Near a cool fountain, on a rose-bed lay
My Cynthia, sleeping in the open air;
Whom Sol espied, and seeing her so fair,
Gaz'd, till his wanton coursers lost their way.
The proudest flowers were not asham'd to find
Their scent and colour rivall'd in her face;
Her bright curl'd hairs were toss'd from place to place,
On neck and bosom by the amorous wind.
Her smiles were animated by her breath,
Which still as soon as born receiv'd their d**h,
Being mortal made in pity to men's hearts:
Poor Lovers then did lie and take their rest,
For the Blind Boy who does our peace molest,
Had in her sleeping eyes hid all his darts.