Daemonologia: A discourse on witchcraft as it was acted in the family of Mr. Edward Fairfax, of Fuyston, in the county of York, in the year 1621; along with the only two eclogues of the same author known to be in existence. With a biographical introduction, and notes topographical & illustrative. By William Grainge |
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 | Daemonologia: A discourse on witchcraft |  |
ECLOGUE THE FOURTH.
EGLON AND ALEXIS.
Whilst on the rough and heath-strewed wilderness
His tender flocks the rasps and brambles cropp,
Poor shepherd Eglon full of sad distress,
By the small stream sat on a mole-hill topp,
Crown'd with a wreath of Heban branches broke:
Whom good Alexis found, and thus bespoke:—
His tender flocks the rasps and brambles cropp,
Poor shepherd Eglon full of sad distress,
By the small stream sat on a mole-hill topp,
Crown'd with a wreath of Heban branches broke:
Whom good Alexis found, and thus bespoke:—
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My friend, what means this silent lamentation?
Why on this field of mirth, this realm of smiles,
Doth the fierce war of griefe make such invasion?
Witty Timanthes had he seen ere whiles,
What face of woe thy cheek of sadness bears,
He had not curtained Agamemnon's tears.
Why on this field of mirth, this realm of smiles,
Doth the fierce war of griefe make such invasion?
Witty Timanthes had he seen ere whiles,
What face of woe thy cheek of sadness bears,
He had not curtained Agamemnon's tears.
The black ox treads not yet upon thy toe,
Nor thy good fortune turns her wheele away;
Thy flocks increase, and thou increasest so;
Thy stragling goates now mild and gentle playe;
And that foole Love thou whip'st away with rods;
Then what sets thee and joy so far at odds?
Nor thy good fortune turns her wheele away;
Thy flocks increase, and thou increasest so;
Thy stragling goates now mild and gentle playe;
And that foole Love thou whip'st away with rods;
Then what sets thee and joy so far at odds?
Eglon.
Nor love, nor loss of ought that worldlings love,
Be it dress, wealth, dream, pleasure, smoke or glory,
Can my well-settled thought to passion move:
A greater cause it is that makes me sorry,
But known to thee it may seem small or none;
Under his fellow's burden who needs grone?
Be it dress, wealth, dream, pleasure, smoke or glory,
Can my well-settled thought to passion move:
A greater cause it is that makes me sorry,
But known to thee it may seem small or none;
Under his fellow's burden who needs grone?
Alexis.
Yet tell me Eglon, for my ram shall die
On the same altar where thy goat doth burn;
Else let these kids my olive trees lick dry,
And let my sheep to shag-hayr'd Musmons turn!
All things with friends are common, grief and sorrow
Men without bond or interest freely borrow.
On the same altar where thy goat doth burn;
Else let these kids my olive trees lick dry,
And let my sheep to shag-hayr'd Musmons turn!
All things with friends are common, grief and sorrow
Men without bond or interest freely borrow.
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Sufficeth to each man his own mishap;
Yet for our friends our eye oft spends more tears
Than for ourselves; our neighbour in his lap
Sometimes our grief, our losses never beares;
Fitter to weep than help when need requires!
So soon the halting steed of friendship tires.
Yet for our friends our eye oft spends more tears
Than for ourselves; our neighbour in his lap
Sometimes our grief, our losses never beares;
Fitter to weep than help when need requires!
So soon the halting steed of friendship tires.
Thou know'st I had a tender lamb; a cade,
Nourish't with milk and morsels from my table,
That in my bosom its soft lodging made,
And cherish't was and fed as I was able;
It was my child, my darling, and my queen,
And might for shape a Passover have been!
Nourish't with milk and morsels from my table,
That in my bosom its soft lodging made,
And cherish't was and fed as I was able;
It was my child, my darling, and my queen,
And might for shape a Passover have been!
I kept it for an offering 'gainst the day
That the great god of shepherds, Pan, shall come,—
Not he whose thousand lambs did feed and stray
On Sicil hills, one such at night brought home.
