THE SONGS IN CIRCE.  

Licenced  
May 7. 1677. ROGER L'ESTRANGE.   
LONDON, Printed for Richard Tonson, at his Shop under Grayes-Inn-gate next Grayes-Inn-lane MDCLXXVII.   
THE SONGS IN CIRCE.  

Act I. Scene Circe's Cave.  

This is sung by her Women at the Infernal Sacrifice. Priests join in the Chorus.  

WE must assemble by a Sacrifice  
Those Demons who do range about the skies;  
Their necessary aid you use,  
Those poisonous Herbs and Roots to choose;  
Which mingled, and prepared by your strong Art,  
Do to your Charms their chiefest force impart:  
Your Censors to the Altar take,  
And with Arabian Gums sweet Odours make,  
The Air with Music gently wound:  
Sweet smells they love, and every pleasing sound.   

I.  
COme every Daemon who o're-fees  
The Fates of mighty Monarchies,  
And orders how they rise and set;  
All you who Love and Lust inspire,  
And kindle wild Ambition's fire,  
The dangerous sickness of the Great.   

Chor.  
Circe, the Daughter of the Sun obey,  
Or in his gilded Beams you ne'er shall play.   

II.  
You who hatch Factions in the Court,  
Sedition in the meaner sort,  
Amongst the Pious, holy Strife;  
Tumults in Camps, in Senate's too  
Those Discords which the good undo,  
All, all that wait on humane life.   

Chor.  
Circe, the Daughter, etc.   

Lover's! who to their first embraces go,  
Are slow and languishing compared to you;  
In speed you can outdo the winged Wind,  
And leave even Thought, creeping and tired behind.    

A Spirit rises, and lays a Jar at Circe's feet.  

Behold, quick as thy thought,  
Th' Ingredients of thy Spells are brought,  
By which thy dismal Business must be wrought.   

Great Minister of Fate,  
In this deep Cave you sit in state,  
Famine and Pestilence about you wait;  
At your dread word they fly through every Land,  
Whilst their fierce undiscerning rage  
Does pity neither Sex nor Age.  
Death is as blind as Love, at your command.   

Chor.  
Each Plant and Herb have all their poison sent;  
On what new mischief is your Magic bend?    

By a Priest alone.  
PLuto, arise!  
From those blessed shades where Kings and Lovers are,  
Where those no torment have from state and care,  
And those feel not the torment of Despair.    

Act II. Scene, A Port with the Grecian Fleet.  

Sung by Furies.  

I.  
THis impious Breast you Furies fill!  
With all that Hell of Horror does contain,  
Gnaw, gnaw his Heart; you Scorpions still.   

Chor.  
But from himself he feels the sharpest pain.  
But from himself he feels the sharpest pain.   

II.  
For any other humane Crime  
Tears and Repentance may Oblations be,  
But nothing shall atone for him.   

Chor.  
The damned may sooner pardon find than Herald  
The damned may, etc.    

Sung by Iris on a Rainbow.  

I.  
CEase valiant Hero! cease to grieve;  
The Gods thy Prayers and Penitence receive:  
You cannot sin so fast as they forgive.   

II.  
All the attempts of Hell are vain,  
O'er that, and grief, you shall the Conquest gain;  
A Pardon your unwilling Crimes obtain.   

III.  
You Spirits made of Air refined,  
With pleasing Objects cheer his clouded Mind;  
No footsteps leave of former guilt behind.    

Sung by Sirens in the Sea.  

I.  
AH! how happy are we!  
Who from Business, that graver folly, are free;  
Let us love, though the sober should blame us.  
A curse on the Wise,  
They need not advise,  
Age makes too much haste to reclaim us.   

II.  
Let us carelessly move  
In the riots of Wit, and follies of Love:  
Our age does to pleasure invite us;  
But when we are old  
And our Blood grows cold,  
Not Art nor Fif●een can incite us.     

Act III. Scene, the Temple of Diana Taurica.  

Sung by Priests.  

OH! Heavenly Virgin! from thy starry Throne,  
Look down on Scythia, thy most holy Seat,  
Our Arms with Victory and Trophies crown.  
'Tis easy to be Good when we are Great.   

'tis just Mankind should at thy Altar bleed,  
Who thy small Empire Chastity invade;  
Whatever happy Lover does succeed,  
From chaste Diana's Province steals a Maid.    

By a Priest alone.  

O Cheated Mortals, what has Life of sweet?  
Who is contented with the present day?  
Our present joy is a vain hope, we may  
From the next hour some ease and pleasure meet.   

That Courtier, Life, does feed  
Poor Mortals with a hope they shall succeed:  
We will be wise, and die, prepare the sacred Knife,  
Farewell! farewell! thou valued trifle, Life.   

