And foul it prov'd because it figur'd so 180 The next night's horror; which prepare to hear; I fail, if it profane your daintiest ear. Then, ho,[55] most strangely-intellectual fire, That, proper to my soul, hast power t' inspire Her burning faculties, and with the wings Of thy unspherËd flame visit'st the springs Of spirits immortal! Now (as swift as Time Doth follow Motion) find th' eternal clime Of his free soul, whose living subject[56] stood Up to the chin in the Pierian flood, 190 And drunk to me half this MusÊan story, Inscribing it to deathless memory: Confer with it, and make my pledge as deep, That neither's draught be consecrate to sleep; Tell it how much his late desires I tender (If yet it know not), and to light surrender My soul's dark offspring, willing it should die To loves, to passions, and society. Sweet Hero, left upon her bed alone, Her maidenhead, her vows, Leander gone, 200 And nothing with her but a violent crew Of new-come thoughts, that yet she never knew, Even to herself a stranger, was much like Th' Iberian city[57] that War's hand did strike By English force in princely Essex' guide, When Peace assur'd her towers had fortified, And golden-finger'd India had bestow'd Such wealth on her, that strength and empire flow'd Into her turrets, and her virgin waist The wealthy girdle of the sea embraced; 210 Till our Leander, that made Mars his Cupid, For soft love-suits, with iron thunders chid; Swum to her towers,[58] dissolv'd her virgin zone; Led in his power, and made Confusion Run through her streets amaz'd, that she suppos'd She had not been in her own walls enclos'd, But rapt by wonder to some foreign state, Seeing all her issue so disconsolate, And all her peaceful mansions possess'd With war's just spoil, and many a foreign guest 220 From every corner driving an enjoyer, Supplying it with power of a destroyer. So far'd fair Hero in th' expugnËd fort Of her chaste bosom; and of every sort Strange thoughts possess'd her, ransacking her breast For that that was not there, her wonted rest. She was a mother straight, and bore with pain Thoughts that spake straight, and wish'd their mother slain; She hates their lives, and they their own and hers: Such strife still grows where sin the race prefers: 230 Love is a golden bubble, full of dreams, That waking breaks, and fills us with extremes. She mus'd how she could look upon her sire, And not shew that without, that was intire;[59] For as a glass is an inanimate eye, And outward forms embraceth inwardly, So is the eye an animate glass, that shows In-forms without us; and as Phoebus throws