As if therein she did Jove's thunder 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 countenance 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' waggoners,
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 Ædone that sweet pleasure loves,
And ruff-foot Chreste with the tufted crown;
Both which did kiss her, though their goddess frown'd.
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.
In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore,
And, breaking th' 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 countenances must coin;
Coyness, and pure deceits, for purities,

And still a maid wilt 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 favour fell. The gentle turtles did with moans make swell 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 watery 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:

"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 enforced hair;
And the bright flame became a maid most fair
For her aspect: her tresses were of wire,
Knit like a net, where hearts, set all on fire,
Struggled in pants, and could not get releast;
Her arms were all with golden pincers drest,
And twenty-fashion'd knots, pulleys, and brakes,
And all her body girdled 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 spirit 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 Eronusis. 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
Of all dissimulation, and since then

Never was any trust in maids or men.

O, it spited
Fair Venus' heart to see her most delighted,
And one she choos'd, for temper of her mind
To be the only ruler of her kind,

So soon to let her virgin race be ended!
Not simply for the fault a whit offended,

But that in strife for chasteness with the Moon,
Spiteful Diana bade her show but one

That was her servant vow'd, and liv'd a maid,
And, now she thought to answer that upbraid,

Hero had lost her answer; who knows not
Venus would seem as far from any spot

Of light demeanour, as the very skin

'Twixt Cynthia's brows? Sin is asham'd of Sin. Up Venus flew, and scarce durst up for fear

Of Phoebe's laughter, when she pass'd her Sphere: And so most ugly-clouded was the light,

That day was hid in day; night came ere night;
And Venus could not through the thick air pierce,
Till the day's king, god of undaunted verse,
Because she was so plentiful a theme

To such as wore his laurel Anademe,
Like to a fiery bullet made descent,
And from her passage those fat vapours rent,
That, being not thoroughly rarified to rain,
Melted like pitch, as blue as any vein,
And scalding tempests made the earth to shrink
Under their fervour, and the world did think
In every drop a torturing Spirit flew,

It pierc'd so deeply, and it burn'd so blue.
Betwixt all this and Hero, Hero held
Leander's picture, as a Persian shield;

And she was free from fear of worst success;
The more ill threats us, we suspect the less:
As we grow hapless, violence subtle grows,
Dumb, deaf, and blind, and comes when no man knows.
The end of the Fourth Sestiad.