Comus. THE star, that bids the shepherd fold, Now the top of heaven doth hold ; His glowing axle doth allay In the steep Atlantic stream; And the slope Sun his upward beam Pacing toward the other goal Of his chamber in the east. Meanwhile welcome joy and feast, Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity. Braid your locks with rosy twine And Advice with scrupulous head; Strict Age and sour Severity, With their grave saws in slumber lie. We that are of purer fire Imitate the starry quire, Who in their nightly watchful spheres Lead in swift round the months and years. |