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So out of countenance, and her spirits bereft her.
To look on one abashed is impudence,

When of slight faults he hath too deep a sense.
Her blushing het her chamber: she look'd out,
And all the air she purpled round about;
And after it a foul black day befell,
Which ever since a red morn doth foretell,
And still renews our woes for Hero's woe;
And foul it prov'd, because it figur'd so
The next night's horror; which prepare to hear;
I fail, if it profane your daintiest ear.
Then, ho, most strangely-intellectual fire,
That, proper to my soul, hast power t'inspire
Her burning faculties, and with the wings
Of thy unsphered flame visit'st the springs
Of spirits immortal! Now (as swift as Time
Doth follow Motion) find th' eternal Clime
Of his free soul, whose living subject stood
Up to the chin in the Pierian flood,

And drunk to me half this Musæan story,
Inscribing it to deathless Memory:

Confer with it, and make my pledge as deep,
That neither's draught be consecrate to sleep.
Tell it how much his late desires I tender,
(If yet it know not), and to light surrender
My soul's dark offspring, willing it should die
To loves, to passions, and society.

Sweet Hero left upon her bed alone,
Her maidenhead, her vows, Leander gone,
And nothing with her but a violent crew
Of new-come thoughts that yet she never knew,
Even to herself a stranger, was much like
Th' Iberian city that War's hand did strike
By English force in princely Essex' guide,
When peace assur'd her towers had fortified,

And golden-finger'd India had bestow'd

Such wealth on her, that strength and Empire flow'd
Into her Turrets, and her virgin waist
The wealthy girdle of the Sea embrac'd;
Till our Leander, that made Mars his Cupid,
For soft love suits with iron thunders chid;
Swum to her Towers, dissolv'd her virgin zone;
Led in his power, and made Confusion

Run through her streets amaz'd, that she suppos'd
She had not been in her own walls enclosed,
But rapt by wonder to some foreign state,
Seeing all her issue so disconsolate,
And all her peaceful mansions possess'd
With war's just spoil, and many a foreign guest
From every corner driving an enjoyer,
Supplying it with power of a destroyer.
So far'd fair Hero in th' expugned fort
Of her chaste bosom, and of every sort

Strange thoughts possess'd her, ransacking her breast
For that that was not there, her wonted rest.

She was a mother straight and bore with pain, Thoughts that spake straight and wish'd their mother slain;

She hates their lives, and they their own and hers:
Such strife still grows where sin the race prefers.
Love is a golden bubble, full of dreams,

That waking breaks, and fills us with extremes.
She mus'd how she could look upon her Sire,
And not show that without, that was intire;
For as a glass is an inanimate eye,
And outward forms embraceth inwardly,
So is the eye an animate glass, that shows
In forms without us. And as Phoebus throws
His beams abroad, though he in clouds be clos'd,
Still glancing by them till he find oppos'd

A loose and rorid vapour that is fit
T'event his searching beams, and useth it
To form a tender twenty-colour'd eye,
Cast in a circle round about the sky.
So when our fiery soul, our body's star,
(That ever is in motion circular,)
Conceives a form, in seeking to display it
Through all our cloudy parts, it doth convey it
Forth at the eye, as the most pregnant place,
And that reflects it round about the face.
And this event, uncourtly Hero thought,

Her inward guilt would in her looks have wrought;
For yet the world's stale cunning she resisted,

To bear foul thoughts, yet forge what looks she listed, And held it for a very silly sleight,

To make a perfect metal counterfeit;

Glad to disclaim herself, proud of an Art
That makes the face a Pandar to the heart.

Those be the painted Moons, whose lights profane
Beauty's true Heaven, at full still in their wane;
Those be the Lapwing faces that still cry,
"Here 'tis!" when that they vow is nothing nigh.
Base fools! when every moorish fowl can teach
That which men think the height of human reach.
But custom, that the Apoplexy is

Of bed-rid nature and lives led amiss,

And takes away all feeling of offence,

Yet braz'd not Hero's brow with impudence;
And this she thought most hard to bring to pass,
To seem in countenance other than she was,
As if she had two souls, one for the face,
One for the heart, and that they shifted place
As either list to utter or conceal

What they conceiv'd, or as one soul did deal
With both affairs at once, keeps and ejects

Both at an instant contrary effects;
Retention and ejection in her powers
Being acts alike; for this one vice of ours,

That forms the thought, and sways the countenance,
Rules both our motion and our utterance.

These and more grave conceits toil'd Hero's spirits;
For, though the light of her discoursive wits
Perhaps might find some little hole to pass
Through all these worldly cinctures, yet (alas)
There was a heavenly flame encompass'd her,-
Her goddess, in whose fane she did prefer
Her virgin vows, from whose implusive sight
She knew the black shield of the darkest night
Could not defend her, nor wit's subtlest art:
This was the point pierc'd Hero to the heart.
Who, heavy to the death, with a deep sigh
And hand that languish'd, took a robe was nigh,
Exceeding large, and of black Cypres made,
In which she sate, hid from the day in shade,,
Even over head and face, down to her feet;
Her left hand made it at her bosom meet,
Her right hand lean'd on her heart-bowing knee,
Wrapp'd in unshapeful folds, 'twas death to see;
Her knee stay'd that, and that her falling face;
Each limb help'd other to put on disgrace.
No form was seen, where form held all her sight;
But, like an embryon that saw never light,
Or like a scorched statue made a coal

With three-wing'd lightning, or a wretched soul
Muffled with endless darkness, she did sit:
The night had never such a heavy spirit.
Yet might a imitating eye well see

How fast her clear tears melted on her knee
Through her black veil, and turn'd as black as it,
Mourning to be her tears; then wrought her wit

With her broke vow, her goddess' wrath, her fame,-
All tools that enginous despair could frame:
Which made her strew the floor with her torn hair,
And spread her mantle piece-meal in the air.
Like Jove's son's club, strong passion struck her down
And with a piteous shriek enforc'd her swoun:
Her shriek made with another shriek ascend
The frighted matron that on her did tend;
And as with her own cry her sense was slain,
So with the other it was call'd again.
She rose, and to her bed made forced way,
And laid her down even where Leander lay;
And all this while the red sea of her blood
Ebb'd with Leander: but now turn'd the flood,
And all her fleet of spirits came swelling in,
With child of sail, and did hot fight begin
With those severe conceits she too much mark'd;
And here Leander's beauties were embark'd.
He came in swimming, painted all with joys,
Such as might sweeten hell: his thoughts destroys
All her destroying thoughts; she thought she felt
His heart in hers with her contentions melt,
And chide her soul that it could so much err,
To check the true joys he deserv'd in her.
Her fresh heat blood cast figures in her eyes,
And she suppos'd she saw in Neptune's skies
How her star wander'd, wash'd in smarting brine
For her love's sake, that with immortal wine
Should be embath'd, and swim in more heart's ease
Than there was water in the Sestian seas.

Then said her Cupid-prompted spirit: “Shall I
Sing moans to such delightsome harmony?

Shall slick-tongu'd Fame, patch'd up with voices rude,
The drunken bastard of the multitude,
(Begot when father Judgment is away,

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