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To lay their jut hands on that golden key That ope's the palace of Æternity: To uch my errand is, and but for uch I would not oile thee pure ambroial weeds With the ranck vapours of this Sin-worne mould.
 * But to my task. Neptune beides the way

Of every alt Flood, and each ebbing Streame Tooke in my lot'twixt high, and neather Iove Imperial rule of all the Sea-girt Iles That like to rich, and various gemms inlay The unadorned boome of the Deepe, Which he to grace his tributarie gods By coure commits to everall government And gives them leave to weare their Saphire crowns, And weild their little tridents, but this Ile The greatet, and the bet of all the maine He quarters to his blu-hair'd deities, And all this tract that fronts the falling Sun A noble Peere of mickle trut, and power Has in his charge, with temper'd awe to guide An old, and haughtie Nation proud in Armes: Where his faire off-pring nurs'r in Princely lore Are comming to attend their Fathers tate, And new-entruted Sec [sic]epter, but their way Lies through the perplex't paths of this dreare wood, The nodding horror of whoe hadie brows Threats the forlorne and wandring Painger. And here their tender age might uffer perill But that by qui [sic]ck command from Soveraigne Iove I was dipatcht for their defence, and guard, And liten why, for I will tell yee now What never yet was heard in Tale or Song From