Nor could the ram wonne by the lords of Greece,
Compare his guilded with her pearled fleece.
That the great god of shepherds, Pan, shall come,—
Not he whose thousand lambs did feed and stray
On Sicil hills, one such at night brought home.
Nor could the ram wonne by the lords of Greece,
Compare his guilded with her pearled fleece.
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But when the sun with his intising ray
Allured her forth from quiet of my shed,
Thorow the broken wall she slipt away,
Behind the corner stone, and thence she fled,
Ambling along the meads and rivers shrill;
And yet she thought she knew, she did, no ill.
Allured her forth from quiet of my shed,
Thorow the broken wall she slipt away,
Behind the corner stone, and thence she fled,
Ambling along the meads and rivers shrill;
And yet she thought she knew, she did, no ill.
The fox, whose fort Malpardus border'd nie,
Spied from his keep the wand'ring innocent,
That weary in the cooling shade did lye,
Lest the hot beams her tender limbs might shent;
And soon he judged by her harmless look,
It was a fish would easily take the hook.
Spied from his keep the wand'ring innocent,
That weary in the cooling shade did lye,
Lest the hot beams her tender limbs might shent;
And soon he judged by her harmless look,
It was a fish would easily take the hook.
He buskt him boon, and on his sanded coat,
He buckled close a slain kid's hairy skin,
And wore the vizzard of a smooth fac't goat;
All saint without, none spied the devil within!
With wanton skips he boards the harmless sheep,
And with sweet words thus into grace did creep.
He buckled close a slain kid's hairy skin,
And wore the vizzard of a smooth fac't goat;
All saint without, none spied the devil within!
With wanton skips he boards the harmless sheep,
And with sweet words thus into grace did creep.
Dear sister lamb! queen of the fleecy kind!
That opal flowers pick'st from these em'rald closes;
Thy bombace, soft in silver trammels bind,
And crowd thy lamber horns with corall roses!
This sabbath is the feast-day of thy birth;
Come be thou lady of our May, and mirth.
That opal flowers pick'st from these em'rald closes;
Thy bombace, soft in silver trammels bind,
And crowd thy lamber horns with corall roses!
This sabbath is the feast-day of thy birth;
Come be thou lady of our May, and mirth.
Break from the prison of the austere cell
Of thy strict master, and his cynick diet!
And in sweet shades of this fat valley dwell,
In ease and wealth! Here we are rich and quiet!
Unty these bonds of awe and cords of duty;
They be weak chains to fetter youth and beauty.
Of thy strict master, and his cynick diet!
And in sweet shades of this fat valley dwell,
In ease and wealth! Here we are rich and quiet!
Unty these bonds of awe and cords of duty;
They be weak chains to fetter youth and beauty.
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With that he kissed her lips and strayn'd her hand,
And softly raysed her from the tender grass;
And squiring her along the flowry land,
Still made her court, as through the fields they pass;
And that bawd love, factor of shame and sin;
Lent him a net to catch his woodcock in.
And softly raysed her from the tender grass;
And squiring her along the flowry land,
Still made her court, as through the fields they pass;
And that bawd love, factor of shame and sin;
Lent him a net to catch his woodcock in.
Close in the bosom of a bended hill,
Of faire and fruitful trees a forest stood,
Balm, Myrrh, Bdellium, from their bark distill.
Bay, Smilax, Myrtle, (Cupid's arrow wood)
Grew there, and Cypress with his kiss-sky tops,
And Ferrea's tree whence pure rose-water drops.
Of faire and fruitful trees a forest stood,
Balm, Myrrh, Bdellium, from their bark distill.
Bay, Smilax, Myrtle, (Cupid's arrow wood)
Grew there, and Cypress with his kiss-sky tops,
And Ferrea's tree whence pure rose-water drops.
The golden bee, buzzing with tinsell wings,
Suckt amber honey from the silken flower;
The dove sad love-groans on her sacbut sings,
The throssell whistles from his oaken tower;
And sporting lay the nymphs of woods and hills,
On beds of heart's-ease, rue, and daffodills.
