loating isles,
What heavenly radiance swift descending cleaves
The darksome wave! Unwonted beauty smiles

On its pure bosom, on each bright-eyed flower,
On every nymph, and twenty sate around,
Lo! 'twas Diana--from the sultry hour
Hither she fled, nor fear'd she sight or sound.

Unhappy youth, whom thirst and quiver-reeds
Drew to these haunts, whom awe forbade to fly!
Three faithful dogs before him rais'd their heads,
And watched and wonder'd at that fixed eye.

Forth sprang his favourite--with her arrow-hand
Too late the goddess hid what hand may hide,
Of every nymph and every reed complain'd,
And dashed upon the bank the waters wide.

On the prone head and sandal'd feet they flew--
Lo! slender hoofs and branching horns appear!
The last marr'd voice not e'en the favourite knew,
But bay'd and fasten'd on the upbraiding deer.

Far be, chaste goddess, far from me and mine
The stream that tempts thee in the summer noon!
Alas, that vengeance dwells with charms divine----

_Elizabeth._ Pshaw! give me the paper: I forewarned thee how it
ended--pitifully, pitifully.

_Cecil._ I cannot think otherwise than that the undertaker of the
aforecited poesy hath chosen your Highness; for I have seen painted--I
know not where, but I think no farther off than Putney--the
identically same Dian, with full as many nymphs, as he calls them, and
more dogs. So small a matter as a page of poesy shall never stir my
choler nor twitch my purse-string.

_Elizabeth._ I have read in Plinius and Mela of a runlet near Dodona,
which kindled by approximation an unlighted torch, and extinguished a
lighted one. Now, Cecil, I desire no such a jetty to be celebrated as
the decoration of my court: in simpler words, which your gravity may
more easily understand, I would not from the fountain of honour give
lustre to the dull and ignorant, deadening and leaving in its tomb the
lamp of literature and genius. I ardently wish my reign to be
remembered: if my actions were different from what they are, I should
as ardently wish it to be forgotten. Those are the worst of suicides,
who voluntarily and propensely stab or suffocate their fame, when God
hath commanded them to stand on high for an example. We call him
parricide who destroys the author of his existence: tell me, what
shall we call him who casts forth