O precious selahs’ praise thy worth is under;
He that would limn thy grace must only wonder.
Then views not Cynthia sweet Sophrosyne,
Long honour of most rare virginity,
But now much happy in her noble choice?
In well-link’d nuptials all the gods rejoice.
Next learn’d Eulogia, bright in gracious rays,
Whose merit faster springeth than my praise;
For whoso strives to give her worth fair due,
Shall find his praise straight old, her merit new.
Cynth. But, look, whose eyes are those that shine more clear
Than lightning thrown from shield of Jupiter?
See, see, how quick fire leaps from forth her eyes
Which burn all hearts and warm the very skies.
Is’t not bright Euthera?
Ariad. The very same,
But her mind’s splendour hath a nobler flame.
But let the gods Eurythia behold,
And let them envy her, face nobly bold,
Proportion all proportion, with a mind
But like itself, no epithet can find.
Cynth. Let’s visit them and slide from our abode:
Who loves not virtue leaves to be a god.
Sound, spheres, spread your harmonious breath,
When mortals shine in worth gods grace the earth.
The clouds descend: while soft music soundeth, Cynthia and Ariadne dismount from their clouds, and,
pacing up to the ladies, Cynthia, perceiving Ariadne wanting her crown of stars, speaks thus:—
Cynth. But where is Ariadne’s wreath of stars,
Her eight pure fires that stud with golden bars
Her shining brows? hath sweet-tongued Mercury
Advanced his sons to station of the sky
And throned them in thy wreath? [or] dost thou leave
Thy splendour off and trust of gods deceive?
Ariad. Queen of chaste dew, they will not be confined
Or fix themselves where Mercury assign’d,
But every night upon a forest-side,
On which an eagle percheth, they abide,
And honour her with their most raisèd light,
Chaste sports, just praises, and all soft delight,
Vowing their beams to make her presence heaven:
Thus is the glory of my front bereaven.
Cynth. Tell them they err, and say that we, the Queen
Of night’s pale lamps, have now the substance seen
Whose shadow they adore. Go, bring those eight
At mighty Cynthia’s summons hither straight.
Let us behold, that mount whilst we salute,
Their faces, ’fore whom no dullness can be mute.
Presently Ariadne sings this short call:—