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From the First Sestiad of “Hero and Leander”
ON Hellespont, guilty of true love’s blood, | |
| In view and opposite two cities stood, | |
| Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune’s might; | |
| The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. | |
| At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, | 5 |
| Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, | |
| And offered as a dower his burning throne, | |
| Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. | |
| The outside of her garments were of lawn, | |
| The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn; | 10 |
| Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove, | |
| Where Venus in her naked glory strove | |
| To please the careless and disdainful eyes | |
| Of proud Adonis, that before her lies; | |
| Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain, | 15 |
| Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. | |
| Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, | |
| From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath: | |
| Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, | |
| Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives: | 20 |
| Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, | |
| When ’t was the odor which her breath forth cast; | |
| And there for honey bees have sought in vain, | |
| And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. | |
| About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone, | 25 |
| Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone. | |
| She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind | |
| Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind, | |
| Or warm or cool them, for they took delight | |
| To play upon those hands, they were so white. | 30 |
| Buskins of shells, all silvered, usèd she, | |
| And branched with blushing coral to the knee; | |
| Where sparrows perched, of hollow pearl and gold, | |
| Such as the world would wonder to behold: | |
| Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, | 35 |
| Which as she went, would cherup through their bills. | |
| Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined, | |
| And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. | |
| But this is true; so like was one the other, | |
| As he imagined Hero was his mother; | 40 |
| And oftentimes into her bosom flew, | |
| About her naked neck his bare arms threw, | |
| And laid his childish head upon her breast, | |
| And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest. | |
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