Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.
Confess and be hanged.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike