OF THE MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED.
Reading edition
As when a sort of wolves infest the night With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light, The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes, But never reach the mistress of the skies; So with the news of Saccharissa's wrongs, Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues; Call Love to witness that no painted fire Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire; While, unconcern'd, she seems moved no more With this new malice than our loves before; 10 But from the height of her great mind looks down On both our passions without smile or frown. So little care of what is done below Hath the bright dame whom Heaven affecteth so! Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads Like glorious colours through the flow'ry meads, When lavish Nature, with her best attire, 17 Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire; Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn With the same art wherewith she paints the morn; With the same art wherewith she gildeth so Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.