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Mirrha
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Praise where so er't be found, if it be due,Shall no vaine cullour neede to set it foorth:Why should I idely then extoll the worth,Which heere (dere friend) I finde belong to you.And if I er'd, full well the learned knewe,How wide, amisse my mark I taken had,Since they distinguish can the good from bad.And through the varnish well discerne the heweBe glad therefore, this makes for you, and knowe,When wiser Readers, heere shall fixe their sight,For vertues sake, they will doe vertue right.So shalt thou not (Friend) vnrewarded goe,Then boldly on, good fortune to thy Muse,Should all condemne, thou canst as well excuse.I.W.
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Thamisnere heard a Song equall to this,Although the Swan that ow'd this present quillSung to that Eccho, her owne EpitaphAs proude to die, and render up her wingTo Venus Swan, who doth more pleasing sing,Produce thy worke & tell the powerfull tale.Of naked Cupid, and his mothers willMy selfe I doe confine fromHelicon,As loath to see the other Muses nine,So imodestlie eye shoot, and gaze upponTheir new borne enuie: this tenth Muse of thine,Which in my selfe I doe in thee admire,AsAesopsSatire the refulgent fire,Which may me burn, (I mean with amorous flameIn reading, as the kissing that did him.And happie Mirrha that he rips thy shame,Since he so queintly doth expresse thy sin,Many would write, but see mens workes so rare,That of their owne they instantly dispaire.Robert Glouer.
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Not for our friendship, or for hope of gaineDoth my pen run so swiftly in thy praise:Court-seruile flatterie I doe disdaine,"Enuie like Treason, stil it selfe betraies.This worke Detractions sting, doth disinherit:He that giues thee all praise, giues but thy merrit.Lewes Machin.
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Poet, nor art thou without due desert, stil'd by that name:Though folly smile, and enuy frowne, to heare the same.Yet those who read thy worke with due respect,Will place thee with the worthiest of that sect.Then let not ignorance, nor enuie mooue theeThou hast done well, they do not that reproue thee:Yet some (true worth nere wants an opposite) will Carpers be:Grieue not at this, not vertues selfe can scape their obloquie,But giue the raynes vnto these baser spirits,Whose Iudgements cannot paralell thy merrits,Such fooles (to seeme iudicious) take in hand,To censure what they doe not vnderstand.Yet cannot they detract, or wrong thy worth, maugre their spight:For thou doost chaunt incestuousMyrrhaforth, with such delight,And with such gouldē phrase gild'st ore her crimeThat what's moste diabolicall, seemes deuine.and who so but begins the same to readeEach powerfull line, attracts him to proceede.Then since he best deserues the Palme to weare, Who wins the same:Doe thou alone injoy those sweets, which beare thy Mirrhas name.And euer weare in memorie of her,an anademe of odoriferousMirrhe,and letApollo,thinke it no dispraise,To weare thyMirrhe,& ioyne it with his bayes.William Bagnall.
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Mirrha
ISing the ruine of a beautious Maide,White as my paper, or loues fairest Doue,shine brightApollo, Muse be not affraide,Although thou chauntest of vnnaturall loue.Great is my quill, to bring foorth such a birth,as shall abash the Virgins of our earth.smoake Goulden censors vponPaphosshrine,drinke deepLeneusto this worke of mine.CupidtoThraciawent to heare a SongofOrpheus, to whome euen Tygers came,And left their sauage Nature, if there longthey did with his sweet Melodie remaine.Wolues lost their preyes, and by signes praid him singBeasts left the Lyon, and chose him their King.CecropianApes did on his musicke waite,Yet of them all, not one could immitate.Tis saide whenOrpheusdyed, he did descendTo the infernall, so theFuriesboast:Where now they giue him leaue his eies to bendwithout all feare, on her whome he once lost,By a regardant looke, but tis not so:Iouenot reseru'd such musicke for belowe,But placed him amongst celestiall stars,To keep the Scorpion, Lyon, Beare from Iars.For euer since the fall ofPhaeton,that then displaced, them they were at strifeFor their degrees, till his alluring Tone.who though in death hath the office of his life.Though more diuinely: and where he attracts,More glorious bodies to admire his actes.Faire stranger shape of creature, and of beast,With his concordant tunes, plac'd them in rest.The Dittie was (andCupidlent an eare)Vpon the death of hisEuridice:Which still he sung, as if his former feare,Of loosing her was now, or else would be.The Eccho beate the noyse vp to the Spheares,And to his passionate song, Gods bent their eares.It was a signe, he was new come from hell,Their tunes so sad, he immitates so well.Such passion it did strike vpon the earth,thatDaphnesroote groan'd forApollo'swrong:Hermophroditewept shewers and wisht his birthhad neuer bin, or that he more had clungToSalmacis, andClitiegrieued in vaine:Leueothoeswrong, the occasion of her baine,my wilful eie (this should the burthen be)Hath rob'd me of, twice slaineEuridice.Cicnusstil proud though he confuted