Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phœbus' wain.
Comus. Line 188.
A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
Comus. Line 205.
O welcome, pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!