Piteous it needs must be, when I, a spirit,
Can have so soft a sense of human woes!
Ah, for so many souls, as but this morn
Were clothed with flesh, and warmed with vital blood,
But naked now, or shirted but with air!
Merlin, with Spirits, descends to Philidel, in a Chariot drawn by Dragons.
Mer. What art thou, spirit? of what name, or order?
For I have viewed thee in my magic glass,
Making thy moan among the midnight wolves,
That bay the silent moon; speak, I conjure thee.