Now I am settled in my forceful sway,  

why then, I'll be luxurious in my love;

take my full gust, and, setting forms aside,

I'll bid the slave, that fires my blood, obey.

Malicious fiend, thou ly'st: for I am fenc'd

by millions of thy fellows, in my grove:

I bad thee, when I freed thee from the charm,

run scouting thro' the wood, from tree to tree,

and look if all my devils were on duty:

hadst thou perform'd thy charge, thou tardy sprite,

thou wouldst have known no danger threaten'd me.

The devil take Merlin!

I'll cast 'em all a-new, and instantly,

all of another mould; be thou at hand.

Their composition was, before, of horror;

now they shall be of blandishment, and love;

seducing hopes, soft pity, tender moans:

art shall meet art: and, when they think to win,

the fools shall find their labours to begin.

Thus far it is permitted me to go;  

but all beyond this spot is fenc'd with charms;

I may no more, but only with advice.

My sword shall do the rest.

Remember well, that all is but illusion;

go on; good stars attend thee.

Doubt me not.

Yet in prevention

of what may come, I'll leave my Philidel

to watch thy steps, and with him leave my wand;

the touch of which no earthy fiend can bear,

in whate'er shape transform'd, but must lay down

his borrow'd figure; and confess the devil.

Once more farewell, and prosper.

(walking)  

No danger yet, I see no walls of fire,

no city of the fiends, with forms obscene,

to grin from far on flaming battlements.

This is indeed the grove I should destroy;

but where's the horror? sure the prophet err'd.

Hark! musick, and the warbling notes of birds;

(soft musick)

more wonders yet; yet all delightful too.

A silver current to forbid my passage,

and yet t'invite me, stands a golden bridge:

perhaps a trap for my unwary feet,

to sink and whelm me underneath the waves;

with fire or water. Let him wage his war,

or all the elements at once, I'll on.

A lazie pleasure trickles thro' my veins;  

here could I stay, and well be cozen'd here.

But Honour calls; is Honour in such haste?

Can it not bait at such a pleasing inn?

No; for the more I look, the more I long:

farewel, ye fair illusions, I must leave ye,

while I have pow'r to say, that I must leave ye.

Farewel, with half my soul I stagger off;

how dear this flying victory has cost,

when if I stay to struggle, I am lost.

And what are these fantastick fairy joys,  

to love like mine? False joys, false welcomes all.

Be gone, ye sylvan trippers of the green;

fly after night, and overtake the moon.

This goodly tree seems queen of all the grove.  

The ringlets round her trunk declare her guilty

of many midnight sabbaths revell'd here.

Her will I first attempt.

Good heav'n, what monstrous prodigies are these!  

Blood follows from my blow; the wounded rind

spouts on my sword, and sanguine dyes the plain.

(from behind)  

Forbear, if thou hast pity, ah, forbear!

These groans proceed not from a senseless plant,

no spouts of blood run welling from a tree.

Speak what thou art; I charge thee speak thy being:

thou hast made my curdled blood run back,

my heart heave up, my hair to rise in bristles,

and scarcely left a voice to ask thy name.

Whom thou hast hurt, unkind and cruel, see;  

look on this blood, 'tis fatal, still, to me,

to bear thy wounds, my heart has felt 'em first.

'Tis she: amazement roots me to the ground!

By cruel charms, dragg'd from my peaceful bower,

fierce Osmond clos'd me in this bleeding bark;

and bid me stand expos'd to the bleak winds,

and winter storms, and heav'ns inclemency,

bound to the fate of this hell-haunted grove;

so that whatever sword, or sounding axe,

shall violate this plant, must pierce my flesh,

and, when that falls I die. ~

If this be true,

o never, never to be ended charm,

at least by me! Yet all may be illusion.

Break up, ye thick'ning fogs, and filmy mists,

all that bely my sight, and cheat my sense;

for reason still pronounces, 'tis not she,

and thus resolv'd. ~

Do, strike, barbarian, strike;

and strew my mangled limbs, with every stroke.

Wound me, and doubly kill me, with unkindness,

that, by thy hand I fell.

What shall I do, ye powers?

Lay down thy vengeful sword; 'tis fatal here:

what need of arms, where no defence is made?

A love-sick virgin, panting with desire,

no conscious eye t'intrude on our delights;

for this thou hast the Syren's songs despis'd;

for this, thy faithful passion I reward;

haste then, to take me longing to thy arms.

O love! o Merlin! whom should I believe?

Believe thy self, thy youth, thy love, and me;

they only, they, who please themselves, are wise:

disarm thy hand, that mine may meet it bare.

By thy leave, reason, here I throw thee off,

thou load of life: if thou wert made for souls,

then souls should have been made without their bodies.

If, falling for the first created fair

was Adam's fault, great grandsire, I forgive thee;

Eden was lost, as all thy sons would loose it.

Horror seizes me,

to think what headlong ruin I have tempted.

Then here's for earnest;

'tis finish'd, and the dusk, that yet remains,

is but the native horror of the wood.

But I must lose no time; the pass is free;

th' unroosted fiends have quitted this abode;

on yon proud towers, before this day be done,

my glittering banners shall be wav'd against the setting sun.