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ARCADES.

PART OF

A MASK,

PRESENTED AT HAREFIELD,

BEFORE THE

COUNTESS DOWAGER OF DERBY.

ARCADES.

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; Here 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 than half we find express'd,
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark, what radiant state she spreads,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threads;
This, this is she alone,

Sitting, like a Goddess bright,
In the centre of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the tower'd Cybele,

Mother of a hundred Gods?

Juno dares not give her odds:

Who had thought this clime had held

A deity so unparallel'd?

As they come 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 Alphéus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas, to meet his Arethuse; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs, as great and good; I know, this quest of yours, and free intent, Was all in honour and devotion meant

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