Whose glittering squadrons when the sun beholds,
They seem like to ten hundred thousand Joves,
When Jove on the proud back of thunder rides,
Trapped all in lightning-flames. There can I show thee
The ball of gold that set all Troy on fire;
There shalt thou see the scarf of Cupid’s mother,
Snatcht from the soft moist ivory of her arm
To wrap about Adonis’ wounded thigh;
There shalt thou see a wheel of Titan’s car
Which dropt from Heaven when Phaethon fired the world.