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 To look on one abash'd is impudence, When of slight faults he hath too deep a sense.— Her blushing het her chamber: she look'd out, And all the air she purpled round about; And after it a foul black day befell, Which ever since a red morn doth foretell, And still renews our woes for Hero's woe; And foul it prov'd, because it figur'd so The next night's horror; which prepare to hear; I fail, if it profane your daintiest ear.

Then now most strangely-intellectual fire, That proper to my soul hast power t' inspire Her burning faculties, and with the wings Of thy unsphered flame visit'st the springs Of spirits immortal! Now (as swift as Time Doth follow motion) find th' eternal clime Of his free soul, whose living subject stood Up to the chin in the Pierean flood,