On every nymph, and twenty sate around,

Lo! ’twas Diana—from the sultry hour

Hither she fled, nor fear’d she sight or sound.

Unhappy youth, whom thirst and quiver-reeds

Drew to these haunts, whom awe forbade to fly!

Three faithful dogs before him rais’d their heads,

And watched and wonder’d at that fixèd eye.

Forth sprang his favourite—with her arrow-hand

Too late the goddess hid what hand may hide,

Of every nymph and every reed complain’d,

And dashed upon the bank the waters wide.

On the prone head and sandal’d feet they flew—

Lo! slender hoofs and branching horns appear!

The last marr’d voice not e’en the favourite knew,

But bay’d and fasten’d on the upbraiding deer.

Far be, chaste goddess, far from me and mine

The stream that tempts thee in the summer noon!

Alas, that vengeance dwells with charms divine——

Elizabeth. Pshaw! give me the paper: I forewarned thee how it ended—pitifully, pitifully.

Cecil. I cannot think otherwise than that the undertaker of the aforecited poesy hath chosen your Highness; for I have seen painted—I know not where, but I think no farther off than Putney—the identically same Dian, with full as many nymphs, as he calls them, and more dogs. 

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