But thou wert lov'd for good, held high, given show:
Poor virtue loath'd for good, obscur'd, held low.
Do good be pined, be deedless good, disgrac'd:
Unless we feed on men, we let them fast.
Yet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend;
When bees make wax, Nature doth not intend
It shall[1] be made a torch; but we that know
The proper virtue of it, make it so,
And when 'tis made, we light it: nor did Nature
Propose one life to maids, but each such creature
Makes by her soul the best of her true state,
Which without love is rude, disconsolate,
And wants Love's fire to make it mild and bright,
Till when, maids are but torches wanting light.
Thus 'gainst our grief, not cause of grief we fight;
The right of nought is glean'd, but the delight.
Up went she, but to tell how she descended,
Would God she were not dead, or my verse ended.
She was the rule of wishes, sum and end,
For all the parts that did on love depend:
Yet cast the torch his brightness further forth;
But what shines nearest best, holds truest worth.
Leander did not through such tempests swim
To kiss the torch, although it lighted him:
- ↑ should, edit. 1637.
