XXII. CYNTHIA.

O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, I charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, And by thy face, the oracle of brides, Why evermore Remorse with thee abides? Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer With ghosts and shades? Perchance thou dost aspire To bridal honours, and thy Phœbus-sire Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be? Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns? Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter Hath many moons—his daughters and his sons— And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee?