But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat, (548)
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding, (549)
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get, (550)
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, (551)
Hindering their present fall by this dividing;
So his unhallow'd haste her words delays, (553)
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.