be,forPhaetonslosse, would needs afresh complaineThinking therewith to singe as sweet as he,but pittiles he sung and dyed in vaine.Eccho was pleas'd with voice resounding brimas proud to loose her shape to answer him.Hether resorted more then wel could heare,but on my Muse, & speake what chansed there.Amongst the rest ofVesta-vowed Girles,cameMirrha(whose thoughts no guile then knew)Like a bright diamond circled with pearls,whose radiant eye delt lustre to the hewOf all the dames; whose face so farre abouethough the rest (beautious all) vnwounded made loue, louefor neuer sinceSpicheswas made a stardid he see nature excel art so far.He chāg'd his shape, his wings he oft hath torne,and like a hunter to this nimph he came:With gold tiptIauelinand a bugle Horne,such as they beare to make the Lyon tame:First did he kisse hir hand, which then did meltwith loue's impression,Cupidthe like felt:Stroke dumbe, he stood in an vnwonted guise,such magicke beawtie carries in her eies.At length (quoth he) should I not say I loue,I should bothCupidand his Mother wrong:By thee faire Maid a power farre aboue,My heart is the true index of my tongue.And by my naked wordes you may discouer,I am not traded like a common Louer.Rare obiects, rare amazements bred, tis true:And their effects are tryed in me by you.My barren braine, can bless me with no storeOf able Epithits, so what praise I giueMakes not you ritcher though it makes me pooretherefore in vaine against the streame I striue,Th'ore curious painter, meaning to excell,Oft marres the worke, the which before was well,And he shall dazeled be, and tyred soone,That leuelleth his shafts to hit the Moone.With this, she turnd her blushing head aside,& vail'd her face with lawne, not halfe so whiteThat euen the blending roses were espyeddespight the cloudes, that hid them in despightShe threw her thin breath through the lawne, and saidLeaue gentle youth, do not thus snare a maidI came toOrpheusSong, good then forbeare,It is his tune, nor yours can charme mine eare.LetOrpheuslearne (quoth he) of thee to sing,Bid him charme menMirrhaas thou canst doe:Let him tame Man, that is the Lyons King,And lay him prostrate at his feete belowe,As thou canst doe: norOrpheusnor the sphearesHaue Tones like thee, to rauish mortall eares,Yea, were this Thracian Harper Iudge to tell,(As thee) hee'd sweare he sung not halfe so wel.Nor dying Swans, nor Phebus when he loue's,equals thy voice (though he in musicke courts)and as the God whose voice the firm earth mouesmaking the terrors of the great, his sports,Whose first word strooke into theChaoslight;so if that contrary thou take delight,at thy word, darknes would or'e-cloude the ayreand the fayrest day giue place to thee more faire.Famehath resing'd her lasting Trump to thee,as to the worthyer, then thy fame display:Tell Venus thou art fairer farre then she,For thine own worth becomes thee best to say,Time will stand still, the sunne in motion stay,Sirens be mute to heare thee speake ofMirrha,Thy voice, if heard in the low shades should beWould a third time fetch backEuridice.Giue eare eternall wonder to a swaine,Twas writ in starres that I should see that face;And seeing loue, and in that loue be slaine,if beautie pittie not my wretched case.Fortune and loue, the starres and powers diuine,Haue all betraide me to those eyes of thine.O proue not then more crueller thē they,Loues shaftes & fates wheeles, who hath power to stay.Stay there (quoth she) giue backe those powers their owneor not impose their powerful force on me:Haue I the least word or the least glance thrownTo make you attribute what's destinieVnto my beautie: if loue and fate you wound,Throw vowes to thē, their altars are soone found.Wouldst thou haue me pittie before they doe?Loue's blinde, and fortun's deafe, so am I too.I know not loue, sure tis a subtle thing,I, by these blushes that thy charmes haue raisd,T'allay more quiet' tell loues little king,I serue a Mistres he himselfe hath praisdThough he enuy, a rare and sacred floure,Whom he had will to wrong, but never power.NowCupidhangs the head, and melts in shame,for she did vtterVestasholy name.And as you see a woman teeming young,bearing the growing burthen of her wounb:Missing the dainty she hath lookt for long,falls straight in pastionate sicknes pale & dumb(for seeing she hath lost it) will not tell,for what she in this forced pastion fell.So when his hopes were lost, he would not say,what was the cause, but this to her did laye.Virgin beware that fire within thy brest,toVestadedicate do not expire:as she must warie be that is the bestto keepe it, it is knowne no lasting fier.The fuell cold fruitelesse Virginitie,which if zeale blow not violent, wil so one die:This stricts a virgins life, and who but knowes,that loue and chastitie, were euer foes.And if ere loue assaile those virgins forts,those Iuory bulwarkes that defend your heart:Though he be king of sportes he neuer sports,when as he wounds, but playes the Tirants partAnd so much more he wil triūph oure thee,by how much thou contents his deitie:I know you to be chaste, but yet faire Mayd,if ere you loue youle finde what I haue sayd.Sir (quoth she) when I loue you shall be mine:but know the time, when you shall claime me your'sWhen as the fire