Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Small to greater matters must give way.
In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow
A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't.
If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.