My tears may well Numidian lions tame, And pity breed into the hardest heart That ever Pyrrha did to maid impart, When she them first of blushing rocks did frame. Ah! eyes which only serve to wail my smart, How long will you mine inward woes proclaim? Let it suffice, you bear a weeping part All night, at day though ye do not the same: Cease, idle sighs, to spend your storms in vain, And these calm secret shades more to molest Contain you in the prison of my breast, You do not ease but aggravate my pain; Or, if burst forth you must, that tempest move In sight of her whom I so dearly love.