Upon which she threw her downy arms about me, and led me to a plat of ground, the pride of nature, deckt with a gay variety of every pleasing object.

    On Ida’s top, when Jove his nymph carest,
    And lawless in open view exprest: 
    His Mother Earth in all her charms was seen,
    The rose, the violet, the sweet jessamin,
    And the fair lily smiling on the green. 
    Such was the plat on which my Venus lay,
    But secret our love, more glorious the day,
    When all around was bright, and as the nymph as gay.

Here we prepar’d for battel, and through ten thousand kisses prest to a closer engagement; but a sudden weakness rob’d me of my arms.  Thus cheated in her expectations, she highly resenting it, asks whether her lips, her breath, or some ill scent of any part of her, offended me.  Or, if none of those, whether I fear’d Gito?

I was so asham’d of my self, that if there was any spark of the man left in me, I lost it.  And finding every part of me feeble, and as it were lifeless:  “I beseech you, madam,” said I, “don’t triumph over my misery; I’m surely bewitcht.”

So slight an excuse could not allay her resentment, but giving me a disdainful glance, she turn’d to her maid, and, “I prithee Chrysis,” said she, “be free with me, don’t flatter your mistress.  Is there any thing misbecoming or ungentle about me?  Or have I us’d art to hide any natural deformity?  I don’t know how you’ve drest me to-day.”

Upon which, e’re Chrysis cou’d make a return, she snatcht a pocket-glass from her, and after she had practis’d all her looks, to try if any appear’d less charming than before, she took hold of her petticoats that were a little rumpled with lying on, and immediately ran to a neighbouring temple dedicated to Venus.

I could not tell what to say or do, but as if I had seen a vision, at last began with horror to consider whether I had been rob’d of any real joy.

    So when a dream our wandring eyes betrays,
    And to our side some hidden gold conveys;
    Our busie hands the inviting treasure seize,
    And hid in guilty folds the fancy’d prize. 
    Sweating we fear lest any conscious spy,
    Might search our bosom, and the theft descry. 
    But with our sieep when all our joys are o’re,
    And minds restor’d to what they were before,
    Concern’d, we wish the fancy’d loss regain’d,
    And with the image still are entertain’d.

This misfortune might make me justly think it not only a true vision, but real witchcraft; for I had so long lost my strength I cou’d not rise:  My mind at last, a little freed, began by degrees to recover its vigour, upon which I went to my lodging, and dissembling a faintness, lay down on the bed.  A little after Gito, being inform’d I was ill, came to me, much troubl’d; but to allay his concern, I told him I was only a little weary, and had a mind