HYMNE XX.
Of the Passions of her Heart.
E xamine not th' inscrutable heart,
L ight Muse of her, though she in part
I mpart it to the subiect;
S earch not, although from Heau'n thou art,
A nd this an heauenly obiect.
B ut since she hath a heart, we know,
E uer some passions thence doe flow,
T hough euer rul'd with Honor;
H er judgment raignes, they waite below,
A nd fixe their eyes vpon her.
R ectified so, they in their kind
E ncrease each vertue of her mind,
G ouern'd with mild tranquilitie;
I n all the regions vnder heau'n,
N o State doth beare it selfe so euen,
A nd with so sweet facilitie.
HYMNE XXI.
Of the innumerable vertues of her minde.
E re thou proceed in this sweet paines,
L earne Muse how many drops it raines
I n cold and moist December;
S um up May flowres, and August graines,
A nd grapes of mild September.
B eare the Sea's sand in memory,
E arth's grasses, and the starres in skie;
T he little moates which mounted,
H ang, in the beames of Phœbus' eye,
A nd neuer can be counted.