Is it an anguish overflowing shame
     And the tongue’s pudency confides to her,
     With eyes of embers, breath of incense myrrh,
     The woman’s marrow in some dear youth’s name,
     Then is the Goddess tenderness
     Maternal, and she has a sister’s tones
     Benign to soothe intemperate distress,
     Divide despair from hope, and sighs from moans. 
     Her gentleness imparts exhaling ease
     To those of her milk-bearer votaries
     As warm of bosom-earth as she; of the source
     Direct; erratic but in heart’s excess;
     Being mortal and ill-matched for Love’s great force;
     Like green leaves caught with flames by his impress. 
     And pray they under skies less overcast,
     That swiftly may her star of eve descend,
     Her lustrous morning star fly not too fast,
     To lengthen blissful night will she befriend.

     Unfailing her reply to woman’s voice
     In supplication instant.  Is it man’s,
     She hears, approves his words, her garden scans,
     And him:  the flowers are various, he has choice. 
     Perchance his wound is deep; she listens long;
     Enjoys what music fills the plaintive song;
     And marks how he, who would be hawk at poise
     Above the bird, his plaintive song enjoys.

     She reads him when his humbled manhood weeps
     To her invoked:  distraction is implored. 
     A smile, and he is up on godlike leaps
     Above, with his bright Goddess owned the adored. 
     His tales of her declare she condescends;
     Can share his fires, not always goads and rends: 
     Moreover, quits a throne, and must enclose
     A queenlier gem than woman’s wayside rose. 
     She bends, he quickens; she breathes low, he springs
     Enraptured; low she laughs, his woes disperse;
     Aloud she laughs and sweeps his varied strings. 
     ’Tis taught him how for touch of mournful verse
     Rarely the music made of two ascends,
     And Beauty’s Queen some other way is won. 
     Or it may solve the riddle, that she lends
     Herself to all, and yields herself to none,
     Save heavenliest:  though claims by men are raised
     In hot assurance under shade of doubt: 
     And numerous are the images bepraised
     As Beauty’s Queen, should passion head the rout.

     Be sure the ruddy hue is Love’s:  to woo
     Love’s Fountain we must mount the ruddy hue. 
     That is her garden’s precept, seen where shines
     Her blood-flower, and its unsought neighbour pines. 
     Daughter of light, the joyful light,
     She bids her couples face full East,
     Reflecting radiance, even when from her feast
     Their outstretched arms brown deserts disunite,
     The lion-haunted thickets hold apart. 
     In love the ruddy hue declares great heart;
     High confidence in her