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 And makes one blot of all the aire, Stay thy clowdie Ebon chaire, Wherein thou rid't with Hecat', and befriend Vs thy vow'd Priets, till utmot end Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, Ere the blabbing Eaterne cout The nice Morne on th' Indian teepe From her cabin'd loop hole peepe, And to the tel-tale Sun dicry Our conceal'd Solemnity. Come, knit hands, and beate the ground In a light fantatick round.

Breake off, breake off, I feele the different pace Of some chat footing neere about this ground, Run to your hrouds, within thee Brakes, and Trees Our number may affright: Some Virgin ure (For o I can ditinguih by mine Art) Benighted in thee woods. Now to my charmes And to my wilie trains, I hall e're long Be well tock't with as faire a Herd as graz'd About my mother Circe. Thus I hurle My dazling Spells into the pungie aire Of power to cheate the eye with bleare illuion, And give it fale preentments, let the place And my queint habits breed atonihment, And put the Damel to upicious flight, Which mut not be, for that's againt my coure; I under faire prætents of friendly ends, And wel plac't words of glozing courteie Baited with reaons not unplauible, Wind