Of Her Sickness

Ah Serenissa , from our arms
Did you for death's preserve your charms;
From us that serv'd so long in vain,
Shall heav'n so soon the prize obtain?
Sickness, its courtship, makes the fair
As pale as her own lovers are.
Sure you, the goddess we adore,
Who all caelestial seem'd before,
While vows and service nothing gain'd,
Which, were you woman, had obtain'd;
At last in pity, for our sake,
Descend an human form to take,
And by this sickness chuse to tell
You are not now invincible.
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