XIII.

At thy appearance, grief itself is said,
To shake his wings, and rouze his head;
And cloudy care has often took
A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

XIV.

At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold;
Thy sun-shine melts away his cold:
Encourag'd at the sight of thee,
To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

XV.

Even lust, the master of a harden'd face,
Blushes if thou be'st in the place,
To darkness' curtains he retires,
In sympathizing nights he rolls his smoaky fires.

XVI.

When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head,
Out of the morning's purple bed,
Thy choir of birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

XVII.