extinct asVestaesshrine:andVenusleaues to haunt thePapheonbowres,When men are perfect friendes Tigers at peace,Discord in heauen, and powers diuine doe cease,when Fortune sleeps & the north star doth mouewhē Turtles leaue to mourne their mates, ile loue.Ere this was ended,Orpheussong was done,And all the Virgins fell into their rankes,Each tooke their leaue of him, so did the sunne,who now was poasting to the westerne banckesand the wild beasts, whô he had made more tame,seem'd to depart with reuerence at his name.Each one gaue place toMirrhaas their duetie,She being preferr'd in state, first as in beautie.Now Cupid of her his last leaue doth take,so haue I seene a soule and body part:He begs a chaste kisse for her mothers sake,and vowes she shall be soueraigne of his heart.But whether he disembling did it, or twa's fate,(As extream'st loue, turnes to the direst hate)Being repulst, but this kisse did inspire,her brest with an infernall and vnnam'd desire.Night like a masque was entred heauens greate hallwith thousand torches vshering the way:The complements of parting were done all,& homewardsOrpheuschaunteth many a lay;Venushad sent her coach, drawn by a Doue,For littleCupidthe great God of loue.& this hath sprung (as men haue sayen of yore)ForMirrhassake he vow'd to loue no more.Blacke as my inck now must my verse commenceYou blushing girles, and parents siluer-gray:As farre as Trace from vs, so farre from hencegoe, that you may not heare me say,A daughter did with an adulterous head,And heauie lust, presse downe her fathers bed,such Songs as these more fit the Tartars cares,had Orpheus sung it, beasts had pour'd out teares.Vnhallowed lust, for loues lies drownd in poisonin what blacke ornament shall I attire thee?Since I must write of thy so sad confusion,shall I sayCupidwith his brand did fire thee?Accuse the Fates, or thee shall I accuse?Mirrhaweepes yet, onely say this my Muse:wise destinie, true loue and mortall thought,would nere confirme this, the furies brought this.She loues her Father, Daughter nere lou'd so,for as her mother lou'd so lou'd she him:Thirsting in fire those softer sweetes to know,Amidst whose waues,Uenusin pride doth swimSo young she was, yet that her father kist her.Which she so duely lookes for he nere mist her,Yet could he haue conceiu'd as he did afterthose kisses rellish much vnlike a daughter.Giue to her golde of Ophire Indian shels,Cloath her with Tirian purple skin of beast:Perfurme her waies with choice Arabian smells,Present her with the Phœnix in her nest,Delight her eare with song of poets rare,All these withCyneasmight naught compare,"The comfort of the minde being tane away,"Nectarnot pleaseth, norAmbrosia.The feast ofBacchusat this present time,Was by the giddieMenadesintendedThereMirrhadaunc'd, andOrpheussung in rimecrownd with green thirses, now yet yūhes endedwith praise toBacchusall depart with spright,vnto their feastes, feasts that deuoure the night,for loe, the stars, in trauaile in the skie,brought forth their brightnes to each waking eye.High midnight came, and she to bedward hies,pretending rest, to beguile natures rest:Anon the gloomy gallerie she spies,toward her chamber, and she first that blest,Her care-fild eyes, her fathers picture wasArm'd but the face, although it dumbe, alasse,she ask'd and if he call'd, seeing no reply,she answer'd for her father, and said I.Daughter (quoth she) why art thou thus alone?Let Doues so mourn girle, ythath lost their matesThine is to come, then prethee cease thy mone,Care shold not dwel with great & high estates.Let her that needs and is not faire at all,Repine at fortune, loue shall be thy thrall,wing'd as he is, and armed thou shalt see,(I haue the power to giue) & giue him thee.Father (quoth she) and spoke with smaller voice,Nature hath made me yours, yours I must be:You choose my choice, for in you lies my choice,Hereat shee starts as what not feares the guiltie:Thinking the shadowe knew her double sence,and blushing, in strange feare departeth thenceblaming her selfe, for vttering her blacke faultto him who armed stood gainst her assault.Anon she spies many a youthfull Lord,In seuerall Tables, each in seuerall guise;Whose pictures they had sent with one accord,To shew their manly features to her eyes,Whose dumb'd perswasiue images were plac'd,To see if any in her lookes were grac'd:But heere in vaine, their faire assayes doe prouefor had they spake they could not win her loue.Ouer her Mothers shape a vaile she drew,and weeping, saide: may I nere see thee more:Poore abus'd image, doost not turne thy hew,to see so foule an obiect thee before?Didst thou but know, what's sprung from out thy wombe,thy shap cold speak, whilst ytthy self stodst dūbe.Art would claime Nature in thy heauie woes,thy shape haue limbs, thy limbs be stiff as those.Anon she leapt on it with ardent heate,and full of teares, yet falles vppon her backe:Wishing euen in that griefe the lustfull feate,Were now perform'd (woemen oft longings lackdown sunck the down, and with so deep impressethat had Hermaphroditus bin there he might gesSalmacis were aganie his prostitute,or one more farte, then to denie her suite.A strange conceite, had now possest hir braine,nie equall to her lust, thought innocent:She gaue vp to desire