Ix

The dewy roseate Morn had with her hairs In sundry sorts the Indian clime adorned; And now her eyes apparreled in tears, The loss of lovely Memnon long had mourned, When as she spied the nymph whom I admire, Combing her locks, of which the yellow gold Made blush the beauties of her curled wire, Which heaven itself with wonder might behold; Then red with shame, her reverend locks she rent, And weeping hid the beauty of her face, The flower of fancy wrought such discontent; The sighs which midst the air she breathed a space, A three-days' stormy tempest did maintain, Her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain.