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Tothee thou more then thrice beloued friend,I too vnworthie of so great a blisse:These harsh tun'd lines I here to thee commend,Thou being cause it is now as it is:For hadst thou held thy tongue by silence might,These had bene buried in obliuions night.If they were pleasing, I would call them thine,And disavow my title to the verse:But being bad, I needs must call them mine,No ill thing can be clothed in thy verse.Accept them then, and where I haue offended,Rase thou it out, and let it be amended.S. P.
Golittle booke into the largest world,And blase the chastnes of thy maiden Muse:Regardles of all enuie on thee hurld,By the vnkindnes that the readers vse:And those that enuie thee by scruples letter,Bid them take pen in hand and make a better.
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Inthe large confines of renownedFranceThere liu'd a Lord, whom Fortune did aduance,VVho had a Daughter,Lauracall'd the faire;So sweet, so proper, and so debonaire,That strangers tooke her for to be none other,ThenVenusselfe, the God ofLouesowne Mother.Not farre from thence was scituate a Towne,The Lord thereof a man of great renowne;VVhom likewise Fortune blessed with a Sonne,Amosby name, so modest, ciuill, yong,And yet in sight so wondrous and so bold,As that therein he passed vncontroul'd:So kinde to strangers, and so meeke to all;Of comely grace, and stature somewhat tall.As the wide world not two such Impes affords,As were the off-springs of these happy Lords.Hunting he lou'd, and therefore in a morneHe shakes off sleepe (for ease he laughes to scorne)Before the sable Curtaines of the EastProclaim'd the Sunnes approach vnto the west;OrTytan, Lordly Ruler of the morne,Had in his Chariot, left the night forlorne;Or sounded sleepe to them, with whom (men say)It's darksome night when we enioy the day:He brac'd his Hounds, and striding o'er his Steed,Hope with a conquest did the youngster feed:VVhich done, he hyes him to a mighty wood,That ioyn'd whereLaura'sFathers Pallace stood.Thither being come, a Bore he rais'd, whose paceDid make our hunts-man loose his Hounds in chase:Ranging the woods, he light into a Groue,More pleasant farre then that whereVenusstroueTo winAdonisto her hearts desire,Moued by the burning zeale of sweetLouesfire.In this sweet Groue GodPandid keepe his Court,And summon'd all the petty Gods resort,As Satyres, Nymphes, and others, to the same,VVhere all sing prayses vntoLaura'sname.Into this Groue (neare to her chamber side)(To take the Ayre) she comes forth; soone espideOf the yong Hunts-man, who made haste vnto her,And thus the Nouice there beginnes to wooe her:Parragon of beauty, diuine, though earthly creature,And yet Celestiall in thy heauenly feature.This sodaine courting, and vnwelcome sight,Made her adde wings to feare, and to that, flight:He following after, caught her by the traine,That in a rage the Maide turn'd backe againe,And did demaund why he without remorse,Durst cause her stay, against her will, by force.Mou'd by the rosiate colour of thy face,(VVherein consists (quoth he) all heauenly grace)I was too bold, I must confesse indeede,To touch the seluage of thy sacred weede:For which my selfe Ile punish as thou wilt,VVith any paine, for my deserued guilt.Doe but pronounce the sentence of my death,These hands shall be the butchers of my breath:But since the merit of my fault's no deeper,Oh let me be thy Prisoner, thou my Keeper;So shall thine eyes be witnesse of the woe,VVhich for my bold offence Ile vndergoe.Pronounce thy sentence then. VVherwith she spake,You are your Crafts-man Sir: and there she brake.Yet turning backe, quoth she, ô would 'twere true,Your loue were firme to me, as mine to you!And here she ceased: for when he came neare her,She was afraid that he would ouer-heare her.And art thou so vnwilling then, quoth hee,To doome the sentence which I aske of thee?Perswade thy selfe it is thy purer mindeThat will not let thy heart proue so vnkinde:O would that minde were mine, to ioyne thy hartEyther to end my life, or ease my smart.Loue is my sute. Nor hate is my reply,Quoth she. Quoth hee, I cannot court it I;They which but view the error in my lookes,May finde I neuer learn'd inCupidsbookes:But like a stone rough hewen from the rockes,And after polish'd by the Masons knockes,The former shewes but base then in compare,So to my loue my speech disgraces are:For were my speech true patterne of my minde,Not as it doth, should't come, but farre more kinde,Like as the Marchant hearing of a losse,Is vvondrous sory for so great a crosse;And after heareth by a true report,His goods are safely landed in the Fort,Cannot expresse the joy he doth conceiue:For why? it doth his senses quite bereaue;And yet with signe of sorrow blames th'euent,Although it seeme most plaine and euident.Or like a Ship toss'd by tempestuous weather,Now here, then there; now back againe, then thitherThat whirle-windes meeting (roaring out aloud)Make watry mountaines shew the ship each cloud:Then with such fury they descend the deepe,From top of triple-Cedar-mountaines steepe,As of the Seas rich orientall shew,Against their wils they take a counterview.So fares his minde, which tossed to and fro,Sometimes doth ioy, and other times is woe:Sometimes from depth ascends into the ayre,And though he hope, he hides it with despayre.So long with feruent zeale he mou'd his sute,Onely for want of words his tongue was mute."VVhere true affection rules in hottest fires,"Dumbe signes and tokens then shew mens desires:For what he thought he shew'd, he could not vtter,Which made him oft when he shold speak to mutter.She that was wounded with the selfe-same dart,Reueal'd with tongue that which she wisht with hartAnd fram'd her answere, so much't could not grieue him,For 'twas a salue to wound and to relieue him.Say I could loue, quoth she, my milder minde,(Vnlesse you further moue) cannot vnkinde,Frame you an answere: for wee are by natureSo much addicted to mans heauenly feature,That though your faults are great by your abuse,To blinde the same it is our womans vse.Then as thou found'st me, leaue me, if thou wilt;That shall be all I render for thy guilt.Further I will not credit thy report:Farewell; be gone, for I am mist in Court.With that shee flyes, and in her flight she leauesA well wrought Scarfe, which straight the winde vp heaues;And proud of such a prise, they doe inferWith their embassage vntoJupiter,And there presented it: who, as 'twas right,Did make the windes returne't with swiftest flight,Vnto the place whereAmosstood amazedAt that which hapt, who like a mad-man gazed,Wondring what she by this illusion meant,When to allure him was her whole intent:But led in admiration most of all,At the rich Scarfe which from the Maide did fall.He viewes the worke, where finding ofApolloChasing a Nymph, who swifter then a SwallowFlyeth his armes, for feare did lend her