A matron and a torch-bearer did stand: A painted box of confits[105] in her hand The matron held, and so did other some[106] That compassed round the honour'd nuptial room. The custom was, that every maid did wear, During her maidenhead, a silken sphere 390 About her waist, above her inmost weed, Knit with Minerva's knot, and that was freed By the fair bridegroom on the marriage-night, With many ceremonies of delight: And yet eternized Hymen's tender bride, To suffer it dissolved so, sweetly cried. The maids that heard, so loved and did adore her, They wished with all their hearts to suffer for her. So had the matrons, that with confits stood About the chamber, such affectionate blood, 400 And so true feeling of her harmless pains, That every one a shower of confits rains; For which the bride-youths scrambling on the ground, In noise of that sweet hail her[107] cries were drown'd. And thus blest Hymen joyed his gracious bride, And for his joy was after deified. The saffron mirror by which Phoebus' love, Green Tellus, decks her, now he held above The cloudy mountains: and the noble maid, Sharp-visaged Adolesche, that was stray'd 410 Out of her way, in hasting with her news, Not till this[108] hour th' Athenian turrets views; And now brought home by guides, she heard by all, That her long kept occurrents would be stale, And how fair Hymen's honours did excel For those rare news which she came short to tell. To hear her dear tongue robbed of such a joy, Made the well-spoken nymph take such a toy,[109] That down she sunk: when lightning from above Shrunk her lean body, and, for mere free love, 420 Turn'd her into the pied-plum'd Psittacus, That now the Parrot is surnam'd by us, Who still with counterfeit confusion prates Naught but news common to the common'st mates.-- This told, strange Teras touch'd her lute, and sung This ditty, that the torchy evening sprung. _Epithalamion Teratos._ Come, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses, Sweet close to his ambitious line, The fruitful summer of his blisses! Love's glory doth in darkness shine. 430 O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reapËd harvest of the light, Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire! Love calls to war; Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.