For thee Hidaspis shall throw up his gold, Panchaia breath the rich delightful smells; The Seres and the feather'd man of Inde Shall their fine arts and curious labours bring; And where the Sunn's not knowne Poppaeas name Shall midst their feasts and barbarous pompe be sung.

Your sad relation to repeat that sound; That holy name whose fervor does excite A fire within mee sacred as the flame The vestalls offer: see how it ascends As if it meant to combat with the sunn For heats priority!

Yet heare me; Cease your immoderate prayses: I must tell you You doe adore an Idoll; her black Soule Is tainted as an Apple which the Sunn Has kist to putrifaction; she is (Her proper appelation sounds so foule I quake to speake it) a corrupted peice, A most lascivious prostitute.

What vapor which the flattring sunn Exhales to heaven as to create a starr, Yet throwst, a fading meteor, to the earth, Has falne like me?

Oh, I beseech you, sir; goe to; what meane you? Y. M. No harme to thee; this was my Fathers once, My honord Father; this did never view The glaring Sunn but in a noble cause, And then returnd home blushing with red spoyles, Which sung his fame and conquest.

For as the sunn, when lesser plannets sleep, Holds his continued progresse on and keepes