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 brimmed waves] for this
Their full tribute never miss 925
From a thousand petty rills,
That tumble down the snowy hills: