And oft would shriek so, that her guardian, frighted,
Would staring haste, as with some mischief cited.
They double life that dead things' grief sustain:
They kill that feel not their friends' living pain.
Sometimes she fear'd he sought her infamy;
And then as she was working of his eye,
She thought to prick it out to quench her ill,
But as she prick'd, it grew more perfect still.
Trifling attempts no serious acts advance;
The fire of love is blown by dalliance.
In working his fair neck she did so grace it,
She still was working her own arms t' embrace it:
That, and his shoulders, and his hands were seen
Above the stream, and with a pure sea green
She did so quaintly shadow every limb,
All might be seen beneath the waves to swim.
In this conceited scarf she wrought beside
A moon in change, and shooting stars did glide
In number after her with bloody beams,
Which figur'd her affects[1] in their extremes,
Pursuing nature in her Cynthian body,
And did her thoughts running on change imply;
- ↑ i.e. affections.
