
Comus
The Star that bids the Shepherd foldNow the top of Heav’n doth holdAnd the gilded Car of DayHis glowing Axle doth allayIn the steep Atlantick stream;And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky Pole,Pacing toward the other goleOf his Chamber in the East.Mean while, 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.We that are of purer fireImitate the Starry Quire,Who in their nightly watchfull SphearsLead in swift round the Months and Years.The Sounds and Seas with all their finny droveNow to the Moon in wavering Morrice move;And on the Tawny Sands and ShelvesTrip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves.By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs, deckt with Daisies trim,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 flameOf mid-night Torches burns! mysterious DameThat ne’re art call’d but when the Dragon woomOf Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,And makes one blot of all the ayr!Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
IV
And on the Tawny Sands and ShelvesTrip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves.
V
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,The Wood-Nymphs, deckt with Daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep.
Wherin thou rid’st with Hecat’, and befriendUs thy vow’d Priests, til utmost endOf 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,And to the tel-tale Sun discryOur conceal’d Solemnity.Com, knit hands, and beat the groundIn a light fantastick round.
An old and haughty Nation proud in Arms:Where his fair off-spring, nurs’t in Princely lore,Are coming to attend their Fathers stateAnd new-entrusted Scepter; but their wayLies through the perplex’t paths of this drear Wood,The nodding horror of whose shady browsThreats the forlorn and wandring Passinger;And here their tender age might suffer perill,But that, by quick command from Soveran Jove,I was dispatcht for their defence and guard;And listen why; for I will tell ye nowWhat never yet was heard in Tale or Song,From old or modern Bard, in Hall or Bowr. Bacchus, that first from out the purple GrapeCrush’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 knows not CirceThe daughter of the Sun? Whose charmed CupWhoever tasted, lost his upright shape,And downward fell into a groveling Swine.)This Nymph, that gaz’d upon his clustring locksWith Ivy berries wreath’d, and his blithe youth,Had by him, ere he parted thence, a SonMuch like his Father, but his Mother more, 
Whom therfore she brought up and Comus nam’d;Who ripe and frolick of his full grown 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 mighty Art,Offring to every weary TravailerHis orient liquor in a Crystal Glasse,To quench the drouth of Phœbus; which as they taste(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),Soon as the Potion works, their human count’nance,Th’ express resemblance of the gods, is chang’dInto som brutish form of Woolf, or Bear,Or Ounce or Tiger, Hog, or bearded Goat,All other parts remaining as they were;And they, so perfect is their misery,Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,But boast themselves more comely then before;And all their friends and native home forget,To roule with pleasure in a sensual stie.Therfore, when any favour’d of high JoveChances to pass through this adventrous glade,Swift as the Sparkle of a glancing StarI shoot from Heav’n, to give him safe convoy,As now I do. But first I must put off
These my skie robes, spun out of Iris Wooff,And take the Weeds and likenes of a SwainThat to the service of this house belongs;Who with his soft Pipe, and smooth-dittied Song,Well knows to still the wilde winds when they roar,And hush the waving Woods; nor of lesse faith,And in this office of his Mountain watchLikeliest, and neerest to the present aydOf this occasion. But I hear the treadOf hatefull steps; I must be viewles now.[Exit.
Wherin thou rid’st with Hecat’, and befriendUs thy vow’d Priests, til utmost endOf 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,And to the tel-tale Sun discryOur conceal’d Solemnity.Com, knit hands, and beat the groundIn a light fantastick round.
