The Misers Speech in a Masque.

BAlls of this Mettal slack'd Atlanta's pace,
And on the Amorous Youth bestow'd the Race
Venus, the Nymphs mind measuring by her own,
Whom the rich spoils of Cities overthrown
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise
Th'adventurous Lover how to gain the prize.
Nor less may Iupiter to Gold ascribe;
For when he turn'd himself into a Bribe,
Who can blame Danae, or the brazen Tow'r,
That they with-stood not that Almighty show'r?
Never till then, did Love make Iove put on
A Form more bright, and Nobler than his own:
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,
That slack Devotion should his Thunder scape.
'Twas not Revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Those Asses ears on Mida's Temples hung:
But fond Repentance of his happy wish,
Because his Meat grew Mettal like his Dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so; I'de constant hold
Unto my wish, and dye Creating Gold.