thicken'd pile
Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath
A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe
Without all noise, yet so exactly move
They seem to chide, but distant from above
Reach not the ear, and--thus prepar'd--at once
She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce.
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they,
Venus steps in, and without thought or stay
Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast
Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast
In their embraces were expos'd to all
The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall.
Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste
From her fair brow--O happy flow'rs so plac'd!--
She tears a rosy garland, and with this
Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss
His snowy skin, but she with angry haste
Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last
With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red,
--As if griev'd with the act--grew pale and dead.
This laid their spleen; and now--kind souls--no more
They'll punish him; the torture that he bore
Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent
Fate is made guilty, and he innocent.
As in a dream with dangers we contest,
And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
So, frighted only in these shades of night,
Cupid--got loose--stole to the upper light,
Where ever since--for malice unto these--
The spiteful ape doth either sex displease.
But O! that had these ladies been so wise
To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!

BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE]

LIB. I. METRUM I.

I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse,
In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse.
A broken style my sickly lines afford,
And only tears give weight unto my words.
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright,
The only faithful consort of my flight.
Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory,
Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary;
For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on,
That grief might find a fitting mansion;
O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,
And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.
Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears!
But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry
Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye!
While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed