Friday, December 21, 2012

From: The Masque of Queens

“Sisters, stay, we want our Dame;
Call upon her by her Name,
And the Charm we use to say;
That she quickly anoint, and come away.




First Charm:
Dame, Dame, the Watch is set:
Quickly come, we all are met.
From the Lakes, and from the Fens,
From the Rocks, and from the Dens,
From the Woods, and from the Caves,
From the Church-yards, from the Graves,
From the Dungeon, from the Tree
That they die on, here are we.

Comes she not yet?
Strike another heat.



Second Charm.
The Weather is fair, the Wind is good,
Up Dame, o'your Horse of Wood:
Or else, tuck up your gray Frock,
And saddle your Goat, or your green Cock,
And make his Bridle a bottom of Thrid,
To rowl up how many Miles you have rid.
Quickly come away;
For we, all, stay.

Nor yet? Nay, then,
We'll try her agen. 



Third Charm
The Owl is abroad, the Bat, and the Toad,
And so is the Cat-a-mountain,
The Ant, and the Mole sit both in a hole,
And Frog peeps out o'the Fountain;
The Dogs, they do bay, and the Timbrels play,
The Spindle is now a turning;
The Moon it is red, and the Stars are fled,
But all the Sky is a burning:

The Ditch is made, and our Nails the Spade,
With Pictures full, of Wax, and of Wooll;
Their Lives I stick, with Needles quick;
There lacks but the Blood, to make up the Flood.
Quickly Dame, then, bring your part in,
Spur, spur, upon little Martin,
Merrily, merrily, make him fail,
A Worm in his Mouth, and a Thorn in's Tail,
Fire above, and Fire below,
With a Whip i'your Hand, to make him go.

O, now she's come!
Let all be dumb.”



At this, the Dame enter'd to them, Naked-
arm'd, bare-footed, her Frock tuck'd, her hair knotted,
and folded with Vipers; in her Hand a Torch made
of a Dead Man's Arm, lighted; girded with a Snake.
To whom they all did Reverence, and she spake, uttering,
by way of Question, the End wherefore they came
which if it had been done either before, or otherwise,
had not been so natural. For, to have made themselves,
their own Decypherers, and each one to have
told upon their entrance, what they were,
and whether they would, had been a most pitious Hearing,
and utterly unworthy any quality of a Poem: wherein
a Writer should always trust somewhat to the capacity
of the Spectator, especially, at these Spectacles;
where Men, beside inquiring Eyes, are understood
to bring quick Ears, and not those sluggish ones of
Porters and Mechanicks, that must be bored
through, at every Act, with Narrations...
- Ben Jonson, The Masque of Queens.

Merry Misrule to All.
The Masque of Kings tomorrow!

Jack.

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