Yet where is thy triumph? […] … Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges. […] We whose voices thou dost hear are thy servants. Retire, we pray thee, to thy chamber, repose on thy bed of down, and when it may please thee repair to the bath. […] ‘So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming, Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.