Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very name
With my mother’s is the same.’—
‘I confess all,’ I replied,
‘And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle ‘bout her waste,
All is Venus: save unchaste.
But, alas! thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best