Fancy her name, ysprong of race divine;
Her mantle wimpled low, her silken hair,
Which loose adown her well-turn’d shoulders stray’d,
She made a net to catch the wanton air,
Whose love-sick breezes all around her play’d,
And seem’d in whispers soft to court the heav’nly maid.
And ever and anon she wav’d in air
A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow’r:
She wav’d it round: eftsoons there did appear
Spirits and witches, forms unknown before: