Now this is the very religion of love. She all along relies little
on her personal charms, which she fears may have been eclipsed by
some painted jay of Italy; she relies on her merit, and her merit is
in the depth of her love, her truth and constancy. Our admiration of
her beauty is excited with as little consciousness as possible on
her part. There are two delicious descriptions given of her, one
when she is asleep, and one when she is supposed dead. Arviragus
thus addresses her:
--With fairest flowers,
While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The flow'r that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, which not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath.
The yellow Iachimo gives another thus, when he steals into her bed-
chamber:
--Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets I That I might touch--
But kiss, one kiss--Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o' th' taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see th' enclosed lights now canopied
Under the windows, white and azure, laced
With blue of Heav'ns own tinct--on her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' the bottom of a cowslip.
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