Suckt amber honey from the silken flower;
The dove sad love-groans on her sacbut sings,
The throssell whistles from his oaken tower;
And sporting lay the nymphs of woods and hills,
On beds of heart's-ease, rue, and daffodills.
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Hither the traitor fox his mistress leads,
Intising her with sweetness of the place,
Till on a hidden net unwares she treads;
The silken threads their guileless prey embrace,
Yet hurt her not; the subtile fowler smil'd;
Nor knew the Dottrell yet she was beguil'd.
Intising her with sweetness of the place,
Till on a hidden net unwares she treads;
The silken threads their guileless prey embrace,
Yet hurt her not; the subtile fowler smil'd;
Nor knew the Dottrell yet she was beguil'd.
Not that false snare, wherewith the cuckold-smith
Sham'd his queen and himself; nor that sly gin
Astolfo caught the eat-man giant with,
Nor that Arachne takes her wild fowle in,
Nor those small toiles the morning queen doth set
In every mead, so fine were as that net.
Sham'd his queen and himself; nor that sly gin
Astolfo caught the eat-man giant with,
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Nor those small toiles the morning queen doth set
In every mead, so fine were as that net.
Thus caught he bound her in a chain three-fold,
And led her to a shady arbour near;
The chain was copper, yet it seemed gold,
And every link a sundry name did bear,
Wrath, sloth, strife, envy, avarice, foul lust,
And pride: what flesh can so strong fetters burst?
And led her to a shady arbour near;
The chain was copper, yet it seemed gold,
And every link a sundry name did bear,
Wrath, sloth, strife, envy, avarice, foul lust,
And pride: what flesh can so strong fetters burst?
An hundred times her virgin lip he kiss't,
As oft her mayden finger gently wrung;
Yet what he would her childhood nothing wist;
The bee of love her soft heart had not stung!
In vain he sigh'd, he glanc'd, he shook his head,
Those hierogliphicks were too hard to read.
As oft her mayden finger gently wrung;
Yet what he would her childhood nothing wist;
The bee of love her soft heart had not stung!
In vain he sigh'd, he glanc'd, he shook his head,
Those hierogliphicks were too hard to read.
She did not, nay, she would not understand,
Upon what errand his sweet smiles were gone;
And in his borrowed coat some hole she fond,
Through which she spied all was not gold that shone;
Yet still his tools the workman ply'd so fast,
That her speed-wing his lime-twig took at last.
Upon what errand his sweet smiles were gone;
And in his borrowed coat some hole she fond,
Through which she spied all was not gold that shone;
Yet still his tools the workman ply'd so fast,
That her speed-wing his lime-twig took at last.
Her silver rug from her soft hide he clipt,
And on her body knit a canvas thin,
With twenty-party-colours evenly stript,
And guarded like the Zebra's rain-bow skin,
Such coats young Tamar, and fayre Rachel's child
Put off, when he was sold, and she defil'd.
And on her body knit a canvas thin,
With twenty-party-colours evenly stript,
And guarded like the Zebra's rain-bow skin,
Such coats young Tamar, and fayre Rachel's child
Put off, when he was sold, and she defil'd.
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There mourn'd the black, the purple tyranniz'd,
The russet hop'd, and green the wanton play'd;
Yellow spy'd faults in such as love disguised;
Carnation still desir'd, white lived a mayd;
Blue kept his faith unstain'd, red bled to death,
And forlorn tawney wore a willow-wreath.
The russet hop'd, and green the wanton play'd;
Yellow spy'd faults in such as love disguised;
Carnation still desir'd, white lived a mayd;
Blue kept his faith unstain'd, red bled to death,
And forlorn tawney wore a willow-wreath.
All these, and twenty new found colours more,
Were in the weft of that rich garment wrought;
And who that charmed vesture took and wore,
Like it were changeable in will and thought.
