Mourning

You, that decipher out the fate
Of human offsprings from the skies,
What mean these infants which, of late.
Spring from the stars of Chlora’s eyes?

Her eyes confused, and doubled o’er
With tears suspended ere they flow,
Seem bending upwards to restore
To heaven, whence it came, their woe.

When, moulding of the watery spheres,
Slow drops untie themselves away,
As if she with those precious tears,
Would strew the ground where Strephon

Yet some affirm, pretending art,
Her eyes have so her bosom drown'd,
Only to soften, near her heart,
A place to fix another wound.

And, while vain pomp does her restrain
Within her solitary bower,
She courts herself in amorous rain,
Herself both Danae and the shower.

Nay others, bolder, hence esteem
Joy now so much her master grown,
That whatsoever does but seem
Like grief is from her windows thrown.

Nor that she pays, while she survives,
To her dead love this tribute due,
But casts abroad these donatives,
At the installing of a new.

How wide they dream! the Indian slaves,
Who sink for pearl through seas profound,
Would find her tears yet deeper waves,
And not of one the bottom sound.

I yet my silent judgment keep,
Disputing not what they believe:
But sure as oft the women weep,
It is to be supposed they grieve.