Fortunate, and by you made so. To tell you who I am,
and wear all these notable and speaking Ensigns about me,
were to challenge you of most impossible Ignorance, and
accuse my self of as palpable Glory: It is enough that
you know me here, and come with the Licence of my
Father Jove, who is the bounty of Heaven, to give you
early welcom to the Bower of my Mother Maia, no less
the goodness of Earth. And may it please you to walk,
I will tell you no wonderful Story. This place, whereon
you are now advanced (by the mighty power of Poetry,
and the help of a Faith that can remove Mountains) is
the Arcadian Hill Cyllene, the Place where my self was both
begot, and born; and of which I am frequently called
Cyllenius: Under yond' Purslane-tree stood sometime my
Cradle. Where, now, behold my Mother Maia, sitting
in the Pride of her Plenty, gladding the Air with her
Breath, and cheering the Spring with her Smiles. At her
Feet, the blushing Aurora, who, with her rosy Hand,
casteth her honey Dews on those sweeter Herbs, accom-
panied with that gentle Wind Favonius, whose subtil Spirit,
in the breathing forth, Flora makes into Flowers, and
sticks them in the Grass, as if she contended to have the
imbroidery of the Earth richer than the Cope of the Sky.
Here, for her Month, the yearly delicate May keeps
State; and from this Mount takes pleasure to display these
Valleys, yond' lesser Hills, those statelier Edifices and
Towers, that seem enamour'd so far off, and are rear'd
on end to behold her, as if their utmost Object were her
Beauties. Hither the Dryads of the Valley, and Nymphs
of the great River come every Morning to taste of her
Favours; and depart away with Laps fill'd with her Boun-
ties. But, see! upon your Approach, their Pleasures are
instantly remitted. The Birds are hush'd, Zephyre is still,
the Morn forbears her Office, Flora is dumb, and herself
amazed, to behold two such Marvels, that do more adorn
Place than she can Time: Pardon, your Majesty, the Fault,
for it is that hath caus'd it; and till they can collect their
Spirits think Silence, and Wonder the best Adoration.
Here Aurora, Zephyrus, and Flora, began this Song in
Three parts.
S O N G.
Ee, see, O see who here is come a Maying!
The Master of the Ocean;
And his beautious Orian:
Why left we our playing?
To gaze, to gaze,
On them, that Gods no less than Men amaze.
Up Nightingale, and sing
Jug, jug, jug, jug, &c.
Raise Larke thy Note, and Wing,
All Birds their Musick bring,
Sweet Robin, Linet, Thrush,
Record from every Bush,
The welcom of the King;
And Queen:
Whose like were never seen,
For good, for fair.
Nor can be; though fresh May,
Should every day
Invite a several Pair,
No, though she should invite a several Pair.
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Which ended: Maia (seated in her Bower, with all those
Personages about her, as before describ'd) began to raise herself,
and, then declining, spake.
Mai. If all the Pleasures were distill'd
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Of ev'ry Flower in every Field,
And all that Hybla Hives do yield,
Were into one broad Mazor fil'd;
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If, thereto, added all the Gums,
And Spice, that from Panchaia comes,
The Odour, that Hydaspes lends,
Or Phœnix proves, before she ends;
If all the Air, my Flora drew,
Or Spirit, that Zephyre ever blew;
Were put therein; and all the Dew
That ever rosy Morning knew;
Yet, all diffus'd upon this Bower,
To make one sweet detaining Hour,
Were much too little for the Grace,
And Honour, you vouchsafe the Place.
But, if you please to come again,
We vow, we will not then, with vain,
And empty Pass-times entertain,
Your so desir'd, thou grieved Pain.
For, we will have the wanton Fawns,
That frisking skip about the Lawns,
The Panisks, and the Sylvans rude,
Satyrs, and all that Multitude,
To dance their wilder Rounds about,
And cleave the Air, with many a Shout,
As they would hunt poor Eccho out
Of yonder Valley, who doth flout
Their rustick Noise. To visit whom
You shall behold whole Bevies come
Of gaudy Nymphs, who tender calls
Well-tun'd (unto the many falls
Of sweet, and several sliding Rills,
That stream from Tops of those less Hills)
Sound like so many silver Quills,
When Zephyre them with Musick fills.
For these, Favonius here shall blow
New Flowers, which you shall see to grow,
Of which, each Hand a part shall take,
And, for your Heads, fresh Garlands make.
Wherewith, whilst they your Temples round,
An Air of several Birds shall sound
An Io Pæan, that shall drown
The Acclamations, at your Crown.
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All this, and more than I have gift of saying,
May vows, so you will oft come here a Maying.
Mer. And Mercury, her Son, shall venture the Displea-
sure of his Father, with the whole Bench of Heaven, that
day, but he will do his Mother's intents all serviceable
assistance. Till then, and ever, live high and happy, you,
and your other you; both envied for your Fortunes, lov'd
for your Graces, and admired for your Virtues.
This was the Morning's Entertainment; after Dinner, the King,
and Queen coming again into the Garden, Mercury the second
time accosted them.
Mer. Again, great Pair, I salute you; and with leave
of all the Gods: whose high Pleasure it is, that Mercury
make this your Holy-day. May all the Blessings, both of
Earth and Heaven, concur to thank you: For, till this
day's Sun, I have faintly enjoy'd a Minute's rest to my
Creation. Now, I do, and acknowledge it your sole,
and no less than divine Benefit. If my desire to delight
you, might not divert to your trouble, I would intreat
your Eyes to a new and strange Spectacle; a certain Son
of mine, whom the Arcadians call a God, howsoever the
rest of the World receive him: It is the horned Pan, whom
in the translated Figure of a Goat I begot on the fair
Spartan Penelope; May, let both your Ears and Looks for-
give it: These are but the lightest escapes of our Deities.
And it is better in me to prevent his rustick Impudence,
by my blushing Acknowledgment, than anon by his rude,
and not insolent Claim, be inforced to confess him. Yon-
der he keeps, and with him the Wood-Nymphs, whose
Leader he is in Rounds and Dances, to this Sylvan Musick.
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