What wonder then, if on so smooth a plate,
He stampt a fiend, where once an angel sate?
Were in the weft of that rich garment wrought;
And who that charmed vesture took and wore,
Like it were changeable in will and thought.
What wonder then, if on so smooth a plate,
He stampt a fiend, where once an angel sate?
Thus clad he set her on a throne of glass,
And spread a plenteous table on the green;
And every platter of true porcelain was,
Which had a thousand years in temp'ring been,
Yet did the cates exceed the substance fine;
So rare the viands were, so rich the wine!
And spread a plenteous table on the green;
And every platter of true porcelain was,
Which had a thousand years in temp'ring been,
Yet did the cates exceed the substance fine;
So rare the viands were, so rich the wine!
Lucullus was a niggard of his meat,
And sparefull of his cups seem'd Anthony;
But in each morsel which the guests should eate,
The cruel rats-bane of vile lusts did lye;
Yet at that board, the little-fearing-sheep
Eats, till she surfeit, quaffeth till she sleep.
And sparefull of his cups seem'd Anthony;
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The cruel rats-bane of vile lusts did lye;
Yet at that board, the little-fearing-sheep
Eats, till she surfeit, quaffeth till she sleep.
Then drunk with folly, to his loather nest
He brought his prey; and in a dusky room,
All night he crouched on her tender brest,
Till timely day spring with her morning broom
Had swept the silver motes from heaven's steel-flore,
And at the key-hole peeped through theyr dore.
He brought his prey; and in a dusky room,
All night he crouched on her tender brest,
Till timely day spring with her morning broom
Had swept the silver motes from heaven's steel-flore,
And at the key-hole peeped through theyr dore.
But such the issue was of that embrace,
That deadly poison thro' her body spread,
Rotted her limbs, and leprous grew her face;
His bosom's touch so dire a mischief bred;
So venomous was not the poysoned lip
Of th'Indian king, or Guinea's Cock's Combe-ship.
That deadly poison thro' her body spread,
Rotted her limbs, and leprous grew her face;
His bosom's touch so dire a mischief bred;
So venomous was not the poysoned lip
Of th'Indian king, or Guinea's Cock's Combe-ship.
Pherecides' small winged dragonets,
Ferrontines' gentles, Scella's swarm of lice,
The Boghar-worm that joynts asunder frets;
The plague that scourged wanton Cressed's vice;
And that great evill which viper-wine makes sound—
Compared with hers, are but a pin's small wound.
Ferrontines' gentles, Scella's swarm of lice,
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The plague that scourged wanton Cressed's vice;
And that great evill which viper-wine makes sound—
Compared with hers, are but a pin's small wound.
The gastly raven from the blasted oake,
With deadly call foreshewed my lamb's mishap;
The wake-bird on my chimney well-nigh spoke;
But I alas! foresaw no after-clap!
Yet crew my hens, sure shepherd's sign of ill!
But my fond heart in bird-spell had no skill.
With deadly call foreshewed my lamb's mishap;
The wake-bird on my chimney well-nigh spoke;
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Yet crew my hens, sure shepherd's sign of ill!
But my fond heart in bird-spell had no skill.
For help I sought the Leach, wise Mardophage,
I try'd the English—Bath, and German Spaw;
To Walsingham I went on pilgrimage,
And said strong Charmes that kept even Death in awe!
Yet none of these can her lost health restore;
Ah no, my lambs' recovery costeth more!
I try'd the English—Bath, and German Spaw;
To Walsingham I went on pilgrimage,
And said strong Charmes that kept even Death in awe!
Yet none of these can her lost health restore;
Ah no, my lambs' recovery costeth more!
Alexis.
So vain a thing is man, what least we fear
That soonest haps; the evill we present feel
Brings greater anguish than our souls can bear,
Desp'rate we are in woe, careless in weal!
Unfallen, unfeared! if ill betide us, then
Are we past hope; so vain a thing is man!
That soonest haps; the evill we present feel
Brings greater anguish than our souls can bear,
Desp'rate we are in woe, careless in weal!
