Who thinks her to be glad at lovers' smart,
And worshipped by their pain and lying apart?
Nor is she, though she loves the fertile fields,
A clown, nor no love from her warm breast yields:
Be witness Crete (nor Crete doth all things feign)
Crete proud that Jove her nursery maintain.20
There, he who rules the world's star-spangled towers,
A little boy drunk teat-distilling showers.
Faith to the witness Jove's praise doth apply;