You, that decipher out the
Of humane Off-springs from the Skies,
What mean these Infants which of
Spring from the Starrs of Chlora's Eyes?
Her Eyes confus'd, and doubled ore,
With Tears suspended ere they flow;
Seem bending upwards, to
To Heaven, whence it came, their Woe.
When, molding of the watry Sphears,
Slow drops unty themselves away;
As if she, with those precious Tears,
Would strow the ground where Strephon lay.
Yet some affirm, pretending Art,
Her Eyes have so her Bosome drown'd,
Only to soften near her HeartA place to fix another Wound.
And, while vain Pomp does her
Within her solitary Bowr,
She courts her self in am'rous Rain;
Her self both Danae and the Showr.
Nay others, bolder, hence
Joy now so much her Master grown,
That whatsoever does but
Like Grief, is from her Windows thrown.
Nor that she payes, while she survives,
To her dead Love this Tribute due;
But casts abroad these Donatives,
At the installing of a new.
How wide they dream!
The Indian
That sink for Pearl through Seas profound,
Would find her Tears yet deeper
And not of one the bottom sound.
I yet my silent Judgment keep,
Disputing not what they believe:
But sure as oft as Women weep,
It is to be suppos'd they grieve.
