CYNTHIA.

O Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres

To be the guardian of the ocean-tides,

I charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears,

And by thy face, the oracle of brides,

Why evermore Remorse with thee abides?

Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears,

That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer

With ghosts and shades? Perchance thou dost aspire

To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire

Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be?

Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns?

Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter

Hath many moons — his daughters and his sons —

And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee?