Madrigal

Like the Idalian queen,

Her hair about her eyne,

With neck and breast's ripe apples to be seen,

At first glance of the morn

In Cyprus' gardens gathering those fair flow'rs

Which of her blood were born,

I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.

The Graces naked danced about the place,

The winds and trees amazed

With silence on her gazed,