Unfallen, unfeared! if ill betide us, then
Are we past hope; so vain a thing is man!
Great is I grant, the danger of thy sheep!
But yet there is a salve for every sore;
That shepherd who our flock and us doth keep,
To remedy this sickness long before,
Killéd a holy lamb, clear, spotless, pure;
Whose blood the salve is all our hearts to cure.
But yet there is a salve for every sore;
That shepherd who our flock and us doth keep,
To remedy this sickness long before,
Killéd a holy lamb, clear, spotless, pure;
Whose blood the salve is all our hearts to cure.
Call for that surgeon good to dress her wound!
Bath her in holy water of thy tears!
Let her in bands of faith and love be bound!
And while on earth she spends her pilgrim years,
Thou for thy charm pray with the publican!
And so restore thy lamb to health again!
Bath her in holy water of thy tears!
Let her in bands of faith and love be bound!
And while on earth she spends her pilgrim years,
Thou for thy charm pray with the publican!
And so restore thy lamb to health again!
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Now farewell Eglon! for the sun stoops low,
And calling guests before my sheep-coat's dore,
Now clad in white I see my Porter-crow,
Great kings oft want the blessings of the poor.
My board is short, my kitchen needs no clerk,
Come Fannius! come! be thou Symposiarke.
And calling guests before my sheep-coat's dore,
Now clad in white I see my Porter-crow,
Great kings oft want the blessings of the poor.
My board is short, my kitchen needs no clerk,
Come Fannius! come! be thou Symposiarke.
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ECLOGUE.
[Lycaon his false church extends]
HERMES AND LYCAON.The Argument.
Lycaon his false church extendsThrough all the world with pomp and pride;
Hermes the Church of Christ commends,
And to her spouse brings home his bride.
The sweaty sithe-man with his razor keen
Shore the perfumed beard from meadows green,
And on each bush and every mossy stone
Jarrèd Maie's little daughter Tettrigone,
When to the shadows of a mountain steep
Lycaon drove his goats, Hermes his sheep.
The shepherds both were lovers, both were young,
Their skill was like in piping, like in song.
The other grooms that heard, hid in the dales,
Were dumb for shame, like conquered nightingales.
Oft came the nymphs, the fairy sisters oft
Forsook their mossy beds and liards soft,
And oft the half-gods at their music's sound
Came, and their brows with ivy garlands crown'd.
Ye sedgy lakes and pebble-paved wells,
And thou, great Pales, in these fields that dwells,
How oft have you, hid in the shady sprays,
List'ned Lycaon's songs, his loves and lays.
And yon high stretched pines and oaks of Jove,
Thou wanton Echo, tell-clock of this grove,
How oft did you fair Psyche's praise resound,
When Hermes charmed with songs love's bleeding wound?
They sung by course, and praised their loves by turns,
Each cricket loves the flame wherein she burns;
And whilst their flocks browse on the shrubs and briars,
They tune their pipes and thus they sing their fires.
Lycaon:
Shore the perfumed beard from meadows green,
And on each bush and every mossy stone
Jarrèd Maie's little daughter Tettrigone,
When to the shadows of a mountain steep
Lycaon drove his goats, Hermes his sheep.
The shepherds both were lovers, both were young,
Their skill was like in piping, like in song.
The other grooms that heard, hid in the dales,
Were dumb for shame, like conquered nightingales.
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Forsook their mossy beds and liards soft,
And oft the half-gods at their music's sound
Came, and their brows with ivy garlands crown'd.
Ye sedgy lakes and pebble-paved wells,
And thou, great Pales, in these fields that dwells,
How oft have you, hid in the shady sprays,
List'ned Lycaon's songs, his loves and lays.
And yon high stretched pines and oaks of Jove,
Thou wanton Echo, tell-clock of this grove,
How oft did you fair Psyche's praise resound,
When Hermes charmed with songs love's bleeding wound?
