I hope that, by thy peerless judgment taught,
Thou wilt adjudge that I in truth do merit
By faith what in deserving lieth not.
And, shepherdess, I trust that soon thy spirit
Will show, when thy experience makes thee sure,
The liberty that noble breasts inherit.
What wealth of bliss thy presence doth assure!
What evils doth it banish! When 'tis gone,
Who for a moment absence will endure?
Oh thou that art more beauteous on thy throne
Than beauty's self, and more than wisdom wise,
Star to my sea, unto my eyes a sun!
She who in famous Crete became the prize
Of the false lovely bull, and bowed to Love,
Did not unto thy perfect beauty rise;
Nor she who felt descending from above
The golden rain, that turned her heart aside
(To guard her maidenhood no more she strove);
Nor she whose angry ruthless hand, in pride
Of purity, did her chaste bosom smite,
And in her blood the piercing dagger dyed;
Nor she who roused to madness and despite
'Gainst Troy the hearts of the Achaean host,
Who gave unto destruction Ilion's height;
Nor she the squadrons of the Latin coast
Who launched irate against the Teucrian race,
Whose bitter pangs were ever Juno's boast;
And no less she who hath a different praise
And trophy for the steadfast purity
Wherewith she kept her honour from disgrace;