His snowy skin, but she with angry haste Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red, --As if griev'd with the act--grew pale and dead. This laid their spleen; and now--kind souls--no more They'll punish him; the torture that he bore Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent Fate is made guilty, and he innocent. As in a dream with dangers we contest, And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest, So, frighted only in these shades of night, Cupid--got loose--stole to the upper light, Where ever since--for malice unto these-- The spiteful ape doth either sex displease. But O! that had these ladies been so wise To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes! BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE] LIB. I. METRUM I. I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse, In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse. A broken style my sickly lines afford, And only tears give weight unto my words. Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright, The only faithful consort of my flight. Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory, Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary; For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on, That grief might find a fitting mansion; O'er my young head runs an untimely grey, And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay. Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears! But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye! While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed My first estate, she almost drown'd my head, And now since--clouded thus--she hides those rays, Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days. Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good? He that may fall once, never firmly stood. METRUM II.