Proserpine may pull her flowers, 
Wet with dew or wet with tears, 
Red with anger, pale with fears; 
Is it any fault of ours, 
If Pluto be an amorous king 
And come home nightly, laden 
Under his broad bat-wing 
With a gentle earthly maiden? 
Is it so, Wind, is it so? 
All that I and you do know 
Is that we saw fly and fix 
'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx, 
 Yesterday, 
Where the Furies made their hay 
For a bed of tiger cubs, 
A great fly of Beelzebub's, 
The bee of hearts, which mortals name 
Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame. 


Proserpine may weep in rage, 
But ere I and you have done 
Kissing, bathing in the sun, 
What I have in yonder cage, 
She shall guess and ask in vain, 
Bird or serpent, wild or tame; 
But if Pluto does 't again, 
It shall sing out loud his shame. 
What hast caught then? What hast caught? 
Nothing but a poet's thought, 
Which so light did fall and fix 
'Mongst the flowers and reeds of Styx, 
 Yesterday, 
Where the Furies made their hay 
For a bed of tiger cubs, 
A great fly of Beelzebub's, 
The bee of hearts, which mortals name 
Cupid, Love, and Fie for shame.