They sung by course, and praised their loves by turns,
Each cricket loves the flame wherein she burns;
And whilst their flocks browse on the shrubs and briars,
They tune their pipes and thus they sing their fires.
Flora, my queen, my joy, my heaven of bliss,
See what my merit and deserving is.
I build thee temples and I feed thy sheep,
I bring thee gifts, thy words as laws I keep,
My bed is ashes, sack-cloth is my weed,
I drink with Rechab's sons, with Job I feed.
For all my service and thus suffering long,
Love me, sweet Flora, or thou do'st me wrong.
Hermes:
Psyche, my desire, my undefiled, my dove,
O comfort me, for I am sick of love;
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Sin, error, folly, my service is at best:
Foul leper-spots on all my body grow,
Wipe out these stains, and wash me white as snow.
Clothe me with linen, crown my head with gold,
First make me worthy love, then love me bold.
Lycaon:
Flora was young, a fair few goats she kept,
Ten kings espied her, loved her, with her slept,
And in her sweet embrace such joy they found,
That with three diadems her head they crown'd;
And on seven heaps their wealth and treasure laid
Set her thereon, fell at her feet, and pray'd.
She forty months and two their service proves,
And takes them for her slaves and for her loves.
Hermes:
Psyche my virgin bore a blessed son
The dragon chased her, she to desert run,
The fiend a stream of water at her flings,
Earth drunk the flood, she 'scaped with eagle's wings;
Crown'd with twelve stars, cloth'd with the glorious sun,
She doth with roes and hinds in Eden run.
There Psyche lives and reigns in safety blest,
Till time and times, and half a time be past.
Lycaon:
Out of the sea a scarlet beast appeared,
Ten horns he had and seven heads proudly rear'd,
His forked tail 'gainst all the world made wars,
And smote the third of trees, of floods, of stars.
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And on his back as on a mule doth ride.
All nations fear the beast and serve the dame,
And sealed are with 's number, mark, and name.
Hermes:
Before the gates of Psyche's sheepcote lies
Four wondrous beasts, all full of wings and eyes,
And round about them four-and-twenty kings
Offer up gold and myrrh, and precious things.
All these do Psyche's lambs keep, cure, and feed,
And thousand thousands, clad in milk-white weed,
Sing hymns of love and faith, and never cease,
And on his brow each wears a seal of peace.
Lycaon:
Flora once found me sick and hurt to death,
Thrice did she cross me, thrice upon me breathe,
Three times she dipt me in a living stream,
And salved my wounds with spittle, salt, and cream.
A thousand saints she for my guard appoints,
And all my head with oil of balm anoints,
Then makes me master of her flocks and fold,
Her goats to keep, or kill, or sell for gold.
Hermes:
Psyche first took me soiled with mire and clay,
Washed in the well of life my filth away;
Thieves robb'd me, slew me; of a lamb new slain
On me she pour'd the blood, I lived again;
Since that with bread of heaven, wine of grace,
She diets me, her lap my resting place.
Her sheep my playfellows, heaven our fold,
Her spouse the door, her voice the key of gold.
Lycaon:
It was the fiftieth year, Flora a feast
Made for all those that loved and served her beast;
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All that were wise and rich upon the earth;
And all that land, or sea, or air afford,
Her caters took and therewith fill'd her board,
And drunk with wine suckt from her cup of gold
Were kings and nations, rich, poor, young and old.
Hermes:
Psyche to supper called the weak and poor,
The sick, the lazer from the rich man's door,
And at her board set them with lords and kings.
Her holy steward wine and wafers brings;
They eat and drink by faith, and thirst no more,
Except some guests fore-charg'd with Flora's store
Sit there, and spider-like, from roses new
Draw poison, where the bee sucks honey dew.
Lycaon:
Flora an orchard had of fruitful treene;
She par'd the moss, she kept the branches cleane,
She let the fountains in, she kill'd the worm,
She scar'd the birds, she saved the blooms from storm;
Flourisht the trees, the boughs with apples bent;
She called—her servants to her orchard went;
Gather'd to eat, but when she cut the skin,
The fruit was ashes, embers, dust within.