wingsTo flye from him which after her soone flings.Himselfe a foole he cals, that wanting skill,Being allur'd, he had not knowne her will.Doubtfull, he feares offence committed to her,That he so rashly, gain'st her will, durst wooe her.To cleare himselfe of which offence he flyes,Resolu'd to winne the Maide, or lose the prize,With prosperous hast. Oh may thy hast well speed,Whose wondrous loue did vertuously proceed:Not from the flames of filthy lusts desire,As was that Rome-borneTarquinslustfull fire:But as vnspotlesse from that filthy thought,From that most hell-deseruing thing of nought,As euer heart lodg'd in a loyall brest,Or tongue, vntaught to lye, euer exprest.But why doe I digresse the path I tread,Cloying your eares with that your eyes doe read?Pardon my boldnesse, and giue eare a whileTo that, of him, which my inferiour stileShall now expresse: though't not with honor stands,He thinkes one paire of legs worth twice two hands.The arrow swift sent from the sturdy bow,May be accounted (to his flight) but slow:At last he gain'd the Court, to vvhich being come,It shew'd like to the Pallace of the SunneDescrib'd inOuid: for in length and fairenesse,None might surpasse the workmanship and rarenes.Through which his way lies, & he needs must passe,The pauement Marble vvas, the vvals of Glasse:VVhereunder vvas so liuely caru'd the StoryOf greatJouesloue, his vvondrous vvorks, & glory,VVith many others loue: vvhich to rehearseVVould adde a mighty volume to my Verse,Besides mine owne weake vvit: for I doe know it,He vvas a better workeman, then I Poet.Yet could not this abate the Louers pace:For he still holds the louely Maide in chase.Passing the Court, he comes into a greene,VVhich vvas in middest of the Pallace seene:Thorough the midst there ranne a pleasant Spring,On each side with a vvall of Bricke hemm'd in,Onely in midst, a Stile; beyond, a Plancke,VVhich for a Bridge did serue to eyther bancke.Ouer this Stile asLauralightly skips,In her rent garment happily it slips,And held her there a while till hee came to her,VVhere once againe the Nouice gins to vvoe her.Flye not thy friend, our Maker vvilleth so,Things reasonlesse approue and vvish it so,If vvithout sense and reason all things thenObserue a better course then humane men,How sauage were we then offending so,Committing that vvhich vve offence doe know?O were my tongue a secondOrpheusHarpe,That to my loue I might allure thyheart!Or vvere thy loue but equall vnto mine,Then vvould thou seeke his fauor vvho seeks thine!Me thinkes vnkindnesse cannot come from thence,VVhere beauty raignes vvith such magnificence,I meane from thee, vvhom nature hath endow'dVVith more then Art would vvillingly allow'd:And though by nature you are borne most faire,Yet Art would adde a beautie to your share:But it being spotlesse doth disdaine receiptOf all vnpolish'd painting counterfeit.Your beautie is a snare vnto our wayes,VVherein once caught, wee cannot brooke delayes;VVhich makes vs oft through griefe of minde grow sad,Griefe follows grief, then malecontent & mad.Thus by deniall doe you cause our woe,And then doe triumph in our ouer-throw.What is it to be fayre? onely a vanitie,A fading blossome of no perpetuitie.Consider this: for beautie is a flower,Subiect to ill occasions euery hower;It is a tenure holden as wee seeDurante Dei placito, not in fee.Measure my Loue then, proue it by a tryall:Let me not languish still by your deniall.If in my suite I erre, as by mischance,Blame not my Loue but count it ignorance.The tongue is but an instrument of nought,And cannot speake the largenesse of the thought:For when the minde abounds, and almost breaketh,Then through abundance of the heart it speaketh:No man can speake but what he hath in minde,Then what I speake I thinke; be not vnkindeVnto your seruant, who obedience proffers,And makes firme loue the obiect of his offers.I will not boast of Parentage, or Lyne,For all are base, respecting thee diuine:Nor will I boast of wealth, or riches store,For in thy face consists all wealth, and more.Pure are my thoughts as skin betweene thy browes,And eke as chaste my speech, my oathes, & vowes.Speake sweetest fayre, but one kinde word to me,How can alas that be offence in thee?There was a Dame a moderne Poet sung,Heroby name, like thee, both faire and young:And both so faire, that you did others passeAs farre as rarest Dyamonds common glasse.VVhom youngLeandercourted on a greene,A Maide so faire (but thee) was neuer seene.She granted loue, which he (alas) to gaine,To reape those ioyes, did crosse the brinish Maine.My loue to thee, I now compare to his;Accounting danger, so requited, blisse.There are no Seas to separate our ioy,No future danger can our Loue annoy:Then grant to me what she denide not him;If good in her, in thee it is no sinne.The Sunne hath shin'd thus long, ô let not nowThe Sunne be darkened by thine angry brow.But rather let each looke a Comet beThat may presage my happy destinie.I could to you a short discourse impart,That would relent the direst stony hart,VVer't not offence. It's no offence quoth she.Then thus the same Ile briefely tell, quoth he:A poore old man by chance did breake his leg,And he was told where he was wont to beg,That such a Surgion (telling of his name,)If that he pleas'd, could quickly cure the same.VVhich when he heard, to him for helpe he goes,And craues for Gods sake he would ease his woes.The Surgion greedy to haue coyne therefore,But finding none, he would not heale the sore:VVhich caus'd the poore old man to keepe his bed,That he for want of helpe in time was dead.Alas poore soule; (quoth shee) and did he dye?VVould I were Iudge, or hee were such as I,I so would vse the Surgion, as that heeShould feele the griefe which he before did see.Thus you confesse your wrong to me sweet Maid,If you performe (quoth he) the vvords you said.I am the man, who wounded, seeke reliefe:And you, the causer of my endlesse griefe;You are the Surgion, whom I vrge the moreTo cure the wound because you made the sore.Be not obdurate then, sith my diseaseIs quickly cured, if the Surgion please.And this I vow, water shall turne to fire,Huge massie mountaines to the clouds aspire;The Sun shall leaue his course, the Moon her brightnes,Night turne to day, and day shall lose his lightnes;Fishes shall flye, birds swimme; and Hare shall huntThe Hound, which to pursue the Hare vvas wont:Ayre, Earth, Fire, VVater, all things which you viewShall change their natures, ere I turne from you:And longer then I breathe a loyall friend,Let me (ô heauens) endure a wicked end.Silence (quoth she) and here let cease thy sute,Cause of distrust in loue did make me mute:Aske why I yeelded in so short a season,Because I loue, that is a womans reason.Yet Maides are fearefull; for by mens abuse,Courting is turned to a common vse,How is he held, that cannot in these dayesFash'on his words to each fantasticke phrase?VVhich makes vs oft with one word to debaseHim from our bosomes, whom our hearts imbrace:And, as you men doe for a Prouerbe make it,That which we loue we oft say nay and take it.Delayes breede danger, wherefore what I said,And what agrees with Honour, and a Maid,I yeeld to thee, but yet on this condition,Thou shalt not dare t'attempt the least fruitionOf my chaste thoughts, by drawing them aside,Before in wedlocke I am made thy Bride.This said; shee to the Court, hee to his Hounds,Where they had slaine a Bore, whose bloud abounds:Glad of his prey, he hastneth home amaine,VVith short returne he comes to her againe,And hauing ioyn'd themselues inHymensbands,The sacred Priest vniteth heart and hands:They reape those ioyes which elder louers know,And thus my Tale doth end, thus ends their woe.
