Ye Gods, what can it be?
Is Lady Venus bathing there,
Her tresses loose and shoulders bare?
Or what is it I see?

Have mercy, queen, on me.
It were not right for mortal eyes
To view thy body's mysteries:
Pity my frailty.

But no; it is not she.
A woman Venus' shape doth wear,
Than Venus' self more bright and fair.
'Tis Rhodoclë.