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Last year my Psyche had a field of corn;
She scour'd the ditches, stopt the gaps with thorn;
She till'd the land enough, she sow'd good seed;
She stubb'd the briars, pluckt up tares and weed;
She fraid the crows, she kept the wild boar out;
And when the sun turn'd the year's wheel about
She reapt her crop, and when her gain she told,
Found thirty, sixty, and a hundred fold.
Lycaon:
A flock of goats astray from Flora went;
Doris, her handmaid, after them she sent;
But whilst the lass with Thirsis sporting laid,
Her dogs ran forth alone, and soon they stray'd;
And like the kind of wolves of which they sprung,
They slew and eat the goats and sucklings young.
Yet some escapt, saved in the woods and rocks.
Doris went home, but thus she lost her flocks.
Hermes:
What Doris left and lost, fair Daphne sought
And found, and to her mother's sheep fold brought.
There Psyche bound their wounds and stauncht their blood.
At first she gave them milk, then stronger food,
And soon restored their health. Shepherds beware;
Watch, feed, your sheep-charge asketh care.
All that is stolen or slain you must make good,
And Flora's Hylax yet lurks in the wood.
Lycaon:
King Solomon a cedar palace built,
Thatched with tiles of Flora's tresses gilt;
Her legs were silver posts the house to bear;
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Her breast the presence, and her heart the throne;
Her triple crown, as Lord, there sits alone.
Her holy doors she opes to each that knocks;
Her hands pure myrrh drop on the bars and locks.
Hermes:
Psyche's fair locks wrapped in gold of proof,
Of God's high temple is the gilded roof.
Her eyes the crystal windows, through each light
A smiling saint shoots in day's arrows bright.
Her coral lips the doors that turn and twine
On ruby hooks; her mouth the quire divine;
Her teeth the ivory seats built even and thin;
Her tongue the silver bell that rings all in.
Lycaon:
The royal town where Flora hath her seat
Stands on seven hills, well peopled, pleasant, great;
Rich in all blessings, all delights that can
Be given by fortune or be wished by man,
Quirinus the large and Dorad the serene,
Her handmaides be. She is the world's sole queen.
Joy in her streets, life in her temples wide,
And dead and lost is all the world beside.
188
Psyche's clear city was not rais'd from dust,
But came from heaven, pure, immortal, just.
Stands on twelve precious stones. Jasper the wall,
Streets gold, gates pearl be, still ope to all
Who taste the tree of life which there doth grow.
About the town two blessed rivers flow
Of grace and mercy; over either flood
Lies the fair bridge of faith, hope, doing good.
Lycaon:
O shrill Heptaphone! thou daughter clear,
Tell not these rocks of Flora's doubt and fear;
Write not Planetus in to-morrow's stars,
Her future troubles, dangers, losses, wars,
Lest Psyche's shepherds should fore know her doom,
And kill her goats before her day be come.
These woods are hers, these fields and folds about,
Then keep them Flora till thy lease wear out.
Hermes:
Sitting on Isis' flowery bank, I spied
On a white horse a crowned monarch ride.
Upon his thigh was writ his wonderous name;
Out of his mouth a sword two-edged came.
Flora, her beast, and all her goats he slew,
And in a lake of fire their bodies threw.
This king is Psyche's spouse; with him she went
And rul'd the world, for Flora's lease was spent.
Thus much did Hermes and Lycaon sing,
The heifer let the herbs untouched spring,
Forgot to feed. The stags amazed stood.
The silver river stayed her speedy flood.
Charmed was the adder deaf, tam'd was the lion,
So trees heard Orpheus, dolphins heard Orion.
The heifer let the herbs untouched spring,
189
The silver river stayed her speedy flood.
Charmed was the adder deaf, tam'd was the lion,
So trees heard Orpheus, dolphins heard Orion.
| Daemonologia: A discourse on witchcraft | |