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 By which her fruitful vine, and wholesome fare, She suffer'd spoil'd, to make a childish snare.— These ominous fancies did her soul express, And every finger made a prophetess, To show what death was hid in Love's disguise, And make her judgment conquer destinies. O what sweet forms fair ladies' souls do shroud, Were they made seen, and forced through their blood; If through their beauties, like rich work through lawn, They would set forth their minds with virtues drawn, In letting graces from their fingers fly; To still their eyass thoughts with industry: That their plied wits in number'd silks might sing Passion's huge conquest, and their needles leading Affection prisoner through their own built cities, Pinion'd with stories and Arachnean ditties.

Proceed we now with Hero's sacrifice; She odours burn'd, and from their smoke did rise Unsavoury fumes, that air with plagues inspir'd, And then the consecrated sticks she fir'd. On whose pale flame an angry spirit flew, And beat it down still as it upward grew.