she was forced to giue credite to such a suspicion, that (though most false) she held for an assured, or at least an apparant ground of his inconstancie, whereof ensued the hating of her husband, who loued her deerer then his owne life, and who in any thing had neuer offended her. Heereupon it may be gathered, how strong and cer∣taine a presumption ought to be, to make a wise and discreete person giue faith and credite to it, since this, that had but a colour of certaintie was so farre indeede from the truth of the matter. But now though Loue and Fortune so ill entreated Marcelius, yet in one thing they highly pleasured him, which was, that Loue woun∣ded Dianas hart, and Fortune conducted him to the fountaine, where he found her, whereby they might go both togither to sage Felicias house, and passe away his sor∣rowes with lesse annoy in her comfortable and delighfull companie. But the time being come, when the redde morning with her golden habite did ouercome the starres of the passed night, and the birdes with their chirping noise gaue warning that day was come, Enamoured Diana, wearied with the long and tedious night, rose vp, to walke the path of her desired iourney: and committing the charge of her flockes to the Shepherdesse Polyntia her friend, she came out of her towne accom∣panied onely with her rurall Baggepipe, (the deceiuer of her sorrowes) and with her scrippe stored with some fewe victuals. She came downe from the side of a hill, which ledde from the towne to a thicke woode, where in the bottome of it she sat her downe vnderneath a rowe of greene Sicamours, attending for Marcelius com∣panie, as she had promised the night before. But in the meane time, whilest he came not, she began to tune her Baggepipe and to sing this song following.
AWake a little, light of cleerest day,
With calme aspect, with milde and gentle grace,
A poore soule to beguile in sorrowes plight:
Stretch out that light Apollo from thy face,
That ioies the desert Champians in decay,
And driest plants with life and secret might:
In this most pleasant wood, that doth inuite
To sweetest rest,
Tormented thou shalt see my brest
With carefull greefe (my heauie lot)
To see it selfe by him forgot,
Who for my scorne a thousand plaintes did waste,
The fault is Cupids taste,
Who giues and takes on purpose discontent,
Where he perceiues he may the more torment.
What beastes with mildnesse doe not complaints acquaint,
What stone by sighes is not to softnes wrought,
The which a wearied brest doth yeeld with paine?
What Tigres, or what lions are not brought
To ruth and pitie, hearing a complaint
Which hath almost vndone my soule in twaine.
But to Syrenus I recount in vaine
My sorrowfull mishap,
Who doth as little care for that,
