Arcades
Part
of
an
entertainment
presented
to
the
Countess
Dowager
of
Darby
at
Harefield,
by
som
Noble
persons
of
her
Family,
who
appear
on
the
Scene
in
pastoral
habit,
moving
toward
the
seat
of
State
with
this
Song.
I.
Song.
Look
Nymphs,
and
Shepherds
look,
What
sudden
blaze
of
majesty
Is
that
which
we
from
hence
descry
Too
divine
to
be
mistook:
This
this
is
she
To
whom
our
vows
and
wishes
bend,
Heer
our
solemn
search
hath
end.
Fame
that
her
high
worth
to
raise,
Seem'd
erst
so
lavish
and
profuse,
We
may
justly
now
accuse
Of
detraction
from
her
praise,
Less
then
half
we
find
exprest,
Envy
bid
conceal
the
rest.
Mark
what
radiant
state
she
spreds,
In
circle
round
her
shining
throne,
Shooting
her
beams
like
silver
threds,
This
this
is
she
alone,
Sitting
like
a
Goddes
bright,
In
the
center
of
her
light.
Might
she
the
wise
Latona
be,
Or
the
towred
Cybele,
Mother
of
a
hunderd
gods;
Juno
dare's
not
give
her
odds;
Who
had
thought
this
clime
had
held
A
deity
so
unparalel'd?
As
they
com
forward,
the
genius
of
the
Wood
appears,
and
turning
toward
them,
speaks.
GEN.
Stay
gentle
Swains,
for
though
in
this
disguise,
I
see
bright
honour
sparkle
through
your
eyes,
Of
famous
Arcady
ye
are,
and
sprung
Of
that
renowned
flood,
so
often
sung,
Divine
Alpheus,
who
by
secret
sluse,
Stole
under
Seas
to
meet
his
Arethuse;
And
ye
the
breathing
Roses
of
the
Wood,
Fair
silver-buskind
Nymphs
as
great
and
good,
I
know
this
quest
of
yours,
and
free
intent
Was
all
in
honour
and
devotion
ment
To
the
great
Mistres
of
yon
princely
shrine,
Whom
with
low
reverence
I
adore
as
mine,
And
with
all
helpful
service
will
comply
To
further
this
nights
glad
solemnity;
And
lead
ye
where
ye
may
more
neer
behold
What
shallow-searching
Fame
hath
left
untold;
Which
I
full
oft
amidst
these
shades
alone
Have
sate
to
wonder
at,
and
gaze
upon:
For
know
by
lot
from
Jove
I
am
the
powr
Of
this
fair
wood,
and
live
in
Oak'n
bowr,
To
nurse
the
Saplings
tall,
and
curl
the
grove
With
Ringlets
quaint,
and
wanton
windings
wove.
And
all
my
Plants
I
save
from
nightly
ill,
Of
noisom
winds,
and
blasting
vapours
chill.
And
from
the
Boughs
brush
off
the
evil
dew,
thunder
blew,
Or
what
the
cross
dire-looking
Planet
smites,
Or
hurtfull
Worm
with
canker'd
venom
bites.
When
Eev'ning
gray
doth
rise,
I
fetch
my
round
Over
the
mount,
and
all
this
hallow'd
ground,
And
early
ere
the
odorous
breath
of
morn
Awakes
the
slumbring
leaves,
or
tasseld
horn
Shakes
the
high
thicket,
haste
I
all
about,
Number
my
ranks,
and
visit
every
sprout
With
puissant
words,
and
murmurs
made
to
bless,
But
els
in
deep
of
night
when
drowsines
Hath
lockt
up
mortal
sense,
then
listen
I
To
the
celestial
Sirens
harmony,
That
sit
upon
the
nine
enfolded
Sphears,
And
sing
to
those
that
hold
the
vital
shears,
And
turn
the
Adamantine
spindle
round,
On
which
the
fate
of
gods
and
men
is
wound.
Such
sweet
compulsion
doth
in
musick
ly,
To
lull
the
daughters
of
Necessity,
And
keep
unsteddy
Nature
to
her
law,
And
the
low
world
in
measur'd
motion
draw
After
the
heavenly
tune,
which
none
can
hear
Of
human
mould
with
grosse
unpurged
ear;
And
yet
such
musick
worthiest
were
to
blaze
The
peerles
height
of
her
immortal
praise,
Whose
lustre
leads
us,
and
for
her
most
fit,
If
my
inferior
hand
or
voice
could
hit
Inimitable
sounds,
yet
as
we
go,
What
ere
the
skill
of
lesser
gods
can
show,
I
will
assay,
her
worth
to
celebrate,
And
so
attend
ye
toward
her
glittering
state;
Where
ye
may
all
that
are
of
noble
stemm
Approach,
and
kiss
her
sacred
vestures
hemm.
2.
Song.
O're
the
smooth
enameld
green
Where
no
print
of
step
hath
been,
Follow
me
as
I
sing,
And
touch
the
warbled
string.
Under
the
shady
roof
Of
branching
Elm
Star-proof,
Follow
me,
I
will
bring
you
where
she
sits
Clad
in
splendor
as
befits
Her
deity.
Such
a
rural
Queen
All
Arcadia
hath
not
seen.
3.
Song.
Nymphs
and
Shepherds
dance
no
more
By
sandy
Ladons
Lillied
banks.
On
old
Lycaeus
or
Cyllene
hoar,
Trip
no
more
in
twilight
ranks,
Though
Erynanth
your
loss
deplore,
A
better
soyl
shall
give
ye
thanks.
From
the
stony
Maenalus,
Bring
your
Flocks,
and
live
with
us,
Here
ye
shall
have
greater
grace,
To
serve
the
Lady
of
this
place.
Though
Syrinx
your
Pans
Mistres
were,
Yet
Syrinx
well
might
wait
on
her.
Such
a
rural
Queen
All
Arcadia
hath
not
seen.