and leapes amaine,From the bruisd bed, with bloodie fram'd intētTo hang her selfe O, me moste wofull theame.She now espide an hie and sturdie beame:Many staue liu'd to an vnpittied death,who might haue dyed sometimes with famed breath.Yet doth she thinke what terror death would beand on her heart, imprints his Character:Faine would she die, yet first would pleased bewith damned lust, which death could not deterO sinne (saies she) thou must be Natures slaue,In spight of Fate, goe to a pleasing graue.When I haue sin'd, sendIouea thunder stroakeand spare thy chosen tree, the harmlesse Oake.She thinkes againe, and sees nor time nor place,to quench the thirstines of her parched blood:Time still ranne on, with an auerted face,and nothing but her passions did her good.This thought confoundes her, and she is resoul'dIn deathes bleake azure armes to be inuoul'd.Fates, you are women, saue your modesties:sheele kill her selfe, you neede but close her eies.And like as when some suddaine extasie,seisth the nature of a sicklie man,When hee's discernd to swoune, straite by and byfolke by his helpe confusedly haue ran,And seeking with their art to fetch him backe:so many throng, that he the ayre doth lacke,soMirrha'sthoughts confusedly did stound her.some adding cōfort, whilst the rest confound her.Like to a fountaines head, so shew'd her head,from whence since passion first tooke hold of hirTwo springs did run thorow each flowr-fil'd mead& at her lips staid, where shee wishtCynirWould so haue done: her face with teares run ore,LikeHebæsNectar shew'd, spilt on heauens flore.or as the blomes in May the dewe drops beares,soMirrha'scheeks look'd sprinkl'd with her tears.Her haire, that with such diligence was vsdeTo be kemb'd vp & did like clowdes appeare;Where many spangles, star-like were infus'd,To attend the lustre of so bright a haire,Whose beames like brightArachnesweb cōposedTaughtPallasa new enuie, now vnlosed,hiding her face, yet making it seeme rarer,as blazing Commets traine makes the star fairer.Dispaire that teacheth holy ones to die,when as affliction ministers her part:Had breathing now in Mirrha, and well nie,Like Venus, made her graspe a flaming heart.Cupid was borne at Etna, a hot sprite,Whose violence takes edge off from delight.For men deepe louing, oft themselues so waste,that proffer'd dainties, they want power to taste.Digresse no farther least thou proue obsceane,but tell by this how Nurse had broke the dore,And trembling both through age and feare,Forgot the naturall sence she had beforeYet with her out-cries from the shades of death,cald Mirrhas spright, who with vnwilling breathre-enters flesh, scorning to giue it grace,with wonted beautie that adorn'd her face.She tooke the haltar, and held vp her chin,chafing her temples with a violent heate:Making her soule returne with torments in,as it went out, being come vnto retrait,Nurse heau'd her trembling body on the bed,Where sinking as in graue, she seemed dead:Chast had my verse bin, blessed Mirrhas hap,if here my pen could write thy Epitaph.When hauing gotten ope her heauie eyes,life-mocking death, with a fresh crimson hew,she thus bespake: if there be sorceries,Philters, inchauntments, any furie newThat can inspire with irrelegious fire,The brest of mortall, that vntam'd desirePossesseth me, and all my bodies merrit,Shewes like a faire house, haunted with a spirit.The foure and twentie windes are not so fierce,as what doth blow the fewel in my breast:Not the soft oyle,Apollodid disperse,onPhaitonsbrow, to keep his sun-beam'd crestFrom face of heauenly fires, could ought preuaileGainst raging brāds which my poore heart assailescorch'd with materiall flames, wee soone do dieand to purge sins, we imbrace purgatorie.But this a heate that nor in life or death,can render any humor but dispaire:Nor can it with the short cut of my breath,Take hence my shame, that shall suruiue mine heireNor can the act (after tis done) contentBut brings with it eternall punishment,lesseneth the pleasure of the world to come,giues the iudge leaue, & strikes the guiltie dumb.The iealious nurse, did apprehend her straite,yet would extract the quintessence of all:And therefore childe (quoth she) vse no deceipt,but tel me freely whence these teares doe fallI am thy nurse, and from my aged brestThou hadst thy second being, tell the rest.I doe coniure thee, by these siluer haires,which are grown white, the sooner in their cares.If any orped witch ofThessalie,haue powre vpon thee, gentle-girle relate:Or if thou haue prophan'd some dietie,wee shall some misticke fires propogate.To attone with them or if with barbarous handdevoy'd of thy first chastitie thou stand;Vnfold to me; griefes vttered finde redresse:fires vndescern'd burn the more pittilesse.Or if the sunne of bewtie shoote at theehis fiery shafts, O tell me and the rather,Because thy confidence shal answer'd be,With this my childe Ile hide it from thy fatherAs doth a dying man hold fast what so he graspsso she her feruent armes bout her Nurse claspesand nuzzels once more twixt those dugs her facewhilst ore those Ilands flow salt teares apace.That word of father was likePersey'sshield,to make the poore maid stone, now nurse doth threatVnlesse she will in gentle manner yeeld,she would to morrow