Cynthia. O Lady Moon, Elect Of All The Spheres To Be The Guardian Of The Ocean-Tides, I Charge Thee, Say, By All Thy Hopes And Fears, And By Thy Face, The Oracle Of Brides, Why Evermore Remorse With Thee Abides? Is Life A Bane To Thee, And Fraught With Tears, That Thus Forlorn And Sad Thou Dost Confer With Ghosts And Shades? Perchance Thou Dost Aspire To Bridal Honours, And Thy Phoebus-Sire Forbids The Banns, Whoe'Er Thy Suitor Be? Is This Thy Grievance, O Thou Chief Of Nuns? Or Dost Thou Weep To Know That Jupiter Hath Many Moons - His Daughters And His Sons - And Earth, Thy Mother, Only One In Thee?