MIX, mix the Philters—Quick—she flies, she flies,
Deaf to my Call, regardless of my Cries.
Are Vows so vain? Cou’d Oaths so feeble prove?
Ah with what Ease she breaks those Chains of Love?
Whom Love with all his Arts had bound in vain,
Let Charms compel, and Magick Rites regain.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur’d Wanderer.
Queen of the Night, bright Empress of the Stars,
The Friend of Love, assist a Lover’s Cares:
And thou, infernal Hecatè, be nigh,
At whose Approach fierce Wolves affrighted fly,
Dark Tombs disclose their Dead, and hollow Cries
Echo from under Ground; Arise, arise.
Begin, begin, the mystick Spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur’d Wanderer.
As crackling in the Fire this Lawrel lyes,
So struggling in Love’s Flame her Lover dies:
It bursts, and in a Blaze of Light expires;
So may she burn, but with more lasting Fires
Begin, begin, the mystick Spells prepare,
Bring Myra back, my perjur’d Wanderer.