shew how in a heatShe would haue made away her desperate life,and she must tell the man that forc'd that strifewithin her brest through feare she thus did frameand made her toung the trumpet of her shame.Her voyce halfe stopt with sighes (O fatal voice)pronounc'd these words, yet did the accēts faile:How blessed is my mother in her choise,How fully she with nature did preuaile.This said, her blushing face sinkes in her shroudlikeCinthiamuffel'd in an enuious cloud.When loe, the dying taper in his toombe,gaue darknes to it selfe and to the roome.Now had she time to waile, and well she might,Guiltie of sorrow, there might you haue seene:As glow wormes adde a tincture to the night,Glimmering in pallid fire, vppon some greene,mixt with the dew, so did her eyes appeare,Each goulden glance ioyn'd with a dewy teare,oft shut her eyes, like starres that portend ill,with bloody deluge, they their orbes did fill.The Nurse amated with the latter wordes,whose aged haires stood vp like siluer wire:Knew speech was vaine, where will the scope affords& whispering softly, saies childe thy desireIle put into thy armes, sleepe, seize thy head,Tis now nights no one, all but the stars seem dead,Our vanities like fire-works will ascend,Vntil they breake, vncertaine where to end.Neuer did mortall with a vicious thought,wish to bring vices Embrion to aforme:But still the prince of darknesse to them broughtoccasions fore-locke, which they off have torne.Sin like a Cedar shadowes all our good:Whilst vertues bounded like a narrow flood.As see now, how the occasion of misfortune;Mirrha's much abus'd-mother did importune.Now came the time, ofCeressacred rite,and Misteries, when all wives young and oldeCloathed in vailes, all of transparent white,Kneele to her, and to the Attick priest vnfolde,The firstlings of the fiel'd wreath'd gilded corne,Chaplets of dill, pluckt in a blushing morne,And many such, nor may they husbands see,In nine daies, till they end their misterie.Now nurse was double diligent, watching her timeand told oldCynitasa louely maideSigh'd for him: and still with cupps of winebetwixt each word his pallat she assaide.Heated with wines, he bad the Nurse repaide,and bring to him the Maide that was so faire,Bacchus&Venus, Wine and frolicke lust,are sworne to blood, and keepe togither must.Mirrhano sooner heard this glad reply,but as a poore bird long time in a snare,Ready for fammine and her woe to die,whom an vnskilful fouler vnawarehath guiuen freedome, to her foode doth hast,so Mirrha thought each houre an age was past:In her strict torments but being scapt away,her woes forgot, she thinkes vppon her prey.And as she did ascend those staires to lust,in the midway, she heard her father speake:And nere lay partridge closer to the dust,at sound o' the Faulccons bell, then she too weakTo encounter or resist: and feares are such,in loue by loue, that they enccrease loue much.Loue like to Monarkes, hath his state hie rearedwho euer wil be lou'd, where they are feared.To a hundred seueral passions she doth yeeld,and as we see in Autumne of the yereSome gallant oake stand ready to be feld,vppon whose ribs a hundred wounds appeareForc'd by the brawnie armes of Hynds vnlithe,who workes a passage to the weeping pith:Vncertaine (though wind shaken) where to fall:so stood her mynd doutful of rest at al.Nurse opes the doore, and brings her to the bedthe darkenesse of the night abated shame:And leaues her that must leaue her maiden headto the begetter of his owne defame,With faultring hams hauing got twixt the sheetes,In fearefull lust thisProdegiæmeetes,He begs a kisse, then blusht she as he spake it,yet he must giue it, shee wants power to take it.Now trembling lay she by her fathers side,like filly doue within the Eagles gripe:Nor doth she vse soft shrikes as doth a bride,(I meane a maide) when as the fruite so ripeOf maiden-head, forced from their wombe,Her fathers armes to her was as a tombe.She dead in pleasure, durst not shew her voice,leastCynirasshould know this faire foule choice.But when that Cupid once had whetted her,she twines her lilly stalks about his necke:So clings youngIviebout the aged oake there,Venussmile, but frowningIunochecks.Their stolne delight, no nuptiall tapers shone,No Virgin belt vntyed, but all vndone,the Athenian God, kindled no hallowed fires,darke was the night, suiting to their desires.The morrow came, toyled with wakes and lust,she leaues her father, when as the rising SunCouering the easterne Pines and mountaine dust,spyed Mirrha from her couch of sin to runne.Then blusht he first, and backward would ha fledAnd euer since in's rising hee's still red,Nere Turkas was at sicke blood more estrang'd,then Mirrha when her chastitie was chang'd.Oft would she leane against her fathers knees,& tie his garter in a true loue's knot:And then vndoo't againe, as to shew shewere vndone, yet he conceiu'd it not.And woman like that, keep not secrets long,she shewd her loue in dūb shewes with out tung,her lust she knew (yet hardly it concealde)like Fayries Treasur's vanish'd if reueal'd.A third night came, darker then shores belowe,when Cyniras (father of feareful lust)Willing to see the foule that did bestoweSo many pleasures on him (Ioue is iust)Did reach a taper, whose confusiue