The apple-harvest that doth longer last;
The hogs return’d home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a shade!
Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;
And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer,
As if in Saturn’s reign it were;
Apollo’s harp and Hermes’ lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found: