Of flaming gums, and comfortable spice,

To light her torch, which in such curious price
She held, being object to Leander's sight,
That nought but fires perfum'd must give it light.
She lov'd it so, she griev'd to see it burn,
Since it would waste and soon to ashes turn:
Yet if it burn'd not, 'twere not worth her eyes,
What made it nothing, gave it all the prize.
Sweet torch! true glass of our society;

What man does good, but he consumes thereby?
But thou wert lov'd for good, held high, given show:
Poor virtue loath'd for good, obscur'd, held low.
Do good, be pined, be decdless good, disgrac'd:
Unless we feed on men, we let them fast.

Yet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend ;
When bees make wax, Nature doth not intend
It shall be made a torch; but we that know

The proper virtue of it, make it so,

And when 'tis made, we light it: nor did Nature Propose one life to maids, but each such creature Makes by her soul the best of her true state, Which without love is rude, disconsolate, And wants Love's fire to make it mild and bright, Till when, maids are but torches wanting light. Thus 'gainst our grief, not cause of grief we fight; The right of nought is glean'd, but the delight. Up went she, but to tell how she descended, Would God she were not dead, or my verse ended. She was the rule of wishes, sum and end, For all the parts that did on love depend:

Yet cast the torch his brightness further forth;
But what shines nearest best, holds truest worth.
Leander did not through such tempests swim
To kiss the torch, although it lighted him :
But all his powers in her desires awaked,
Her love and virtues cloth'd him richly naked.
Men kiss but fire that only shows pursue,-
Her torch and Hero, figure show and virtue.

Now at opposed Abydos nought was heard
But bleating flocks, and many a bellowing herd,
Slain for the nuptials; cracks of falling woods;
Blows of broad axes; pourings out of floods.
The guilty Hellespont was mix'd and stain'd
With bloody torrents, that the shambles rain'd;
Not arguments of feast, but shows that bled,
Foretelling that red night that followed.

More blood was spilt, more honours were address'd,
Than could have graced any happy feast;
Rich banquets, triumphs, every pomp employs
His sumptuous hand: no miser's nuptial joys.
Air felt continual thunder with the noise
Made in the general marriage violence :
And no man knew the cause of this expense,
But the two hapless lords, Leander's sire,

And poor Leander, poorest where the fire

Of credulous love made him most rich surmis'd:

As short was he of that himself so priz'd,

As is an empty gallant full of form,

That thinks each look an act, each drop a storm,

That falls from his brave breathings; most brought up
In our metropolis, and hath his cup

Brought after him to feasts; and much palm bears,
For his rare judgment in th' attire he wears:
Hath seen the hot Low-Countries, not their heat,
Observes their rampires and their buildings yet;
And, for your sweet discourse with mouths, is heard
Giving instructions with his very beard:

Hath gone with an ambassador, and been

A great man's mate in travelling, even to Rhene,
And then puts all his worth in such a face,

As he saw brave men make, and strives for grace
To get his news forth as when you descry

A ship, with all her sail contends to fly
Out of the narrow Thames with winds unapt,
Now crosseth here, then there, then this way rapt,
And then hath one point reach'd; then alters all,
And to another crooked reach doth fall
Of half a birdbolt's shoot; keeping more coil
Than if she danc'd upon the Ocean's toil:
So serious is his trifling company,

In all his swelling ship of vacantry.
And so short of himself in his high thought,
Was our Leander in his fortunes brought,
And in his fort of love that he thought won,
But otherwise, he scorns comparison.

O sweet Leander! Thy large worth I hide
In a short grave; ill favour'd storms must chide

Thy sacred favour; I, in floods of ink

Must drown thy graces, which white papers drink,
E'en as thy beauties did the foul black seas.
I must describe the hell of thy decease,
That heaven did merit: yet I needs must see
Our painted fools and cockhorse peasantry
Still, still usurp, with long lives, loves, and lust,
The seats of virtue; cutting short as dust
Her dear bought issue; ill, to worse converts,
And tramples in the blood of all deserts.

Night close and silent now goes fast before
The captains and the soldiers to the shore,
On whom attended the appointed fleet
At Sestos' bay, that should Leander meet,
Who feign'd he in another ship would pass :
Which must not be, for no one mean there was
To get his love home, but the course he took.
Forth did his beauty for his beauty look,
And saw her through her torch, as you behold
Sometimes within the sun a face of gold,

Form'd in strong thoughts, by that tradition's force,
That says a god sits there and guides his course.
His sister was with him, to whom he shew'd

His guide by sea: and said, "Oft have you view'd
In one heaven many stars, but never yet

In one star many heavens till now were met.
See, lovely sister! see, now Hero shines,

No heaven but her appears: each star repines,

And all are clad in clouds, as if they mourn'd,
To be by influence of earth out-burn'd.

Yet doth she shine, and teacheth virtue's train,
Still to be constant in hell's blackest reign:

Though even the gods themselves do so entreat them
As they did hate, and earth, as she would eat them."

Off went his silken robe, and in he leap'd,
Whom the kind waves so licorously cleap'd,
Thick'ning for haste, one in another so,
To kiss his skin, that he might almost go
To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted.
But now the cruel Fates with Até hasted
To all the winds, and made them battle fight
Upon the Hellespont, for either's right
Pretended to the windy monarchy.

And forth they brake, the seas mix'd with the sky,
And toss'd distress'd Leander, being in hell,
As high as heaven: bliss not in height doth dwell.
The Destinies sate dancing on the waves,
To see the glorious winds with mutual braves
Consume each other. O true glass, to see
How ruinous ambitious statists be

To their own glories! Poor Leander cried
For help to sea-born Venus; she denied,—
To Boreas, that for his Attheia's sake,
He would some pity on his Hero take,
And for his own love's sake, on his desires:
But Glory never blows cold Pity's fires.