light,Strucke like a blasting at that horrid sight.The light fell from him loathing his defame,things senceles oft are mou'd, whē men not shame.At length with bloodie eye fixed on her,out of an Iuorie scabberd hanging by:He drew a monumental Semiter,thinking with death that both their shames shold dyeBut night that oft befriended her with sinne,In her blacke wombe too, did her freedome win,For through the darke she slipt, and left her fire,to mourne his Fate, not execute his ire.Sped with her lust, and flying thence apace,in feares and trembling, feare doth giue vs eies:For saftie to the Gods, she lifts her face,& her claspt hands to what she now not see's,loues browe was darke, Boetes had amaineDriuen his Oxen to the lower plaine.Phebæ fled heauen, her face no tincture beares,Because shee saw a deed, worthie her teares.The morning came, where yet the fatall printof Mirrha lay vpon the pillow:CynixheClog'd with distresse, a fathers cursse did hint,vpon that place of foule inchastitie,the sight of what we loath, breedes loathing moreand vertue once renounc'd ingenders store,Leaue we him touz'd in care, for worldly wee,loue to leaue great men in their miserie.Seauen winters nights, she fled before the Moone(who knew the vnchaste act she had inforc'd)ThroughArabie, in feare she posteth soone,To odorous Panchaia, whose confines diuorc'dHer fathers land: here grew all choicest fumes:That to Ioues temples often men presumes:and on his altars them accumulate,and how they first sprung, here thereof the Fate.Hebænow banish'd from th'Aetherianboulevppon a feast day mongst the Gods aboue,Where twas made lawfull, all without controule,might freely drink it chanc'd the Queen of loueWhether she long'd, or enuiedHebesstarre,(Women are enuious, where they long for nectar)forc'd her to skinke so much, the iuice ran ore,so that Ioues drinke washt the defiled flore.With this he storm'd, that's Priests from altars fliestreight banish'dHebæ, & the world did thinkeTo a second Chaos they should turned be,the clouds for feare wept out th' immortal drinkeand onPanchaiathere this Nectar fell,Made rich th' adiacent lands with odorous smell,and such rare spices to the shoares are giuen,as Ioue would thinke no Nectar were in heauen.There was a Satire rough and barbarous,pleasing his pallat at a trembling spring:Vnder a Beech with bowes frondiferous,though he had seene a nimph or rarer thingThen flesh and blood, for in the calmed streame,He saw her eyes like stars, whose raies did gleameBoue Phoebus farre, and so amazed stood,as if she had bin Goddesse of that flood.And as you see a man that hath bin longPossessed with a furie of the shades:after some prayers and many a sacred song,with blessed signes, the euill spirit vades,so fell his rudenesse from him, and her shine,Made all his earthie parts pure and diuine.O potent loue, great is thy power be falne,That makes the wife mad, & the mad man calme.Thus he begins, fairer then Venus farre,If Venus be, or if she be tis thee:Louelie as Lillies, brighter then the starrethat is to earth the mornings Mercurie:Softer then Roses, sweeter breath'd then they,blush't boueAurora, better cloath'd then May.lipt like a cherrie, but of rarer taste,Deuine as Dian, and as fully chaste.Pardon my rude tongue, if I chance to erre,as Hermes selfe might erre being the Godof Eloquence: for your bright eye doth beareall earthly blessings in a faire abode,Excuse me if I trip, I meane your weale,Error's no error, where tis done with zeale.Loue like materiall fires is made to flame:When tis supprest with fanning Fires first came.With this, the Maid (so took) hung down her headwondring that such a shape had such a tongue:able to steale her loue, had she not fled,and from his ardent gripes, her body wrung.Flying likePhebæafter strucken deere:and as he follow'd she fled more for feare.Zephirecame foorth, to dally with her haire,while the poore Satire cried stay maide so faire.But he on sudden like a subtill Snake,rould in a heape, shootes foorth himself at lēgth;and to his vigorous armes greedie doth take,his yeilding prey, won with his words not strēgthTo be a woman, is by nature giuen,But to be constant, is a star, which heauenHath seald on their sex forehead as a signe,That constancie in women is diuine.Thou didst deceiue me Mirrha, when I saide,thou flew'st for feare, thou gau'st me cause to fearand I might iustlie haue this gainst thee laide,thou wentst t' auide by pathes that were so nereWho begin, ill most often end in ill,and she that doth her first pure youth so spillIn lawles lust, though made a wife to one,Remaines like wax for each impression.But see the goodnesse of the Deities,who still with grace preuents our ill presage,This groue was hallow'd to no Hiadres,but chast Diana, who with violent rageDiscending from her towre of Christalline,To keepe the place still sacred and diuine:against her rites, brought with her thereuponwhite Poplar from the banckes ofAcheron:Then with a charme, that did her face eclips,And made her crescent quak, the iuice she powersVpon the Satirs face, and prophane lipps,which quickly ouer all his body showers,Her borrow'd power of art being finished:(Deriued from Phœbus as her light) she saide,Nine-times the holy rime, which spok will clere,all