And set to work millions of spinning worms, That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired silk To deck her sons; and, that no corner might Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins She hutched the all-worshipped ore, and precious gems, To store her children with: if all the world Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised, Not half his riches known, and yet despised; And we should serve him as a grudging master, As a penurious niggard of his wealth, And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons, Who would be quite surcharged with her own weight, And strangled with her waste fertility; The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked with plumes, 35 The herds would over-multitude their lords, The sea o'erfraught would swell, and the unsought diamond Beauty is Nature's coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current; and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, Unsavoury in the enjoyment of itself; If you let slip time, like a neglected rose LADY. I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 38 In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, Obtruding false rules prankt 39 in Reason's garb. I hate when Vice can bolt 40 her arguments, And Virtue has no tongue to check her pride. Impostor, do not charge most innocent Nature, As if she would her children should be riotous With her abundance; she, good cateress, And she no whit encumbered with her store ; Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on? And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know More happiness than this thy present lot. Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence, Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced; Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits To such a flame of sacred vehemence, That dumb things would be moved to sympathise, And the brute Earth would lend her nerves, and shake, Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, COMUS. She fables not: I feel that I do fear 41 Her words set off by some superior power; |