John Milton (1608–1674)

From ‘Arcades’

LOOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,

What sudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence descry

Too divine to be mistook:

This this is she

To whom our vows and wishes bend,

Heer our solemn search hath end.

Fame that her high worth to raise,

Seem’d erst so lavish and profuse,

We may justly now accuse

Of detraction from her praise,

Less than half we find exprest,

Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant state she spreds,

In circle round her shining throne,

Shooting her beams like silver threds,

This this is she alone,

Sitting like a Goddes bright,

In the center of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be,

Or towred Cybele,

Mother of a hunderd gods;

Juno dare’s not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held

A deity so unparalel’d?