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Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,—

VII Lo, in the violets, lazily dreaming, Young Diana, the huntress, lies: One white side thro' the violets gleaming Heaves and sinks with her golden sighs, One white breast like a diamond crownet Couched in a velvet casket glows, One white arm, tho' the violets drown it, Thrills their purple with rose.

XX Still, in the violets, lazily dreaming Young Diana, the huntress, lies: One white side thro' the violets gleaming Heaves and sinks with her golden sighs; One white breast like a diamond crownet Couched in a velvet casket glows, One white arm, tho' the violets drown it, Thrills their purple with rose.

Oh this false Soule of Egypt! this graue Charme, Whose eye beck'd forth my Wars, & cal'd them home: Whose Bosome was my Crownet, my chiefe end, Like a right Gypsie, hath at fast and loose Beguil'd me, to the very heart of losse.

Betray'd I am: O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm, Whose eye beck'd forth my wars and call'd them home; Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,— Like a right gypsy, hath, at fast and loose, Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.—