Of all dissimulation, and since then
Never was any trust in maids nor men.
O it spighted
Fair Venus' heart to see her-most-delighted,
And one she choos'd for temper of her mind,
To be the only ruler of her kind,
So soon to let her virgin race be ended.
Not simply for the fault a whit offended,
But that in strife for chasteness with the Moon,
Spiteful Diana bade her show but one
That was her servant vow'd, and liv'd a maid;
And now she thought to answer that upbraid,
Hero had lost her answer: who knows not
Venus would seem as far from any spot
Of light demeanour, as the very skin
'Twixt Cynthia's brows? Sin is asham'd of Sin.
Up Venus flew, and scarce durst up for fear
Of Phœbe's laughter, when she pass'd her sphere:
And so most ugly clouded was the light,
That day was hid in day; night came ere night,
And Venus could not through the thick air pierce,
Till the day's king, God of undaunted verse,
Because she was so plentiful a theme,
To such as wore his laurel anademe[1]:
- ↑ wreath or fillet, from ἀνάδημα.
