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As when a sort of wolves infest the night

With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light,

The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes,

But never reach the mistress of the skies;

So with the news of Saccharissa's wrongs,

Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues;

Call Love to witness that no painted fire

Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire;

While, unconcern'd, she seems moved no more

With this new malice than our loves before; 10

But from the height of her great mind looks down

On both our passions without smile or frown.

So little care of what is done below

Hath the bright dame whom Heaven affecteth so!

Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads

Like glorious colours through the flow'ry meads,

When lavish Nature, with her best attire, 17

Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire;

Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn

With the same art wherewith she paints the morn;

With the same art wherewith she gildeth so

Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.