Comus

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold

Now the top of heaven doth hold;

And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay

In the steep Atlantic stream;

And the slope sun his upward beam

Shoots against the dusky pole,

Pacing toward the other goal 100

 100

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,

Dropping odours, dropping wine.

Rigour now is gone to bed;

And Advice with scrupulous head,

Strict Age, and sour Severity,

With their grave saws, in slumber lie. 110

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