Music and gentle night,
Beauty, youth’s chief delight,
Pleasures all full invite
Your due attendance to this glorious room;
Then, if you have or wit or virtue, come,
Oh, come! oh, come!
Suddenly, upon this song, the cornets were winded, and the traverse that was drawn before the masquers sank down. The whole show presently appeareth, which presented itself in this figure: the whole body of it seemed to be the side of a steeply ascending wood, on the top of which, in a fair oak, sat a golden eagle, under whose wings sat, in eight several thrones, the eight masquers, with visards like stars, their helms like Mercury’s, with the addition of fair plumes of carnation and white, their antique doublets and other furniture suitable to those colours, the place full of shields, lights, and pages all in blue satin robes, embroidered with stars. The masquers, thus discovered, sat still until Ariadne pronounced this invocation, at which they descended:—
Ariad. Mercurian issue, sons of son of Jove,
By the Cyllenian rod, and by the love
Devotely chaste you vow Pasithea,
Descend: first thou more bright of these
That givest my crown her name, clear Dolopes,
Whose brave descent lets not thy fair heart fall
As born of parents most heroical,
Who vows himself, his life, his sword and fortune
To her whose constant goodness doth importune
More than he is: descend! Next him, Auctolius,
Of nimble spirit slide to honour us;
Faithfull’st Evander; clear-soul’d Erythus;
The hopeful Prilis and sweet Polybus;
And thou, true son of quick-brain’d Mercury,
Dear-loved Myrtillus, with that bright soul mix’d,
Experienced Lares, that at last is fix’d
After much danger in securer sphere.
Here all with wishèd easiness appear,
And O, if ever you were worth the grace
Of viewing majesty in mortal’s face,
If e’er to perfect worth you vow’d heart’s duty,
Show spirit worth your virtues and their beauty.
The violins upon this played a new measure, to which the masquers danced; and ceasing, Cynthia spake:—
Stay a little, and now breathe ye,
Whilst these ladies grace bequeath ye;
Then mix fair hands, and gently ease ye,
Cynthia charms hence what may displease ye.
From ladies that are rudely coy,
Barring their loves from modest joy,
From ignorant silence, and proud looks,
From those that answer out of books,
From those that hate our chaste delight,
I bless the fortune of each starry Knight.
From gallants who still court with oaths,
From those whose only grace is clothes,
From bumbast stockings, vile leg-makers,
From beards and great tobacco-takers,
I bless the fortune of each starry dame.
Sing, that my charm may be more strong;
The gods are bound by verse and song.
The Song
Audacious night makes bold the lip,
Now all court chaster pleasure,
Whilst to Apollo’s harp you trip,
And tread the gracing measure.
Cynth. Now meet, now break, then feign a warlike sally;
So Cynthia sports, and so the gods may dally.