But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora, playing, As he met her once a-Maying! There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash’d in dew, Fill’d her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: * * * * * Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets ate; She was pinch’d, and pulled, she said; And he, by friar’s lantern led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpses of morn, His shadowy flail had thresh’d the corn, That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull’d asleep. Tower’d cities please us then, And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge and prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robes, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse; Such as the melting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus’ self may heave his head