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Ay me unhappy! then
fears are true.
What fears, good Thyrsis? Prythee briefly shew.
I'll tell ye; 'tis not vain or fabulous
(Though so esteemed by shallow Ignorance)
What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly muse,
Storied of old in high immortal verse,
Of dire chimeras, and enchanted isles,
And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell;
For such there be; but Unbelief is blind.
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries;
By sly enticement, gives his baneful cup,
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl
Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey,
In their obscuréd haunts of inmost bowers.
Yet have they many baits and guileful spells
Of them that pass unweeting by the way.
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks
Had ta'en their supper on the savoury herb
Till Fancy had her fill; but, ere a close,