TWICE had Diana bent her golden bowe,
And shot from Heav'n her silver shafts, to rouse
The sluggish salvages, that den belowe,

And all the day in lazie covert drouse,

Since him the silent wildernesse did house:

The Heav'n his roofe, and arbour harbour was,

The ground his bed, and his moist pillowe grasse: But fruit thear none did growe, nor rivers none did passe.

At length an aged syre farre off he sawe

Come slowely footing, every step he guest

One of his feete he from the grave did drawe.

Three legges he had, the woodden was the best,
And all the waie he went, he ever blest

With benedicities, and prayers store,

But the bad ground was blessed ne'r the more,
And all his head with snowe of age was waxen hore.

A good old hermit he might seeme to be,
That for devotion had the world forsaken,
And now was travelling some saint to see,
Since to his beads he had himselfe betaken,
Whear all his former sinnes he might awaken,

And them might wash away with dropping brine,
And almes, and fasts, and churche's discipline;
And dead, might rest his bones under the holy shrine.

But when he neerer came, he lowted lowe
With prone obeysance, and with curtsie kinde,
That at his feete his head he seem'd to throwe:
What needs him now another saint to finde?
Affections are the sailes, and faith the wind,

That to this Sainte a thousand soules convey
Each hour: O happy pilgrims, thither strey!
What caren they for beasts, or for the wearie way?

Ere long they came nere to a balefull bowre,
Much like the mouth of that infernall cave,
That gaping stood all commers to devoure,
Dark, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave,
That still for carrion carkasses doth crave.

The ground no hearbs, but venomous, did beare,
Nor ragged trees did leave; but every whear

Dead bones and skulls wear cast, and bodies hanged wear.

Upon the roofe the bird of sorrowe sat,
Elonging joyfull day with her sad note,

And through the shady aire the fluttering bat
Did wave her leather sayles, and blindely flote,
While with her wings the fatal screech owle smote
Th' unblessed house: thear on a craggy stone
Celeno hung, and made his direfull mone,
And all about the murdered ghosts did shreek and grone.
Like cloudie moonshine in some shadowie grove,
Such was the light in which Despaire did dwell;

But he himselfe with night for darknesse strove.
His blacke uncombed locks dishevell'd fell
About his face; through which, as brands of Hell,
Sunk in his skull, his staring eyes did glowe,

That made him deadly looke, their glimpse did showe
Like cockatrice's eyes, that sparks of poison throwe.

His clothes wear ragged clouts, with thornes pin'd fast;
And as he musing lay, to stonie fright

A thousand wilde chimeras would him cast:
As when a fearefull dreame in midst of night,
Skips to the braine, and phansies to the sight
Some winged furie, strait the hasty foot,
Eger to flie, cannot plucke up his root:

The voyce dies in the tongue, and mouth gapes without boot.

The garden like a ladie faire was cut,
That lay as if shee slumber'd in delight,
And to the open skies her eyes did shut;

The azure fields of Heav'n wear 'sembled right
In a large round, set with the flow'rs of light:

The flow'rs-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew,
That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew

Like twinkling starrs, that sparkle in the evening blew.

Upon a hillie banke her head shee cast,

On which the bowre of Vaine-delight was built.
White and red roses for her face wear plac't,
And for her tresses marigolds wear spilt:
Them broadly shee displaied, like flaming guilt,
Till in the ocean the glad day wear drown'd:
Then up againe her yellow locks she wound,
And with greene fillets in their prettie calls them bound.

What should I here depeint her lillie hand,
Her veines of violets, her ermine brest,
Which there in orient colours living stand:
Or how her gowne with silken leaves is drest,
Or how her watchman, arm'd with boughie crest,
A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears,
Shaking at every winde their leavie spears,
While she supinely sleeps ne to be waked fears?

X

Over the hedge depends the graping elme,
Whose greener head, empurpuled in wine,
Seemed to wonder at his bloodie helme,
And halfe suspect the bunches of the vine,
Least they, perhaps, his wit should undermine,
For well he knewe such fruit he never bore:
But her weake armes embraced him the more,
And her with ruby grapes laugh'd at her paramour.

Under the shadowe of these drunken elmes
A fountaine rose, where Pangloretta uses
(When her some flood of fancie overwhelms,
And one of all her favourites she chuses)
To bathe herselfe, whom she in lust abuses,

And from his wanton body sucks his soule,
Which, drown'd in pleasure in that shally bowle,
And swimming in delight, doth amorously rowle.

The font of silver was, and so his showrs
In silver fell, onely the gilded bowles

(Like to a fornace, that the min'rall powres)
Seemed to have moul't it in their shining holes :
And on the water, like to burning coles,
On liquid silver leaves of roses lay:

But when Panglorie here did list to play,

Rose-water then it ranne, and milke it rain'd, they say.

The roofe thicke cloudes did paint, from which three boyes
Three gaping mermaides with their eawrs did feede,
Whose brests let fall the streame, with sleepie noise,
To lions' mouths, from whence it leapt with speede,
And in the rosie laver seem'd to bleed;

The naked boyes unto the water's fall,

Their stonie nightingales had taught to call, When Zephyr breath'd into their watery interall.

And all about, embayed in soft sleepe,

A heard of charmed beasts a-ground wear spread,
Which the faire witch in goulden chaines did keepe,
And them in willing bondage fettered:

Once men they liv'd, but now the men were dead,
And turn'd to beasts; so fabled Homer old,
That Circe with her potion, charm'd in gold,
Us'd manly soules in beastly bodies to immould.

Through this false Eden, to his leman's bowre,
(Whome thousand soules devoutly idolize)
Our first destroyer led our Saviour;

Thear in the lower roome, in solemne wise,
They daunc'd a round, and powr'd their sacrifice
To plumpe Lyæus, and among the rest,
The jolly priest, in yvie garlands drest,
Chaunted wild orgialls, in honour of the feast.

Others within their arbours swilling sat,
(For all the roome about was arboured)
With laughing Bacchus, that was growne so fat,
That stand he could not, but was carried,
And every evening freshly watered,

To quench his fierie cheeks, and all about

Small cocks broke through the wall, and sallied out Flaggons of wine, to set on fire that spueing rout.

This their inhumed soules esteem'd their wealths,
To crowne the bousing kan from day to night,
And sicke to drinke themselves with drinking healths,
Some vomiting, all drunken with delight.
Hence to a loft, carv'd all in yvorie white,

They came, whear whiter ladies naked went,
Melted in pleasure and soft languishment,

And sunke in beds of roses, amorous glaunces sent.

High over all, Panglorie's blazing throne,
In her bright turret, all of christall wrought,
Like Phoebus' lampe, in midst of Heaven, shone :
Whose starry top, with pride infernall fraught,
Selfe-arching columns to uphold wear taught:
In which her image still reflected was

By the smooth crystall, that, most like her glasse, In beauty and in frailtie did all others passe.

A silver wand the sorceresse did sway,

And, for a crowne of gold, her haire she wore ;
Onely a garland of rose-buds did play

About her locks, and in her hand she bore
A hollowe globe of glasse, that long before
She full of emptinesse had bladdered,
And all the world therein depictured:

Whose colours, like the rainebowe, ever vanished.