For help to sea-born Venus she denied; To Boreas, that, for his Atthaea's sake, He would some pity on his Hero take, And for his own love's sake, on his desires; But Glory never blows cold Pity's fires. Then call'd he Neptune, who, through all the noise, Knew with affright his wreck'd Leander's voice, And up he rose; for haste his forehead hit 'Gainst heaven's hard crystal; his proud waves he smit With his fork'd sceptre, that could not obey; Much greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway. They lov'd Leander so, in groans they brake When they came near him; and such space did take 'Twixt one another, loath to issue on, That in their shallow furrows earth was shown, And the poor lover took a little breath: But the curst Fates sate spinning of his death On every wave, and with the servile Winds Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds, By that she felt, her dear Leander's state: She wept, and pray'd for him to every Fate; And every Wind that whipp'd her with her hair About the face, she kiss'd and spake it fair, Kneel'd to it, gave it drink out of her eyes To quench his thirst: but still their cruelties Even her poor torch envi'd, and rudely beat The baiting flame from that dear food it eat; Dear, for it nourish'd her Leander's life; Which with her robe she rescu'd from their strife: But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break; And, she, dear soul, even as her silk, faint, weak, Could not preserve it; out, O, out it went! Leander still call'd Neptune, that now rent His brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face, Where tears in billows did each other chase; And, burst with ruth, he hurl'd his marble mace At the stern Fates; it wounded Lachesis That drew Leander's thread, and could not miss The thread itself, as it her hand did hit, But smote it full, and quite did sunder it. The more kind Neptune rag'd, the more he raz'd His love's life fort, and kill'd as he embrac'd: Anger doth still his own mishap increase; If any comfort live, it is in peace. O thievish Fates, to let blood, flesh, and sense, Build two fair temples for their excellence, To rob it with a poison'd influence! Though souls' gifts starve, the bodies are held dear In ugliest things; sense-sport preserves a bear: But here naught serves our turns: O heaven and earth, How most-most wretched is our human birth! And now did all the tyrannous crew depart, Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart, Greater than they could make, and scorn'd their smart. She bow'd herself so low out of her tower, That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour, With searching the lamenting waves for him: Like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb Hung on her turret's top, so most downright, As she would dive beneath the darkness quite, To find her jewel;--jewel!--her Leander, A name of all earth's jewels pleas'd not her Like his dear name: "Leander, still my choice, Come naught but my Leander! O my voice, Turn to Leander! henceforth be all sounds, Accents, and phrases, that show all griefs' wounds,