No wonder sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Saccharissa’s eyes. 
As fair Astraae once from earth to heaven,
By strife and loud impiety was driven;
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs;
Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake,
To court the nymph for whom those wretches wake. 
More proud than Phoebus of his throne of gold 9
Is the soft god those softer limbs to hold;
Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies
In dark’ning clouds, the power to close her eyes;
Eyes which so far all other lights control,
They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul! 
  Let her free spirit, whose unconquer’d breast
Holds such deep quiet and untroubled rest,
Know that though Venus and her son should spare
Her rebel heart, and never teach her care,
Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep,
And for another’s joy suspend her sleep. 20

[1] She is said to have been like Dudu—­

  ’Large, and languishing, and lazy,
  Yet of a beauty that might drive you crazy.’

OF THE MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED.

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.

OF HER PASSING THROUGH A CROWD OF PEOPLE.

As in old chaos (heaven with earth confused,
And stars with rocks together crush’d and bruised)
The sun his light no further could extend
Than the next hill, which on his shoulders lean’d;
So in this throng bright Saccharissa fared,
Oppress’d by those who strove to be her guard;
As ships, though never so obsequious, fall
Foul in a tempest on their admiral. 
A greater favour this disorder brought
Unto her servants than their awful thought