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Gentlemen, if your fancy will permit you to fauour this booke, I shall be thankfull, if not, I can but repent at the charge of the Impression, I meane but little gaine to my selfe, yet much pleasure to you, if it were my owne wit, and you condemne it, I should be ashamed of my publicke intrusion, but since it was the labour of a man wel-deseruing, forbeare open reprehending, for, as I haue heard, 'twas done for his pleasure, without any intent of an Impreßion; thus much I excuse him that I know not, and commend that which deserueth well, if I be partiall, I pray patience.
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Whilst that the Sunne was climing vp in haste,To view the world with his ambitious eye.FaireMyrha; yet alas, more faire then chaste.Did set her thoughts to descant wantonly;Nay most inhumane, more then bad, or ill,As in the sequell you may reade at will.You that haue parents, or that parents be,Depart a space, and giue not eare at allTo the foule tale that here shall vttered be:Some filthy shame let on all other fall,If possibly there can be any such,From nature to degenerate so much.O then withOuid, I am wonderous gladThat this small world of ours is put so farreFrom those that such incestious people had:So rest thou still in glory as a starre.That scorning thrusts from other nations quite,And in thy vertues doth thy selfe delight.And now faireMyrhain her youthly bloodDoth on her father dote with fond desire.Each foule occasion is accounted good,That may increase her filthy lustfull fire.And as this shamefull matter wanted grace,So doubtfully she thus doth plead her case.Why should not Gods this loue of mine permit?Or be offended with me for the same?It doth infringe their sacred lawes no whit,Adding dishonour, or deseruing blame.I will proceed, good reasons for to proue,'Tis not vnlawfull to obtaine my loue.In many countries I do certaine know,The parents with their children married be,Which they do most, their godlinesse to show,Because their loues increast thereby they see.Then shal this lucklesse plot of ground remaine,Th'occasion that my loue I not obtaine?Each night hath Nature set at liberty:All things be cōmon, for she naught restrains:Then let the Daughter with the Father lye,Like president with all things else remaines.The Kid, the Heifer, and the birds we see,Affect the same of whom they gotten be.In happy case then such her creatures are,That may do so, and yet do no offence,They be more happy then is mankinde farre:For they by some malicious base pretenceHaue made a curbe to hold that still in thrallWhich Nature would haue common vnto all.But yet packe hence thou foule incestious loue,What, wilt vpon thy only father dote?I ought to loue him; yet as doth behoue,Not that the world therby my shame may note.O do resolue! the neerenesse of our kin,Cuts off all hope thy wished suit to win.DidCupidthen ere shoot so yet before?CanVulcanforge so foule an arrow now?Or further: will dameVenuseuermoreSuch cruelty vnto her seruants show?No, no, I am deceiu'd; for now I see,With poisoned snakes some fury woūded thee.How great (said she) ôVenusmayst thou be,How was I rauished this present night,In feeling of your pleasant sports in me?I clipt a man in prime of his delight,What liuely pleasures did I there conceiue?No fault (alasse) but they too soone did leaue.WouldCynarusthou hadst some other name,How fitly mightst thou haue a loue of me?How nobly mightst thereby increase thy fame,How quickly shouldst a son gaine vnto thee?I would inforce dull earthly thoughts, to craue,To kisse and clip, and other pastimes haue.What meane my dreams? haue they effect at all?May dreames a future chance to vs portend?Let then to me such dreames more oft befall,In dreames no present witnesse can offend.In dreames we may as great a pleasure take,As in some sort is found we being awake.But yet avaunt, packe hence foule filthy fire,Wring out some teares to quench this cursed flameNo otherwise the daughter-like requireThy fathers loue, that blazons on thy shame.Yet put the case he first did seeke to me;No doubt I should to his request agree.Why should it not then stand right so with him,Since of one nature we participate?What if with speech thou chance his loue to winThen maist thou write,No time is yet too late.What thou dost blush to speake, loue bids thee writeBelieue me they read more thē we indite.Resolu'd on this, with trembling hand she takesThe pen and paper, framing for to write,Left hād holds way, whilst right the leter makesComposing what she did in minde indite.She writes, she doubts, she chageth this for that,She likes, dislikes, & notes she knows not what.She casts away, and doth begin anew,Yet findes a want in that she framed lastShe blots, & then againe that thing doth view,And now the first more fits then all that's past.Father she writes, yet shame did blot it out,Then thus she writes, and casts away all doubt.I know not what, sends to I know not whomSuch health that thou maist only giue to me,Which if I want, my life cannot be long,Euen that same health thy louer sends to thee.I dare not tell thee who I am for shame,Nor (out alasse) once let thee heare my name.And if thou aske of me what I desire,Or why so doubtfull I do write to thee,Would namelesse I might tell what I require,Till that my sweet were granted vnto me:Which if to know, thou wouldst make further triallA maiden asketh but a maids deniall.In token of my wounded heart, I wouldWithin these blotted lines there might apeareMy colour pale, my body leane and cold,My watery eyes, my sighes and heauy cheere,Then mightst perceiue I were in loue with thee,And how the flames of loue tormenteth me.I call the Gods as witnesse to the samePoore wretched wench, I stroue to flie the dartAnd did my best that out-rage for to tameWhichCupidhad alotted for my smart,No wench bare more then did to me betide,Which forc'd me shew the cause that I would hide.Then mercy at thy gentle hands I craue,In fearefull wise to thee I make my mone,Thou onely maist thy louer spill or saue,No enemy doth sue, but such a oneThat is aly'd