To Idera, Having by some Mischance so hurt her self as to halt

CEres in quest of Proserpine,
Seeing th' reflexion of her Face,
Not as 'twas formerly divine,
Grief dispossessing every Grace;

She unconcern'd at such a sight,
Yet made her Glass the Stygian Lake,
To mourning turn her crystal white,
And of her Grief the Streams partake.

Blush not, sweet Nymph! thô envious Fate,
Proud on your Feet to set a mark;
Let them that dare provoke your hate,
Not at your Altar light a spark.

Vulcan was lame, althô a God:
(Nor must the Truth be always said)
Let them not kiss the Ground you trod,
Scrupulous Fools! but strike them dead.

Timorous Fate, like Diomede,
Struck Venus on the lower parts:
They that dare make the Wound to bleed,
Set hungry Vultures at their hearts.

Set them a Mark for your fair Eye,
And kill them, kill them with Despair,
They need not with worse Torments die,
Than to see Heaven, but not come there.

When Nature, with Ambition fir'd,
Some strange and wondrous thing design'd,
And to out-do her self aspir'd,
She took you out of Womankind.

All their Perfections knit in one,
Thy Soul presented from above,
Jealous to see her self out-done,
With her own Works she fell in love.

Cupid could scarce his Mother know,
Venus and Idera were so like;
But Fate with a deciding Blow,
The Mark on Idera's side did strike.

Yet thanks to Fate, whose common Brand
Has set us both on even ground;
Yet thanks to Fate, whose heavy hand
Could forbear a mortal Wound.

Achilles by an Arrow fell,
Struck through his heel, whilst you still live,
With Scars that can your Valour tell,
And yet a thousand Deaths can give.

A thousand cas'd within my Breast,
Glance Idera a dissolving Smile,
If you would have them dispossest,
Or with the Quiver of my Heart recoil.