Comus (The Masque at Ludlow Castle) · chunk 3 of 15
Milton, John · published 1637 · first performed or written 1634 [Sep 29] (Annals) pastoral; masque T56 Magic, spells and conjuring typicality 0.80 · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
And to the tell-tale Sun descry Our concealed Solemnity. Come, knit hands, and heat the ground In a light fantastic round. Break off, break off, I feel the different pace Of some chaste footing near about this ground, Run to your shrouds, within these Brakes, and Trees Our number may affright: Some Virgin sure (For so I can distinguish by mine Art) Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms And to my wily trains, I shall ere long Be well stocked with as fair a Herd as grazed About my Mother Circe. Thus I hurl My dazling Spells into the spongy air Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, And give it false presentments, lest the place And my quaint habits breed astonishment, And put the Damsel to suspicious flight, Which must not be, for that's against my course; I under fair pretents of friendly ends, And well placed words of glozing courtesy Baited with reasons not unplausible Wind me into the easy hearted man, And hug him into snares; when once her eye Hath met the virtue of this Magic dust, I shall appear some harmless Villager Whom thrift keeps up about his Country gear But here she comes, I fairly step aside And harken, if I may, her business here. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true My best guide now, methought it was the sound Of Riot, and ill managed Merriment, Such as the jocund Flute, or gamesome Pipe Stirs up among the loose unlettered Hinds When for their teeming Flocks, and granges full In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loath To meet the rudeness, and swilled insolence Of such late Wassailers; yet o where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mates of this tangled wood? My Brothers when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge. Under the spreading favour of these Pines Stepped as they said to the next Thicket side To bring me Berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Ev'n Like a sad Votarist in Palmer's weeds Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back Is now the labour of my thoughts, 'tis likeliest They had engaged their wandering steps too far, And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stolen them from me, else o thievish Night Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end In thy dark lantern thus close up the Stars, That nature hung in Heaven, and filled their lamps With everlasting oil to give due light To the misled, and lonely Traveller. This is the place, as well as I may guess Whence even now the tumult of loud Mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear, Yet nought but single darkness do I find, What might this be? a thousand fantasies
nodes 140–204 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 3 of 15 in this edition
Length
501 words · 661 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T56 — Magic, spells and conjuringcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.797 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T45 · seed 44: T51 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And to the tel-tale Sun discry Our conceal'd Solemnity. Come, knit hands, and heate the ground In a light fantastick round. Breake off, breake off, I feele the different pace Of some chast footing neere about this ground, Run to your shrouds, within these Brakes, and Trees Our number may affright: Some Virgin sure (For so I can distinguish by mine Art) Benighted in these woods. Now to my charmes And to my wilie trains, I shall e're long Be well stock't with as faire a Heard as graz'd About my Mother Circe. Thus I hurle My dzling Spells into the spungie aire Of power to cheate the eye with bleare illusion, And give it false presentments, lest the place And my queint habits breed astonishment, And put the Damsel to suspicious flight, Which must not be, for that's against my course; I nder faire praetents of friendly ends, And wel plac't words of glozing courtesie Baitd with reasons not unplausible Wind me into the easie hearted man, And hug him into snares; when once her eye Hath met the vertue of this Magick dust, I shall appeare some harmlesse Villager Whom thrift keepes up about his Country gea But here she comes, I fairly step afide And hearken, if I may, her buifnesse here. This way the noise was, if mine eare be true My best guide now, me thought it was the sound Of Riot, and ill manag'd Merriment, Such as the jocond Flute, or gamesome Pipe Stirs up among the loose unleter'd Hinds When for their teeming Flocks, and granges full In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thanke the gods amisse. I should be loath To meet the rudenesse, and swill'd infolence Of such late Wassailers; yet where else Shall I ine my unacquainted feet In the of this tangled wood? My Brot when they saw me wearied out With thng way, resolving here to lodge. Vnder the spreading favour of these Pines Stept as they se'd to the next Thicket side To bring me Berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Ev'n Like a sad Votast in Palmers weeds Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phaebus waine. But where they are, and why they came not back Is now the labour of my thoughts, 'tis likeliest They had ingag'd their wandring steps too far, And envious darknesse, e're they could returne, Had stolne them from me, else ô theevish Night Why shouldst thou, but for some fellonious end In thy darke lanterne thus close up the Stars, That nature hung in Heav'n, and fill'd their lamps With everlasting oile to give due light To the misled, and lonely Travailer. This is the place, as well as I may guesse Whence even now the tumult of loud Mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening eare, Yet nought but single darknesse doe I find, What might this be? a thousand fantasies