University of Virginia Library

The Song of Circe, represented by Madam Coniacke.

Cir:
Dissembling Traytor, now I see the cause,
Of all thy fawning, was but to be free:
Twas not fornothing, thou hadst teeth and clawes,
For thou hast made a cruell prey of me.

Her 4 Nymphes.
Ingratitude is apt, to slinke away,
And shunne that bounty, which it cannot pay.

Circe:
And he is gone (aye me) is stolne from hence,
And this poore Casket of my breast, hath left
Without a Hart: that should for recompence,
Haue lockt in two: O most inhumane theft!

Her foure Nymphes.
Send not your sighes, after a fickle mind,
That Sayles the faster for such Gales of wind.

Circe.
Then take my keyes! and shew me al my wealth.
Leade me abroad! Let me my subiects view!
Bring me some Physick! though that bring no health!
And feyne me pleasures, since I finde none true.

Chorus.
Yee willing Servants! And ye Soules confin'd
To severall shapes, by powerfull Herbes and Art,
Appeare, transform'd each in your seuerall kind,
And striue to temper the distemper'd Heart,
Of sullen Circe, stung with Cupids dart.