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And I must haste ere morning hour
To wait in Amphitrite's bowr.
920
Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat.
Spir: Virgin, daughter of Locrine
Sprung of old Anchises line,
May thy brimmed waves for this
Their full tribute never miss
From a thousand petty rills,
That tumble down the snowy hills:
Summer drouth, or singed air
Never scorch thy tresses fair,
Nor wet Octobers torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mudd,
May thy billows rowl ashoar
930
The beryl, and the golden ore,
May thy lofty head be crown'd
With many a tower and terrass round,
And here and there thy banks upon
With Groves of myrrhe, and cinnamon.
Com Lady while Heaven lends us grace,
Let us fly this cursed place,
Lest the Sorcerer us intice
940
With som other new device.
130
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