WHEN as my Love lay sickly in her bed,
Pale Death did post, in hope to have a prey;
But she so spotless made him, that he fled:
"Unmeet to die," he cried; and could not stay.
Back he retired, and thus the heavens he told:
"All things that are, are subject unto me;
Both towns, and men, and what the world doth hold:
But let fair LICIA still immortal be!"
The heavens did grant. A goddess she was made,
Immortal, fair, unfit to suffer change.
So now she lives, and never more shall fade.
In earth, a goddess. What can be more strange?
Then will I hope! A goddess, and so near;
She cannot choose, my sighs and prayers but hear.