most sweetly vnto thee,Yet in a neerer band would linked be.My life is thine, and thou didst giue it me,Then loue thy selfe and thou wilt me affect,My beauty's much, and is deriu'd from thee,Then all thy owne be carefull to respect.O stop thy eares, and heare notMyrha'sname,And shut thy eies whē thou dost read the same.My youthfull yeares rash folly doth beseeme,The skill of law to aged folkes belong,And all is lawfull that we list, I deeme,We take no notice of the right or wrong,If it offend to take thy owne in't bed,Let that offence be layd vpon my head.Then set apart the dread of worldly shame,And take the Gods, as presidents herein,My pregnant wit shall shun all future blame,Our pleasure scapes wel, hid with name of kin,And you may clip and kisse, and play with me,A daughters name me thinkes a cloke wil bee.Haue mercy now, I haue my case exprest,Which loue inforst my fearefull hand to write:O grant thy daughter this her first request,That is the occasion of her chiefe delight,This Epitaph deserue thou not; I haue,The cruel father tooke the life he gaue.And though my lines are blotted euery where,'Twas with my teares that fell ere it was dry,And if my letters scribled do appeare,Whereby you thinke some other wrot to tryYour mind: because my curious hand is mist,A fearefull minde, doth bring a shaking fist.And so these scrambled lines I do commendVnto your loue, be-blurred all with teares,With feruent hope they shall no whit offend,The minde is base, that stil continuall feares.And note you which is the greater blot,To get no childe or kill that you haue got.Thus much this lustfull Lady writ in vaine,And seald it closely with a precious stone,A precious stone clos'd vp a filthy staine,Her trusty seruant forth she cals anone,And blushing bad him with a merry cheare,He should this letter to her father beare.This scarcely said, oldCynarasdid come,And then she cast her letter quite aside.Daughter (said he) you see the daily throngOf suters that do seeke thee for their bride:Here be their namesmy wench, thē come & showOn which of them thou wilt thy selfe bestow.Now for a space she silent did remaine,And onely gazed wishly in his face:She could her teares no longer then restraine,But they ran trickling down her cheeks apaceHer father kisses her, and bids her peace,And thought it tender-hearted shamefastnes.He dry'd her cheekes, and said, my wench be stil,Thy yeares of right, a husband now doth claimeThou shalt not liue a maid by my good will,Nor longer shalt a wanton bed refraine,Then what, or who wilt haue? come tell me now.At length she did reply; one like to you.He did allow the choyce, and praisd the same,And kist and clipt her for her louing speech,Not deeming that it tended to their shame,It pleasd her well, & wisht that he would seechA further suit; and then made this request,Let me live still with you, let wooers rest.Your company I most of all affect,Continue but your loue, it shall suffice,These wrangling husbands why should I respect?Her father thus againe to her replies,Thy godlinesse (at which she blushed red)I like, but thou must tast a Bride-groomes bed.Thou dost not know the pleasure it affords,Nor wanton motions that therein abound.It not consisteth all of pleasant words,More gamesome tricks are there stil to be foūdA minde so chaste as thine cannot conceiueWhat pleasing sports one shall therby receiue.It is no dreame, nor passion of the minde,But a substantiall pleasure there doth dwell,The practike part of dreames therein we finde,Which who so doth omit, leades Apes in hell.Why dost thou blush? I know your case, belieue,Maids must say nay, yet take when men do giue.And now the sable horses of the night,Haue drawne a mantle ore the siluer sky,And all the stars doe shew their borrowed light,Each breathing thing oprest with sleep doth lySauePhilomell, that sings ofTerreusrape,AndMyrhaplotting some incestious scape.No rest at all she tooke within her bed,The flames ofCupidburnt so in her brest,And many a fansie comes into her head,Which ouer-much her troubled soule opprest,Shedoubts, shehopesthēfearedoth make repaire,Sh'l now attēpt, thenshamedoth bring despaire.Looke how you see a pleasant field of CorneMoue here & there by gentle-breathing wind,Now vp and downe, as waues in sea are borne:So doubtfull thoughts had motion in her mind:Now shee'l surcease, and now to him repaireInstable, like a feather in the aire.O fye vpon this fowle incestious lust,That very Nature greatly doth abhorre,Some plague will fall vpon all such I trust,If in this world there can be any more.I hope this little world well free-ed isOf Giants, and such monstrous beasts as this.So God preserue it, if it be his will,And let the Gospell euer flourish here,Yet I do feare we haue some yet as ill,The pleasing fooles do with their folly beare:In Paradice I see wee cannot live,But we shall finde some foule seducingEue.My tongue doth stagger to repeate her name,So foule a blot a Christian cannot brooke,Go seeke a glasse to see this filthy shame,UponGods holy Bibledaily looke:And there thou maist, as in a mirror see,NoAlkeroncan yeeld the like to thee.There sucke theNectarof hisHoly Word,And begge thou pardon for thy foule abuse,For euerySoreit can aSalueafford.OAtheist! learne to make of it good use.Thou Christians blot, to leaue off further talke,Whilst thou hast light, endeuor there to walke.And thouPænchaia, rich in manys a thing,InCustus,CynamonandIncensesweete,That out of trees aboundantly doth spring,OfAmmonie, and things for vses meete.Yet whilst thou yeeldestMyrrh, I wey thee not:For thereunto hathMyrhagiuen a blot.No measure in her filthy loue she found:No ease, no rest, but death doth like her now.Resolu'd on this she gets vp from the ground,And mindes to hang her selfe, her loue to shew,And then the noose about her necke she drawes,And said, ôCynaras!thou art the onely cause.Farewell therfor, a thousand times farewell,DeereCynarasthou mightst haue sau'd my life,And thinke then, this to me alone befell,Because I durst not loue thee as a wife.Farewell againe. Oh welcome gentle death!And then she went about to stop her breath.A recompence fit for so foule a mind,But yet by chance her aged Nurse did lyeWithin a chamber that to hers adioyn'd,Who ouer-hearing this, to her did hye;And seeing her halfe murdered, so beganTo shrieke & screeme, & straight vnto her ran.Who first did snatch her girdle from her necke,And powring teares vpon her plentuously,Did hold her in her aged armes, though weake,And kissing her did vrge the reason whyShe went about away herselfe to make,Or to her shame so base a course to take?Quoth she, I pray thee tell the cause to me,Behold these empty dugs, and head all gray,These hands that pain haue took in rocking theeLet some, or all these, cause thee to bewrayWhat cruel means haue broght thee in this case.At which the Lady turnd away her face.O be not coy sweet! hide thou nought from me,I am thy