Meanness must pander be to Excellence;
Pleasure atones Falsehood and Conscience:
Dissembling was the worst, thought Hero then,
And that was best, now she must live with men.
O virtuous love! that taught her to do best
When she did worst, and when she thought it least.
Thus would she still proceed in works divine,
And in her sacred state of priesthood shine,
Handling the holy rites with hands as bold,
As if therein she did Jove's thunders hold;
And need not fear those menaces of error,
Which she at others threw with greatest terror.
O lovely Hero! nothing is thy sin,

Weigh'd with those foul faults other priests are in!
That having neither faiths, nor works, nor beauties,
T'engender any 'scuse for slubber'd duties;
With as much count'nance fill their holy chairs,
And sweat denouncements 'gainst profane affairs,
As if their lives were cut out by their places,
And they the only fathers of the graces.

Now as with settled mind she did repair Her thoughts to sacrifice her ravish'd hair, And her torn robe, which on the altar lay, And only for Religion's fire did stay;

She heard a thunder by the Cyclops beaten,
In such a volley as the world did threaten,
Given Venus as she parted th' airy sphere,
Descending now to chide with Hero here:
When suddenly the Goddess' waggoneres,
The swans and turtles that, in coupled pheres,
Through all worlds' bosoms draw her influence,
Lighted in Hero's window, and from thence
To her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves,-
Graceful Edone that sweet pleasure loves,
And ruff-foot Chreste with the tufted crown,-
Both which did kiss her, though their Goddess frown.
The swans did in the solid flood her glass

Proin their fair plumes*, of which the fairest was
Jove-lov'd-Leucote, that pure brightness is;
The other bounty-loving Dapsilis.

All were in Heaven, now they with Hero were ;
But Venus' looks brought wrath, and urged fear.
Her robe was scarlet, black her head's attire,
And through her naked breast shin'd streams of fire,
As when the rarified air is driven

In flashing streams, and opes the darken'd heaven.

* Proin up their plumes, edit. 1637. Proin (in Falconry) is said of a hawk when it picks and dresses its wings.

In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore,
And breaking the icy wreath sweet Hero wore,
She forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew,
And said, "Now, minion! to thy fate be true,
Though not to me; endure what this portends!
Begin where lightness will, in shame it ends.
Love makes thee cunning; thou art current now,
By being counterfeit: thy broken vow

Deceit with her pied garters must rejoin,

And with her stamp thou count'nances must coin: Coyness, and pure deceits for purities,

And still a maid will seem in cozen'd eyes,

And have an antic face to laugh within,

While thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin. But since thy lips, (least thought forsworn,) forswore, Be never virgin's vow worth* trusting more."

When Beauty's dearest did her Goddess hear, Breathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not

clear;

Dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood,
That from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood,

From the sweet conduits of her favor† fell.
The gentle turtles did with moans make swell
† savor, edit. 1606.

* with, edit. 1606.

Their shining gorges: the white black-ey'd swans
Did sing as woful Epicedians,

As they would straightways die: when Pity's queen, The goddess Ecte, that had ever been

Hid in a wat❜ry cloud near Hero's cries,

Since the first instant of her broken eyes,

Gave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak, To ease her anguish, whose swoln breast did break With anger at her Goddess, that did touch

Hero so near for that she* us'd so much.

And thrusting her white neck at Venus, said

66

'Why may not amorous Hero seem a maid

Though she be none, as well as you suppress
In modest cheeks your inward wantonness?
How often have we drawn you from above,
T'exchange with mortals rites for rites in love?
Why in your priest then call you that offence,
That shines in you, and is † your influence?"
With this the Furies stopp'd Leucote's lips,
Enjoin'd by Venus; who with rosy whips
Beat the kind bird. Fierce lightning from her eyes
Did set on fire fair Hero's sacrifice,

(Which was her torn robe, and inforced hair ;)
And the bright flame became a maid most fair

For her aspèct: her tresses were of wire,
Knit like a net, where hearts, set all on fire,
Struggled in pants, and could not get releas'd:
Her arms were all with golden pincers dress'd,
And twenty fashion'd knots, pullies, and brakes,
And all her body girt with painted snakes.
Her down parts in a scorpion's tail combin'd,
Freckled with twenty colours; pied wings shin'd
Out of her shoulders; cloth had never dye,
Nor sweeter colours never viewed eye,
In scorching Turkey, Cares *, Tartary,
Than shin'd about this sp'rit notorious;
Nor was Arachne's web so glorious.
Of lightning and of shreds she was begot;

More hold in base dissemblers is there not.
Her name was Eronusust. Venus flew

From Hero's sight, and at her chariot drew
This wondrous creature to so steep a height,
That all the world she might command with sleight
Of her gay wings: and then she bade her haste,—
Since Hero had dissembled, and disgrac'd

Her rites so much,—and every breast infect
With her deceits; she made her architect

* Cares, or Kareis, a town of European Turkey, situate on Monut Athos.

+ A compound, probably from "Egw; & vóros, or vãros, Ionice,