By these I judge; delight me may the rest,
Which lie hid, under her thin veil supprest.
Yet in the meantime wilt small winds bestow,
That from thy fan, moved by my hand, may blow?
Or is my heat of mind, not of the sky?
Is't women's love my captive breast doth fry?40
While thus I speak, black dust her white robes ray;[354]
Foul dust, from her fair body go away!
Now comes the pomp; themselves let all men cheer;[355]