Nurse, she said, and haue good skillIn charms, & hearbs, & dreams, that powerful be,Of what thou wantst, Ile helpe thee to thy fill.Art thou in loue, or witcht by any wight?Il'e finde thee ease, or else will free the quite.I haue bene wanton once as well as you,Now yet by age, am altogether dull,I haue beene loue-sicke, as you may be now,Of toyes and loue-trickes I was wondrous full,How strange so ere thy case do therefore stand,I can and will redresse it out of hand.Thou art inLoue(my sweet) I well espy,If so, no lacke shalt finde in me, I sweare,The Lady in her armes sob'd bitterly,The Nurse replyd, and sayd; Why do not feare,Thy father shall not know of this at all:At which she starts, and on her bed doth fall.And frantickly she tumbles on her face,And said, get hence (good Nurse) I pre'thee go,Constraine me not to shew my wicked case.That case (quoth she) I pray thee let me know.Get hence, she answer'd, or enquire lesse,'Tis wickednesse thou wouldst haue me cōfesse.'Tis such a thing, that if I want, I die,And being got, is nothing else but shame.The Nurse hereat did sigh most heauily,And on her knees besought to know the same,And holding vp her hands as she did kneele,Said; Madame, tell the priuie griefe you feele.If you will not discouer this to meI will acquaint your father out of hand,How you had hang'd your selfe, wer't not for me;But if you tell, your trusty friend Il'e stand,And let your griefe of any nature be,It shall go hard, but Il'e finde remedy.And if your case be ill, you need not feareThe heauie load the wickednesse doth bring,I'le teach thee how most easily to beare,My age hath got experience in each thing.Tell me what 'tis that doth so neerely touch,One woman may perswade another much.And now the Lady raisd her heauy head,Hanging vpon her Nurses bosome fast,As she did rise vp from her slothfull bed,Being prodigall, her christall teares to waste,Now she wold speak, & now her speech doth stayThē shame doth cause her turne her face away.A franticke fury doth possesse her now,And then she drawes her garment ore her face,And wrings her hands, & to her Nurse doth vowFor to acquaint her with her wretched case.And shedding brinish teares into her breast,Thus much her griefe to her at last exprest.Oh happy is my mothers happy state!That hath a husbandDebonaireand faire,Vnhappy am I, most infortunate,At which he stopt, as one falne in dispaire.The Nurse soone foundSenecdochein this,And what the whole meant by a perfect gesse.Her aged bones did shake and tremble fast,Her hoary haire stood staring vp on end,From forth her eyes a heauy looke she cast,And many a sigh her heart distrest did send;And pausing long, not knowing what to say,At last her tongue her minde did thus bewray.In this I hope, good Lady, you but iest,To try your Nurses now-decaying wit;So foule a fault is not within your breast,Then tell me true the occasion of this fit.The Lady frown'd, & stopt her speaking farther,And said get hēce, is't shame to loue our father?I she reply'd, in such a filthy sort,It is not loue, but lust that you professe,Necessity with true loue cannot sort;Your loue contaminates, you must confesse.A daughters loue then to your father show,Some louegood thingsbut withbad loue, I know.Or if your wanton flesh you cannot tame,Nor coole the burning of your hot desire,Then take some one that not augmets the shameAnd set apart to dote vpon your fire.It is most vile to stand in such a need,To make the actor baser then the deed.Besides, his yeares can yeeld no such content,That blithsome wanton dames expect to haue,Herein your bargaine you will soone repent,Whē you shal find great want of that you craue:Are you so mad, o will you once beleeueOld men content to frolicke Dames can giue?Take this example of me, from the Sky,Behold a shooting star from heauen fallWhose glimmering light you scarcely do espyeBut it is gone as nothing were at all;And so their sports being scarse begun doth leaueAs in the aire concressions we perceiue.Or as the bloomes vpon the Almond-tree,That vanish sooner the the mush-rums done:Or as the fliesHæmerewe do see,To leaue their breath their life being scarce begunne,Who thinks that tree whose roots decai'd by timeCan yeeld like fruit to yong ones in their prime.A rotten sticke more fit to burne then vse,I maruell what from age you do expect,Let my experience their defect accuse,And teach thee how thy equals to affect;When they should toy, iocund & sport with thee,Their gouts, coughs & cramps, wil hindrance be.'Tis nor their fault, but incident to age,Which far more imperfections with it brings,As iealousie, suspicion, fury, rage,Dislike, disdaine, and other such like things,For can the fire, hot in nature, dwellWith water cold, but they at length rebell.Euen as in Summer one may aptly note,The fire and water in one cloud contain'd;And neither, yet, the mastery hauing got,Being opposits, their furie's not restrain'd,But do contend in strife and deadly warre,Til scolding Thunder do pronounce the iarre.Choose from thy woers some peculiar one,Whose loue may fill the measure of thy hopes,And balonize thy wanton sports alone,Whose appetite with thy desire copes,Youth will be frolicke in a Maidens bed,Age is vnapt and heauy as the lead.Youth hath his daliance and his kind embrace,Euen as the Elmes incircled with the Vine;Age loueth rest and quiet in this case,Saying, Oakes at such like Iuy gripes repine,Yuths pleasing weltun'd years sweet musick maksWhen for cōsort loue strings it strains or slakes.Yet chuse thou one whose tongue's not set on wheelesWho eats his words before he brings thē forthThat nodecorumin his talking feeles,Such are but buzards, blabs of little worth:And for complexion, heerein mee beleeue,The perfect sanguine sweet content doth giue.The Phlegmaticke is like the water cold,The Cholericke wants sap, like fire dry,And Melancholy, as age, is dull and old,But in the Sanguin moist warme iuice doth lie,Whose beauty feeds the eye with sweete delight,The rest do rather feare then please the sight.What pleasure can a sterne grim face affoord,A swarfie colour or rough shagged haire,Or Rauen blacke? beleeue me at a word,They are too blame that do despise the faire:They please the eye, prouoke dull appetite,Resemble Gods, and do the minde delight.Cease chatting gentle nurse, the Lady said,Or frame thy Tale to sute more with the time,My choice is made, therein I neede no aideWhich may be compast by some help of thine,It is too late of abstinence too preach,Whē one is drunk, & notes not what you teach.I seeke him not for lust, as you do deeme,For if my mind were onely bent thereto,I could find other men I might esteeme,You know the store of Suters come to woe:But 'tis some kind of naturall instinct,Or deuine flame that cannot be extinct.What I do seeke I know is wondrous vile,And haue a will for to withstand the same,Yet can those motions by no meanes exile,So seeketh lust to bring me