Wound, wound the Victim, pierce his sacred Breast,  
And give his labouring Soul eternal rest.     

Act IV. Scene Circe's Garden.  

Sung by her Women.  

I.  
SIgh, Lovers! sigh!  
The God of Love inspires  
Kind gentle thoughts, and warm desires;  
See the Winds blow, the flowers move!  
'Tis Nature that doth sigh for Love.   

II.  
Hark! hark! the Birds,  
Alas, they do not sing  
To welcome in the Beauteous Spring;  
But in their untaught Notes complain  
Of Love, our Universal pain.    

Sung by her Women.  

I.  
YOung Phaon strove the bliss to taste,  
But Sapph still denied;  
He struggled long, the Youth at last  
Lay panting by her side.   

II.  
Useless he lay, Love would not wait  
Till they could both agree;  
They idly languished in debate  
When they should active be,   

III.  
At last, come ruin me, she cried,  
And then there fell a Tear,  
I'll in thy Breast my Blushes hide;  
Do all that Virgin's fear.   

IV.  
Oh, that Age could Loves rites perform!  
We make old men obey,  
They court us long; Youth does but storm  
And plunder, and away.    

Sung by Orpheus sitting on Parnassus.  

I.  
GIve me my Lute, in thee some ease I find,  
Eurydice is dead,  
And to that dismal Country fled  
Where all is sad and gloomy as my mind.   

II.  
The World has nothing worth a Lover's care:  
None now by Rivers weep,  
Verse and the Lute are both asleep;  
All Women now are false, and few are fair.   

III.  
Thy Sceptre, Love, shall o'er the Aged be,  
Lay by thy useless darts;  
For all our Youth will guard their hearts,  
And scorn thy fading Empire, taught by me.   

IV.  
Beauty, the Thracian Youth no more shall move;  
Now they shall sigh no more,  
But all my noble Verse adore,  
It has more graces than the Queen of Love.    

Sung by Cupid.  
HOw dull is all the World! that none should move  
In the Cause of injured Love.  
The Bad are safe; heavens idle Thunder tears  
Mountains; but the Guilty spares.  
Mortal! our holy Altars than shall be  
Ever thus profaned by Thee;  
If Poets, Beauties faithful Train, rebel,  
Vows and Incense all farewell.  
How can thy noble Art ungrateful prove,  
Fed by Beauty and by Love?  
Hark! hark! these Bells and Berecynthian pipes declare  
That Thrace a Feast to Bacchus does prepare;  
The raging Bacchinals his rites fulfil,  
They shall revenge me, and the Rebel kill.   

Enter Bacchinals and sing.  

FIll all the Bowls with sprightly Wine,  
And let the Women drink:  
Men visit now, are very fine,  
Talk much, and never think.  
Sure these Follies our Sex may claim as their due,  
Since Mankind encroaches  
On our small Debauches,  
New Manly delights let the Women pursue.  
This comfort poor Cuckolded Ladies did find,  
To drown in full Bowls  
The Cares of their Souls,  
When the Husband is false and the Gallant unkind.   

Chor.  
In empty Beds we absent Lovers mourn:  
There sits the Man that does our Empire scorn:  
He makes the Thracian Youth despise  
Warm swelling Breasts and dying eyes.  
Make ready your darts and valiantly fling,  
Let him die, to his groans we'll dance and we'll sing.     

Act V. Scene, a City.  

Sung by the God of sleep.  

THe noise of humane life forsake,  
Where Love and Business keep the World awake.  
Some quiet Mansion seek,  
Where Fames loud call shall not our slumbers break.  
But happy Ignorance, upon thy careless Breast,  
Methinks we take the gentlest rest.   

Chor.  
Sleep, sleep within a drowsy Cave  
Dark! dark! and silent as the Grave.    

Sung by Circe's Women.  

Maid's in wishes stretch and pant,  
Wives the nightly Blessing want.   

Chor.  
Careful Love their Torment sees,  
Sends 'em Dreams, and they have ease.   

Women can be chaste in spite,  
Gallants must retire to night.   

Chor.  
Careful Love, etc.    

Sung by Phobetor.  
Begun fair Visions, to the Court remove,  
Whose Business is to dream of Love;  
And you black Terrors of the night appear,  
You wild Creations of our wilder fear.  
You dismal Visions that on Gild attend,  
Furies and Fiends from Hell ascend:  
Religion finds you better far than Law,  
To ride Mankind, and keep the World in awe.  
Oh Horror! Horror! from Death's gloomy shade  
Arise! arise! the frighted World invade.   
FINIS.   

Antony and Cleopatra, a Tragedy: as it is acted at the Duke's Theatre. Written by the Honourable Sir Charles Sedley Baronet. Sold by Richard Tonson at his shop under Grayes-Inn-gate, next Grayes-Inn-lane.