prophane matter, and this spake she there.Sleepe Poplar sleepe, that was the Satirs name,who had bin long a king within these woods,Since thou my sacred Groue, gan to prophane:a sleepe seize on thee, still as stigian floods,by Stix I vow the partiall destenies,Did they conspire, shold nere vnclaspe thin eies,hauingthus said, the Satire vanisht so,as mens prospect that from a mirrour goe.I thinke (quoth she) accursed is this place,for heere the man, for whome I sorrow now,Heedelesse Acteon with immodest face,saw all our naked and did ouer-vewe:As men rich iuells doe, thinking there liesyet some rare vertue hidden from their eyes:And euen there quoth shee, & then did point,reuen'gd, I saw his hounds teare ioint from ioint.But since saies she, thou as a King didst reigne,and art a Trophey too ofDianspower:Thus much the Goddesse of the floods doth deignto change thy shape, into a vertick flower.Then thrice three words, thrice striking charmed woodThe ground did crannie, and there out of hand,appeared greene Poplar, younger then before,which bow'd the head & dyan did adore.The palefac'd Mirrha sat like guiltie spright,fore the infernall iudge, yet did not seeDiana great, for dull are mortalls sight,(and all inuisible is chastitie)But heard a voice as she was vanishing,saying defild maide, doost wonder at this thing?O Mirrha ere my crescents beautie change,thou shalt be turn'd into a shape as strange.With this the verdant new sprung Poplar plant(moou'd with the winde) seemd to bow down the headas cheering Mirrha, who did comfort wantbeing amaz'd at what Diana saide,Hauing recouer'd sence, she flies the place,For feare of Phebæs comming to the chace:to Saba land she hies, where all affraide,my muse shall sing the downfall of the Maide.Then first hung downe Poplar his heauie braine,for Mirrha's losse, whose loue brought him thatand for he once in woods a King did raigne,a crowne hee still wear's, richly wrought with blewand yellow eke, as figures both of loue,Which Venus dropt downe him from aboue.Bacchus doth loue him, for in feasts of wine,he weares a poplar Garland mixt with vine.The leaden God of sleepe, on his iuice feede,the vertues of him, sundry doe declare:His suddain taste a heauinesse doth breede,and drownes in rest, sences opprest with care,In places farre remote, he loues to growe,and eke by rivers that runne thicke and slowe,where drowsilie this woodish demie God,with euerie gale of winde his head doth nod.Now to proceede after a small repose,that the accursed seede gan swell her wombe,whē her drie brain, no more teares could exposeshe weayting for a sad and heauie dombe.For often men offending, still doe feare,Though Ioue be farre off, yet his iudgements neredowne would she sit, and so vnfolde her moanethat Eccho sight hirs and forgot her owne.Distressed twixt the teadiousnesse of life,and trembling feare of death, she thus began:For when we cease to be the crimes are rife,which youth committed, and before vs then.For aged memorie doth clasp't containe,Those shapes of sin, which hot blood held as vain.O cursed Fates quoth she, that brought to passethis prodegie twixt me and Cyniras.O leaue to leape for ioy, thou prettie childe,to Heare of Cyniras, or ile leaue rather:To speake of him, whose bed I haue defilde,& made him proue thy Grandsire & thy FatherWas I predestin'd to select no other,But fated for the sister and the Mother,of thee my babe, heauen here hath beene sinisterthe childe shall call his grandsire, son his mother sister.Oft doe two Roses grow out from one stem,and one of them is full blowne fore the other,So fares it now with thee my virgin iem,whome nature would call sonne but shame saies brotherShall I not blush when thou art ripe, to gatherThe circumstances of who was thy Father,yes sure I shall, yet shame forgets all shame,Ile charge thy father of a heauenly name.But oh, I feare me least some Prodegie,the heauens agree, that I to light should bring;to fright ee'n the yron age, that chastitiemight take example by my suffering.That I a monster-mother should be made,If soe, O ouer equall Gods, letMirrhafadeinto some shape, worthy your high deuice,Pitty to me, would make Ioue seeme vnwise.Alter O Gods, death that is due to birth,nor let the dead repine, that I should seeEliziums blest shades, nor the men of earthannoided be with my impuritie,Let them enioy the fieldes, and learned Songes,Of hye brow'd Orpheus, let the vnflesht throngesthat haue deseru'd this, and much more be glad,my starres, my double life, and fate, are sad.You wearyed race of Danans vnblest girles,In vaine leaue off your vnwomb'd tubs to fill,& with your teares that staynd yeIndyan pearles,Weepe out for Mirrha, and ere night you willat my sad story orebrim with your teares,Your whirle-poole vessells, which so many yeresreturn'd no interest, if you well deplore,you'le drowne in teares, or labour so no more.Cōclude my fate, quicke you eternall counsell,or else I feare the nere-erturned deadClad in the fearefull shapes of night and hell,will rife before the general day be spred;and hurrie me in flesh to Acheron,To taste hels torture both in soule and bone:Then blast me thunderer in righteous ire,and I likeSemelewil meete thy fire.The Gods to her last wish was tractable.her tongue percullist twice