vnto shame,Be it worse thē nought to haue it flesh doth striueHelpe Nurse, else long I cannot liue.And wish not to disswade me in this case,Nor giue me counsell to withdraw my mindeIt likes me well, I weigh not the disgrace,O teach me then to win him to be kind!Helpe me good Nurse in this my cruell state,All other meanes of comfort comes too late.And since thou needs woldst vnderstand my shamWhich I did grieue and blush to ope to thee,And had lear di'd then told thee of the same,Now be not slacke to lend thy helpe to me,Thou forst me for to open my disgrace,Then lend thy help to salue my wretched case.You do not know good Nurse or haue forgot,What 'tis to loue, and cannot it obtaine,Of youths kind daliance age doth take no note,Forgetting it, and thinke all may abstaine:But tis not so, I to those thoughts reply,Then helpe me gentle Nurse, or else I die.Liue still my sweete, quoth she, and do possesse,Yet name of (father) shame forc't her concealeAnd with a staggring speech the word represt,And all her helpe more amply to reueale,She made a vow, whereby herselfe she bound,To do the best that might in her be found.The feasts of gentleCeresnow began,Which yearely they obseru'd, and held it ill,For thrice three nights to lye with any man,The wiues in white, apparrelled were still,And vntoCeres, first fruit of the field,(As garlands made of eares of corne) did yeeld.The Queen amongst these women did frequentThese Rites, and would be absent at that time.The Nurse then to accomplish her intent,And findingCynarasmade blith with wine,The Syren most inchantingly did sing,And thus at last broke silence to the King.Renowned King, but that your constant loueRestraines my tongue & holds my speeches in,A wanton question I would to thee moue?Speak on, quoth he, good Nurse thy speech begin,WithBacchusfeasts do wanton sports agree,I know thou wouldst no ill thing vnto me.Then thus, quoth shee, there is a gallant MaideOf Princely birth and Noble high degree,Who at this time would be right well apaideTo kisse thy hand, shee is so in loue with thee,Such diuine beauty in her face doth lurke,That Gods enuy at Nature for the worke.Without offence vnto your Queene and Wife,Vnto this Lady, she is a homely cate,I loue your Queene, and honour her as life,And but admire the others happy state,That's made so faire that none can like her bee,Your Queene is kind, abuse her not for mee.But if you saw her face, as I haue done,And view'd the rest of her proportion'd limbs,You would contemne my Mistres face too soone,Yet loue thē both: it nought your honor dims,One as your wife, the next for beauties sake,So of them both a beauteous wife but make.The glory of her haire is wonderous bright,Vpon her brows doth ebbe and flow contentHer eies in motion do beget delight,Her cheekes a tincture toAuroralentHer teeths no pearle, her eyes no rubies are,But flesh and bone, more red and white by far.No lisping tongue that fondrels count a grace,But doth to well tun'd harmony incline,A necke inferior nought vnto the face,And breath most apt for to be prest by thine,Now if the vtter view so glorious proue,Iudge how the hidden parts procure loue.The King who all this while lent listening eare,Being wrapt in admiration of her speech,Now did begin more liuely to appeareAnd for to know one thing of her did seech,Saying, of what yeeres may this Lady be?Iust of sweeteMyrahsage, replied shee.He said then, bring her to conferre with mee,That I may try if all be true you say.It is most true, as after you shall see,But said the Nurse, you now must let her stay,Perhaps shee'le blush, and be to coy by light,When she will yeeld more kindly in the night.Such pretty Dames will hardly yeeld consent,For in their mouthes they alwaies carry nay,Yet if you giue, to take, they are content,And nere refuse, whatere their tongue doth say:For so they nature simple men abuse,When what they loue they most of all refuse.If I do fable, put me vnto shame,In saying she resemblesMyrhamuch,For 'tis so much, as if it were the same;And when you seeke to gaine the loue of suchLet my experience thus much you assureThey Fawlcon-like stoop to a ganey lure.And now you may, voide of suspected crime,Dally with her in your lasciuious bed,The sacredCeresfeasts are at this time,And there your Queen is stil: this scarcely sed,QuothCyneras, bring her this night to mee,Whereto the Nurse replide, I do agree.With hopefull newes the Nurse return'd againe,And cheer'd her chicke, & bad her not be sad,Her wished sute, she certaine should obtaine,The news wherof madeMyrhawondrous glad.Yet as she ioy'd, she was opprest with feare,Such discords of affections in her were.Away slips time and hasteneth on the night,And now the Beare's seene run about the PoleConducted forward by Boætes bright,The other stars about the axe-tree role:The Southerne images do shine as gold,Fit monuments for Hunters to behold.At what timeMyrhawickedly proceedesAnd takes in hand to act her base desire,The shamefull lust with cursed hopes she feedsWhich quickly sets her heart vpon a fire,And thereupon resolueth on her shame,And not one thought to contradict it came.At which the Sunne his glorious face did hide,Each Planet pulleth in his golden head,The other stars out of the heauens glideAndCynthiafrom her siluer Palace fled,The night is robbed of her wonted light,Each thing turn'd dark that formerly was bright.Three times, by stumbling,Myrhawas fore-toldOf bad successe, if she did not retire;Three times the Owles like lessons did vnfold,Whose dolefull note do foule mishap require;Yet she crept on, regarding not the same,The want of light alayed much the shame.The Nurse doth lead her by her owne left hand,The right doth grope the dark and desart way,As silent as the night they now do standTo heare the night-crows scrik, & goblins playThe lich-foule beats, and at the window cries,For to come in, to stay the enterprise.O gentle Nurse, saidMyrhatell to me,What may these scremes & doleful scriks portend,The nurse reply'd, my child, no hurt to thee,They are but servants that on night attend,These goblins, lich-fouls, Owls, & night-crows toAt murthers raile, with loue haue naught to do.And then the Beldam leads the Lady onThrough many roomes & other turning waiesAs in a laborinth they two had gone;And as they go, she to the Lady saies;Now cheere you vp, and get a iocund mindeIn thinking of the pleasures you shall finde.At last shee brings her to the chamber doreWhich softly she did ope, and led her in,The Lady fals to trembling more and more,Her very heart did to relent begin,The neerer to the wickednesse she went,The more to quake and shiuer shee was bent.Looke how you see a blind man on the wayLed by another through some desart place,Stagger and grope and at each trifle stayFor feare least he should fall: euen in like case,The wretched nurse the fearefull Lady leads,Who shakes and starts at euery step she treads.And now she doth her