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 pin'd,--be deedless 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 should 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 naught 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 oppos'd Abydos naught 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 torrent 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 addrest, 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, Observe 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