What fate was mine, when in mine obscure cave (Shut up almost close prisoner in a grave)

Your beams could reach me through this vault of night,

And canton the dark dungeon with light!

Whence me (as gen'rous Spahy's) you unbound, Whilst I now know myself both free and crown'd.

But as at Mecca's tomb, the devout blind
Pilgrim (great husband of his sight and mind)
Pays to no other object this chaste prize,
Then with hot earth anoints out both his eyes:
So having seen your dazzling glory's store;
It is enough, and sin for to see more.

Or, do you thus those precious rays withdraw To wet my dull beams, keep my bold in awe? Or, are you gentle and compassionate, You will not reach me Regulus his fate? Brave prince, who eagle-ey'd of eagle kind, Wert blindly damn'd to look, thine own self blind!

But oh return those fires, too cruel nice!
For whilst you fear me cinders, see! I'm ice;
A numbed speaking clod, and mine own show,
Myself congeal'd, a man cut out in snow:
Return those living fires. Thou who that vast
Double advantage from one-ey'd heav'n hast;

Look with one sun, though't but obliquely be,
And if not shine, vouchsafe to wink on me.

Perceive you not a gentle, gliding heat, And quick'ning warmth that makes the statue sweat; As rev'rend Deucalion's back-flung stone, Whose rough outside softens to skin, anon Each crusty vein with wet red is supply'd, Whilst nought of stone but in its heart doth bide.

So from the rugged north, where your soft stay
Hath stamp'd them a meridian, and kind day;
Where now each alamode inhabitant,

Himself and's manners both do pay you rent,
And 'bout your house (your palace) doth resort,
And 'spite of fate and war creates a court.

So from the taught north, when you shall return To glad those looks that ever since did mourn, When men unclothed of themselves you'll see, Then start new made, fit, what they ought to be; Haste! haste! you that your eyes on rare sights feed, For thus the golden triumph is decreed.

The twice-born god, still gay and ever young, With ivy crown'd, first leads the glorious throng: He Ariadne's starry coronet

Designs for th' brighter beams of Amoret;

Then doth he broach his throne, and singing quaff Unto her health his pipe of godhead off.

Him follow the recanting, vexing Nine, Who, wise, now sing thy lasting fame in wine; Whilst Phoebus not from th' east, your feast t'adorn, But from th' inspir'd Canaries rose this morn.

Now you are come, winds in their caverns sit, And nothing breathes, but new enlarged wit; Hark! one proclaims it piacle to be sad,

And the people call't religion to be mad.

But now, as at a coronation

When noise, the guard, and trumpets are o'erblown, The silent commons mark their prince's way,

And with still reverence both look,

and pray

So they amaz'd, expecting do adore,
And count the rest but pageantry before.

Behold! an host of virgins, pure as th' air, In her first face, ere mists durst veil her hair; Their snowy vests, white as their whiter skin, Or their far chaster whiter thoughts within: Roses they breath'd and strew'd, as if the fine Heaven, did to Earth his wreath of sweets resign; They sang aloud! "Thrice, oh thrice happy they That can like these in love both yield and sway.”

Next herald Fame (a purple cloud her bears) In an embroider'd coat of eyes and ears, Proclaims the triumph, and these lover's glory; Then in a book of steel records the story.

And now a youth of more than god-like form, Did th' inward minds of the dumb throng alarm; All nak'd, each part betray'd unto the eye, Chastely, for neither sex ow'd he or she.

And this was Heav'nly Love; by his bright hand,
A boy of worse than earthly stuff did stand;
His bow broke, his fires out, and his wings clipp'd,
And the black slave from all his false flames stripp'd;
Whose eyes were new restor'd, but to confess
This day's bright bliss, and his own wretchedness ;
Who swell'd with envy, bursting with disdain,
Did cry to cry, and weep them out again.

And now what heav'n must I invade, what sphere Rifle of all her stars t' enthrone her there? No! Phoebus, by thy boy's fate we beware,

Th' unruly flames o'th' firebrand, thy car;

Although she there once plac'd, thou sun shouldst see Thy day both nobler governed and thee.

Drive on, Boötes, thy cold heavy wain,

Then grease thy wheels with amber in the main:
And Neptune, thou to thy false Thetis gallop,
Apollo's set within thy bed of scallop:

Whilst Amoret on the reconciled winds
Mounted, and drawn by six celestial minds,
She armed was with innocence, and fire
That did not burn, for it was chaste desire;
Whilst a new light doth gild the standers by;
Behold! it was a day shot from her eye;

Chafing perfumes o'th' East did throng and sweat,
But by her breath, they melting back were beat.
A crown of yet-ne'er-lighted stars she wore,
In her soft hand a bleeding heart she bore,
And round her lay millions of broken more;
Then a wing'd crier thrice aloud did call,
"Let Fame proclaim this one great prize for all."

By her a lady that might be call'd fair,
And justly, but that Amoret was there,
Was pris'ner led, th' unvalued robe she wore,
Made infinite lay lovers to adore,

Who vainly tempt her rescue (madly bold)
Chained in sixteen thousand links of gold;
Chrisetta thus (loaden with treasures) slave
Did strew the pass with pearls, and her way pave.

But lo! the glorious cause of all this high True heav'nly state, brave Philamore draws nigh! Who not himself, more seems himself to be, And with a sacred ecstasy doth see; Fix'd and unmov'd on's pillars he doth stay, And joy transforms him his own statua;