enterprise repent,And wish she might vnknowne returne againe,Vnto his bed the pawsing Nurse then went;And cal'd the King & told him thus much plaineDread King awake, of pleasures take thy fill,This Ladie's thine, then vse her as you will.The cursed father then his bowels takesInto his bed, ô filthy blob and staine,His daughter shiuers in his armes, and quakes,This being done, the nurse returnes againeAnd said, make much of her, to weepe forbeareNone wold weepe for that which you now feare.The King then cheeres his daughter, in his arme,Why dost thou weep? be still my sweete, be stil,Come clip thy loue I meane to do no harme,My Kingly bed with pleasures shall thee fill,And to hide all that idle heads may moue,Hence-forth I call thee daughter and not loue.Come kisse thy father, gentle daughter then,And learne to sport thee in a wanton bed;Is this the tricks (she softly said) of men?And counterfeiting speech vnknowne, she said,A daughters name, me thinkes, doth not agree,Ist well with your owne child in loue to be?The King, not deeming who lay by his side,Replies, what hurt deere Lady can it be?No ill I know by that meanes can betide,The loue more firme thereby we common see:It is not ill though men the same not craue,For we want daughters till a wife we haue.She did reply, and said, why put the caseThat I wereMyrhafor as men do say,My countenance resembleth much her face;Were't not offence, think you, with me to play?Misdeeming nought, againe, he doth reply;No more thē 'tis with thee, sweet wench, to lie.O would, quothMyrha, you could likewise proueWhereby I might but know some reafon why,It were not ill to grant to you my loue,That loue should then alone to you apply;Were I your daughter I might well consent,Say halfe so much for me I am content.The King replies, my sweete, my will is law,And may command my subiects when I will,Besides all this, you furthermore do knowYou must obey, I call you daughter still;Then talke no more, she said, I do agreeThy daughter and thy subiect yeelds to thee.Oh! now the father his owne child doth take,And of his owne he doth his owne beget,Of his owne loines another child doth make,Repugnant to the Law that nature set;May ones owne seed to procreation moue?No sure, unlesse it doth a monster proue.Their musicke is the scriking of the Ow'es,As if the fiends came for to sunder them,The rauing dogs affright them with their howles,As all the fiends came forth to iniure them;The stars behind the clouds, a great way hence,Like spies lie peeping to disclose the offence.Their bed doth shake and quauer as they lie,As if it groan'd to beare the weight of sinne,The fatall night-crowes at their windowes flie,And cries out at the shame they do liue in:And that they may perceiue they heauens frown,The Poukes & Goblins pul the couerings down.The pillow that her cursed head doth beare,Which is a castle of accursed ill,The weighty burthen of the same doth feare,And therefore shrinketh inwards from her stil:Whilst both the ends high swelling with disdaineLike angry foe-men raise themselues amaine.The bed, more kind then they religious are,Doth seeke to shroud their foule defiled act,And therefore lets them fall into it farreAs in some vale for to conceale the fact:Like bulwarkes rising to defend their names,Or swelling mountains to obscure their shames.O there they lie and glut themselues with sin,A iocund sin that doth the flesh delight,A filthy flesh that can reioyce herein,A silly ioy that gainst the soule doth fight,A fasting sport, a pleasure soone forgot,That bringeth shame with an eternall blot.Thrice happy now, had wickedMyrhabene,If some foule swellingEbancloud would fall,For her to hide her selfe eternall in,Or had the bed bene burnt with wilde fire all,And thereby moult the heauens golden frameThat al things might haue ended with her shame.And now reuenge, a souldier vnto lust,Comes scouring in, as it had bene beguil'dAccompanied with fame and foule distrust,And with disgrace, blacke luxures basest child,These threaten them and blaze abroad the fact,And like to Trumpets thunder out the act.Not many nights they spending in this sort,ButCynerasat length desir'd to knowWho 'twas affoorded him this pleasant sport,And freely did the curtesy bestow:And hauing done this taske vs'd euery night.Forth he doth steale and goes to seek the light.O hide theeMyrha, 'tis not time to sleepe,A thunderbolt is leuel'd at thy head,Vnlesse thy eies prepare them for to weepe,With fire and sword thou art betrai'd in bed,Awaken wench, the day of doome bewray,And see the father his owne child betray.And whither steales thou furiousCynaras?Why seekes a light to open thy owne shame?Who hop'st to finde in this accursed place?Make not such hast to spy thy ignoble game,Stay, stay thy feete, thou wilt repent to late,Mischiefe itselfe comes in with speedy gate.What, sleepst thouMyrha? why thē sleep thou longOr else awake and welcome in thy woes,Another happy day will neuer come,Pale misery thy pleasure ouer-goes;Dreame sleeping, thou didst with thy father lie,Or wake, and see him reuenge the villany.Confound thy head, and all thy parts with feare,And thinke the fiends incompasse thee about,Striuing with burning tongs thy flesh to teare,Pulling thy tongue and eies with tortures out;O thinke with raizors they do flea thy skin,Adding new tortures vnto euery sin.Now comes the father, being fully bentFor to disclose his loue with his faire light,SleepeMyrha, thou hast time for to repent,Arise in care, passe many a weary night;LookeCyneras, and spy disgrace too soone,Myrhaawake, see what thy lust hath done.Blush lustfull King, and see the end of lust,Behold thy owne dishonour and disgrace,Learne what it is to vse thy wife vniust,And lay a Strumpet in her Princely place,Sham follows thē reuēge hangs o're their headsThat basely do defile their marriage bed.It's like a tender flower nipt with frost,It euer after hangs his drooping head,And hath her wonted prime of glory lost,Or like the cup that hath hisNectarshed:Cracke you the richest pointed Diamond,And all his prise and glory's lost and gone.OldCynarashis daughter knowing well,For very anger could not speake a word,But into most outragious fury fell,And would have kil'd the Lady with a sword,But nimbly she, by helpe of cloudy night,Conueyes her selfe out of her fathers sight.Most like a Lyon, ranging for a pray,Each corner of the house he madly lookes,No barre, or stop, doth hinder him, or stay,He rifles chambers, beds, and secret nookes.This Lyon seekes for her, the dart did throw,And quietly lets all the other go.By this the Lady's in theArabianfields,And fearefully doth range about the same,Which plenteously the bearingDate-treeyeelds,At length she also throughPænchaiacame,Her fathers rage being something over-past,AtSabaland she doth arriue at last.The King not finding her, begins to fret,And vex himselfe with anguish, care & griefe,He scoulds with fortune, that