On the Death of Cynthia's Horse (Sonnet)

WHate're the World could boast of fair or good,
Thy back with pride has born, thou happy Horse,
By which thou'rt fall'n in middle of thy course,
Too feeble to sustain so great a Load.

Oh happy Fall! Oh dying full of Bliss!
Whilst she that guided Love did guide thy Head,
Big with this thought, thou willingly art dead,
Scorning another burden after this.

A Heaven of Beauty over-press'd thy Back,
This might have made Alcides shoulders crack,
And Atlas truckl'd under such a weight:
Heav'n thee amongst its Horses long'd to see,
As here the World was late in love with thee,
When carrying her who to the Sun gave light.