V.
What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme, And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme? Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud, As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good! How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand, That Rage of Seas, and People could command, And calme Diseases with the Charming strings, Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things? But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride, Because thou didst Excel the World beside, And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine, Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine! And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see, Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee, And punisht in the Lady as unfit, What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit. Divine she is, or else Divine must be, A Borne or else a Growing Deitie!