this trap did set,And chides the Fates for yeelding no reliefe:Small sorrowes grew till they to greater came,Like little sparkes increasing into flame.Euen as a river swelling ore her bounds,By daily falling of small drops of raine,Likewise his care continually abounds,By howerly thinking of his his fault againe,Content were found soone in calamity,The thought thereof raz'd out of memory.Daughter, quoth he, with eyes full fraught with teares,What hast thou done? ô foule accursed child!Why hast deceiu'd my aged blosom'd haires?Why didst thy Princely Father so beguile?Alasse! I erre, thou art no childe to me,Nor longer Il'e thy louing father be.Go seeke some hole eternall to lye in,And neuermore behold the heauens light,Thou hast disgraced all thy name and kin,Then hide thee euerlasting from my sight,Thou hast not onely brought vs both to shame,But made thy father actor of the same.How will thy mother thinke her selfe abus'd,That hast made her a quot-queane shamefully,Of filthy incest I do thee accuse,That Lemmon-like didst with thy father lye,Then hye to hell, haste to the Furies there,When raging parets witnesse gainst thee beare.Oh but the fault thy owne was most of all,PooreMyrhathou didst meane no hurt to me,It wot: thou said'st (my selfe I witnesse call)Twas ill with your owne childe in loue to be.And vrg'd againe, what if sheMyrhawere,I basely said, there was no fault in her.Then rent thy braines with terror of the deed,Confused thoughts burst thine accursed breast,As if thou did'st on deadly poyson feed,And inElisiumlet thy soule nere rest,Rore seas, quake earth, till you deuoure himThat hath defil'd his daughter with foule sin.Yet she did know I was her father deere,What meant she then to seeke me in such sort?I did not know my daughter to be there,And therefore wished her no kind of hurt.She sin'd, and knew her father she abused,I sin'd, uncertaine who it was I vsed.By this the Sunne neere past the Zodiaque ore,And thrice three signes had fully ouer-run,Returning tow'rd the point he was before,Ninty degrees wanting thereto to come,He had the Cliptike and one quadre gone,And in that space the child ripes in the womb.WhenMyrhaweeping much her barne to beare,Tired with wandring in the wood so long,Weary of life beginneth for to feareWhat shall hereafter on herselfe become.Now she perceiues the folly lust did bring,And may take time of penitence to sing.Things done in haste, haue leasure to repent,A hasty braine is neuer wanting woe,Youth withDecorumseldome is content,Yong yeares and lust associat-like do goe,Youth hath no wit till it be deerely bought,And often times then it is good for nought.Alasse! quothMyrha, bursting out with cryes,What shall I do that haue so vilely erred?Let bellowing grones pierce vp into the skyes,That all the Gods to pitty may be stirred,O let some Trumpets voice from thee be driuenTo waken mightyIupiterin heauen.You gentle Gods, that wonted were to heareThe suppliant praiers of distressed soules,Now open wide your gracious listning eare,That I may win some pitty with my houles.O let it stand with your omnipotence,For to remit the sorrowfuls offence.I do confesse my wickednesse is much,And there's no hope that I should fauour win.Yet your still-pardoning clemency is such,That vndeserued you forgiue our sin,We run in errors every day most ill,Yet you are apt to grant vs pardon still.What haue I gain'd? my fathers foule disgrace,My owne dishonor, and my friends disdaine;What have I won? an imputation base,My mothers curse, and a perpetuall staine,I seldome see one mischiefe to arise,But it brings others at her heeles likewise.And since my fault into such height is driuenThat I deserue not in the earth to rest,Nor haue a place amongst the starres in heauen,You nightly powers grant me this request:That neither with the dead nor liue I do remain,And so no place in earth or heauen gaine.To this her last request the Gods consent,And so the ground her feet did couer ore,Out from her toes the scrawling roots were sentWhich by her travell she had bruised sore.These twining roots most plentuously abound,Till they had fixt her body to the ground.Where be the walks that thou wast wont to haueThe shady groues paued with Camomile?The rosie bowers that heate of Sunne did saue,And yeelded to thy sence a pleasant smile?Where be the pleasant roomes thou solast's in.Thou art dispoil'd thereof by thine owne sin.Thou shalt no more within thy Chariot ride,Gazing vpon the people kneeling downe.No more will come to woe thee for a Bride,Lust hath defil'd the tipe of thy renowne,Those feet of thine, that to offence did lead,Imprisoned are, and not allow'd to tread.By this the growing tree so far had past,That her faire bones to timber turned were:Her marow did conuert to pyth at last,And all her bloud the name ofSapdoth beare,Her armes to bowes, her fingers branches be,Her skin to bark, and so she made a tree.Where is the face that did all faces staine,But shrunke within a hard consolid barke?No one will sue to kisse it once againe,But must be hid perpetually in darke.That snow-white-neck, that men desir'd to tuch,Now they refuse to handle it as much.Where are those eyes, those glassy eyes of thine,That lent the glorious Sun his chiefest light?Where is that Angels voyce, that voyce deuine,Whose wel-tun'd tōgue did al the gods delight?What, are they gone? doth time thy glory rust?No, they be spoiled with incestious lust.Farewell thy armes, made kindly to embrace,But now a bough for birds to pearch upon,Farewell thy pretty fingers in like case,The curious Lute ordain'd to quauer on.Your wonted glory you shall see no more,Your filthy lust hath thrust you out of dore.Now with her shape she lost her sences quite.For that and for her fault she weepeth still;Which teares are held in honor, price, & might,And daily do out of the tree distill,And from the gummy barke doth issueMyrrh,Which evermore shall beare the name of her.At last the swelling wombe diuides the tree,The infant seeking for some passage out,No Nurse nor Mid-wife could the baby see,The vse of speech his mother is without,And could not therefore beggeLucina'said,She might done well could she one prayer said.And therefore sighes and grones most heauily,Bending most humbly to the ground below.Shedding from euery bow teares plenteously.At length the Gods some fauour did bestow.And soLucinalaid her hand thereon,And speaking words, receiu'd the words anon.The watryNymphsthis pretty child take,And on soft smelling flowers laid him downe,Of which a curious cradle they did make,The hearbs perfumed were for more renowne.The Nymphs this boy affected more and more,And with his mothers teares stil washt him ore.As yeares increase, so beauty doth likewise,And is more faire tomorrow then to day,His beauty more & more continuall doth arise,That enuy did delight, in him bewray,AsVenusfell in loue with him at last,Who did reuenge his mothers lusting past.