The long laments I spent for ruin’d Troy,
No more shall men suppose Electra dead,Though from the consort of her sisters fledUnto the Artick circle, here to grace,And gild this day with her serenest face:And see, my daughter Iris hastes to throwHer roseat wings in compasse of a bow,About our State, as signe of my approach:Attracting to her seate from Mithras coach,A thousand…