Far from the town, (where all is whist and still, Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand, Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land, Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus In silence of the night to visit us,) My turret stands; and there, God knows, I play With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day. A dwarfish beldam bears me company, That hops about the chamber where I lie, And spends the night, that might be better spent, In vain discourse and apish merriment:-- Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd, For unawares, "Come thither," from her slipp'd; And suddenly her former colour chang'd, And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd; And, like a planet moving several ways At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays, Loving, not to love at all, and every part Strove to resist the motions of her heart: And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch, Did she uphold to Venus, and again Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain; Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings; Her vows about the empty air he flings: All deep enrag'd, his sinewy bow he bent, And shot a shaft that burning from him went; Wherewith she strooken, look'd so dolefully, As made Love sigh to see his tyranny; And, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turn'd, And wound them on his arm, and for her mourn'd. Then towards the palace of the Destinies, Laden with languishment and grief, he flies, And to those stern nymphs humbly made request, Both might enjoy each other, and be blest. But with a ghastly dreadful countenance, Threatening a thousand deaths at every glance, They answer'd Love, nor would vouchsafe so much As one poor word, their hate to him was such: Hearken a while, and I will tell you why. Heaven's winged herald, Jove-born Mercury, The self-same day that he asleep had laid Enchanted Argus, spied a country maid, Whose careless hair, instead of pearl t'adorn it, Glister'd with dew, as one that seem'd to scorn it; Her breath as fragrant as the morning rose; Her mind pure, and her tongue untaught to glose: Yet proud she was (for lofty Pride that dwells In towered courts, is oft in shepherds' cells), And too-too well the fair vermilion knew And silver tincture of her cheeks, that drew The love of every swain. On her this god Enamour'd was, and with his snaky rod Did charm her nimble feet, and made her stay, The while upon a hillock down he lay, And sweetly on his pipe began to play, And with smooth speech her fancy to assay, Till in his twining arms her lock'd her fast, And then he woo'd with kisses; and at last, As shepherds do, her on the ground he laid, And, tumbling in the grass, he often stray'd Beyond the bounds of shame, in being bold To eye those parts which no eye should behold; And, like an insolent commanding lover, Boasting his parentage, would needs discover The way to new Elysium. But she, Whose only dower was her chastity, Having striven in vain, was now about to cry,