32
COMUS
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the Lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery Dames,
’Twould be som solace yet, som little chearing,
In this close dungeon of innumerous bowes.
But O, that haples virgin, our lost sister!
Where may she wander now, whether betake her
From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles
Perhaps som cold bank is her boulster now,
Or ’gainst the rugged bark of som broad Elm
Leans her unpillow’d head, fraught with sad fears:
What if in wild amazement and affright,
Or while we speak, within the direfull grasp
Of Savage hunger, or of Savage heat?
Or whistle from the Lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery Dames,
’Twould be som solace yet, som little chearing,
In this close dungeon of innumerous bowes.
But O, that haples virgin, our lost sister!
Where may she wander now, whether betake her
From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles
Perhaps som cold bank is her boulster now,
Or ’gainst the rugged bark of som broad Elm
Leans her unpillow’d head, fraught with sad fears:
What if in wild amazement and affright,
Or while we speak, within the direfull grasp
Of Savage hunger, or of Savage heat?
Elder Brother
Peace, brother, be not over-exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
Or, if they be but false alarms of Fear,
How bitter is such self-delusion!
I do not think my sister so to seek,
Or so unprincipl’d in vertues book,
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
Or, if they be but false alarms of Fear,
How bitter is such self-delusion!
I do not think my sister so to seek,
Or so unprincipl’d in vertues book,
