Now the spell hath lost his hold;
And I must haste ere morning hour 920
To wait in Amphitrite's bower.
Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat.
Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine,
Sprung of old Anchises' line,
May thy brimmèd waves for this
Their full tribute never miss 925
From a thousand petty rills,
That tumble down the snowy hills;