'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flow'd apace: O, how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who, glaz'd with crystal, gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses.
'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.
'For lo! his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolv'd my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff'd, Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears; Appear to him, as he to me appears, All melting; though our drops this difference bore: His poison'd me, and mine did him restore.
'In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows;