What, doe I erre?
Or is it night, or day, what might I be?
If it be true, I see a losse so great
With many harmes my burning soule will threat.
But yet awake I am, for in my right
Hand Python dead, and headlesse I doe beare,
And on my left arme weare
My bowe, and low my quiuer and my flight.
Why, this is Thessalie,
Which this fell beast did waste both day and night,
O woe, and after such a ioy so high,
Must such mishap my sweete content deny?
What hard and cruell God is that,
That hath transform’d with enuie and despite
Her goodly figure, and her face,
Most perfect bright?
Me thinkes, he nill deserues to banquet at
The tables of the Gods, nor heauenly place,
Since he hath wronged nature in this case.
My skill and powers beare not such a sway,
To change thee to thy former shape againe:
And that snowewhite,
And rosie face, which first did breede my paine:
The reason is, bicause that none
(Though neuer yet so learned any way,
And though they ioin’d their vertues all in one)
Can vndoe that, which one did doe alone.
But now since all the fates so dire,
And wicked destinies this good forbid,
That thou my louing wife should’st be:
Yet though they did
With more despite against my will conspire,
Thou shalt for euer be my louing tree,
And I will neuer cease to honour thee.
My yellow haire like shining threeds of golde,
To honour thee, thy leaues shall compasse round:
My harpe with siluer sound
Thou shalt adorne, and quiuer shalt vphold:
In all the world thy noble fame shall bide:
And when triumphantly
In honours chaire the Conquerour doth ride,
Before them they shall carry thee on high,
Lifting their conquest to the starrie skie.