CYN. When hath Diana, like an envious wretch, That glitters only to his soothed self, Denying to the world the precious use Of hoarded wealth, withheld her friendly aid? Monthly we spend our still-repaired shine, And not forbid our virgin-waxen torch To burn and blaze, while nutriment doth last: That once consumed, out of Jove's treasury A new we take, and stick it in our sphere, To give the mutinous kind of wanting men Their look'd-for light. Yet what is their desert? Bounty is wrong'd, interpreted as due; Mortals can challenge not a ray, by right, Yet do expect the whole of Cynthia's light. But if that deities withdrew their gifts For human follies, what could men deserve But death and darkness? It behoves the high, For their own sakes, to do things worthily. ARE. Most true, most sacred goddess; for the heavens Receive no good of all the good they do: Nor Jove, nor you, nor other heavenly Powers, Are fed with fumes, which do from incense rise, Or sacrifices reeking in their gore; Yet, for the care which you of mortals have, (Whose proper good it is that they be so;) You well are pleased with odours redolent: But ignorant is all the race of men, Which still complains, not knowing why, or when. CYN. Else, noble Arete, they would not blame, And tax, or for unjust, or for as proud, Thy Cynthia, in the things which are indeed The greatest glories in our starry crown; Such is our chastity, which safely scorns, Not love, for who more fervently doth love Immortal honour, and divine renown? But giddy Cupid, Venus' frantic son. Yet, Arete, if by this veiled light We but discover'd (what we not discern) Any the least of imputations stand Ready to sprinkle our unspotted fame With note of lightness, from these revels near: Not, for the empire of the universe, Should night, or court, this whatsoever shine, Or grace of ours, unhappily enjoy. Place and occasion are two privy thieves; And from poor innocent ladies often steal The best of things, an honourable name; To stay with follies, or where faults may be, Infers a crime, although the party free. ARE. How Cynthianly, that is, how worthily And like herself, the matchless Cynthia speaks! Infinite jealousies, infinite regards, Do watch about the true virginity: But Phoebe lives from all, not only fault, But as from thought, so from suspicion free. Thy presence broad-seals our delights for pure; What's done in Cynthia's sight, is done secure. CYN. That then so answer'd, dearest Arete, What th' argument, or of what sort our sports Are like to be this night, I not demand. Nothing which duty, and desire to please, Bears written in the forehead, comes amiss. But unto whose invention must we owe The complement of this night's furniture?