They bore their mighty Sire:
Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took,
Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.
SONNET.
O thou, to whom my heart (no longer mine)
Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued;
Fair goodly frame of Nature’s work divine
To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good,
Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse’s Son,