was as she spake:aire was her voice, and Mirrha now not able,to thanke the Gods, her ioynts in sunder brake.Leaues were her locks, of golden haire bereau'd,her armes long boughes, deem & be not deceiu'dtree gan she be, yet twixt her thing so staid,you could not say she was or tree or maide.First grew her hayre vplike the Summer Corne,or as a blazing starre whose streames rise vpward& being changd, fell leaues, that vp were borne,by the rude windes, yet had you but haue heardYou'd sware, a sigh for Mirrha's transmigrationHad beene decreed by all the windie nation.and euerie Autume, since a thing moste rare,The falling leaues, resemble Mirrha's haire.To barke her yuorie skin polisht congeald,each blew rig'd current into melting sap,Her nailes to bolssome faire, & what reueal'dwith accents sad, the babe yet in her lap.Her fingers twigs, her bright eyes turn'd to gum,Buried on earth, and her owne selfe the toombe,her sences gone, yet this sence did she win,to aye relent, the horror of her sinne.For euen as from a guilty man, that's pleading for remorse,teares follow teares, as hoping to preuaile,So from this tree, (though now a senceleffe course)flowe pretious teares, as seemes she doth bewaileIn death, with euer liuing teares, the act fore-doneThesePiusdrops, made densiue by the sunne,are kept for holy vses, and the Mir,That so distilles, doth beare the name of her.The misbegotten babie, swels the tree,and loathing the defiled wombe sought vent:Those panges that mothers haue felt shee,and solemne sighes had issue, as they'd rent,and spoile the shape, she newly had assum'd,But wordes within the close bark were inhumbdYet wept it out, as it to water would,Or seem'd it mockt Pactolus waues of golde.Till chast Lucina, whome the Poets giue,The mid-wiues power in producing creatures,by whose change we last die, and first doe liue,(be they not violent each) she that giues featuresForme or takes away, makes foule or faire,Discending from her Spheare next to our ayre:with armes yspred, vppon the melting mir,brought diuine comfort downe from heauē with herFew wordes she spake, but euery sillable,of power to comfort the afflicted Ghostes;Or any other sencelesse thing make able,doe better deedes then thoseAlcidesboastes,the tree streight craynes, & springs forth the childwho the first minut, though his countenance smildcryed out a maine, our first propheticke breath,showes our first houre, is mother to our death.The water Nymphes then caught him tenderly,who laid him streight on the enameled bankes,and bath'd him with his mothers teares, wherebythey made him fairer, and in merry prankesThe Ladies call a conuocation there,Some praise his nose, his lips, his eye, his eare.Some his streight fingers, whilst a fist doth swearehis verry breath yet smelleth of the mirre.Another wishes, oh for such a face!Nor can I blame her though she did wish so:For sure, were I a wench, t'had bin my case,for nature heere, made both her ioy and woe,And spight that (but herself) commendeth none,Of force must say, this was a rarer oneThen either nature did, or ere shall make,whose life holdes vp her age, whose deathe's her wrack.Eyes like two stars falne from their proper sphearsas if they scorn'd the beaten pathes of heauen:Or enuying of beautie of the beares,showne firmer heere, and brighter then the seauēSuch was he as was Cupid wont to beIn pictures lim'd, and that they may agree,furnish the babe with winges and quiuer light,or from loues God, take wings, and quier quite.Nought may compare with Time in his swift racethe babe ere while feeles now youths hot alarmsAnd as in yeares, so beautious grew his face,that he is fit againe for Ladies armes:Nor Cupid now could wound more dames thē heThat Venus who Captiues all, is not freeFrom her own power, she loue's Adonis milde,That Mars doth storm, & wish he were no childe.Nor Paphos, Amathus nor fishie Gnide,delights she now to haunt, nor Etna nowBurnes more then her, she roans the wood so wideafter her game, that to his game doth bow.And will not heare or see, for eies and eares,If they her heare or see, their vse forbearesYet she persues, and leaues her power vn euenon heauen & earth, she loues him more thē heauē.Oft would she say, and bathe those words in tearsoh thou fair boy, wold God thou loudst like mebut sure thou art not flesh, it well appeares,thou wert the stubborne issue of a tree,So hard thou art, then she a sigh would fet,and wish that Vulcan had not made his net,For boysterous Mars, shee'd fayner ha' bin spedwith this choice floure, claspt in her yron bed.Shee'd nere haue blusht, thē she does make a vowthough al the Gods of both worlds had thē seenShe raveth that she euer lou'd til now,that she might worthily ha bin loues Queene.wel, wel (quoth she) thou hast reueng'd the spightwhich from my accurst Sons bow did fowly lightOn thy faire Mother, O immortall boy,Though thou be faire, tis I that should be coy.But stay my Muse in thine owne confines keepe,& wage not warre with so deere lou'd a neighbor,But hauing sung thy day song, rest & sleepepreserue thy small fame and his greater fauor:His song was worthie merrit (Shakspearehee)sung the faire blossome, thou the withered treeLaurellis due to him, his art and withath purchast it,Cypresthy brow will fit.