The reverend, rich-crown’d, and fair Queen I sing,
Venus, that owes ill fate the fortressing
Of all maritimal Cyprus; where the force
Of gentle-breathing Zephyr steer’d her course
Along the waves of the resounding sea,
While, yet unborn, in that soft foam she lay
That brought her forth; whom those fair Hours that bear
The golden bridles joyfully stood near,
Took up into their arms, and put on her
Weeds of a never-corruptible wear.
On her immortal head a crown they plac’d,
Elaborate, and with all the beauties grac’d
That gold could give it; of a weight so great,
That, to impose and take off, it had set
Three handles on it, made, for endless hold,
Of shining brass, and all adorn’d with gold.
Her soft neck all with carquenets was grac’d,
That stoop’d, and both her silver breasts embrac’d,
Which even the Hours themselves wear in resort
To Deities’ dances, and her Father’s court.
Grac’d at all parts, they brought to heaven her graces;
Whose first sight seen, all fell into embraces,
Hugg’d her white hands, saluted, wishing all
To wear her maiden flow’r in festival
Of sacred Hymen, and to lead her home;
All, to all admiration, overcome
With Cytherea with the violet crown.
So to the Black-brow’d Sweet-spoke all renown!
Prepare my song, and give me, in the end,
The victory to whose palm all contend!
So shall my Muse for ever honour thee,
And, for thy sake, thy fair posterity.