A LAS that I have done so great a wrong
Unto the fairest maiden of my song,
Divine Marina, who in Limos' cave
Lies ever fearful of a living grave,
And night and day upon the harden'd stones
Rests, if a rest can be amongst the moans
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand still afraid to hear the death's-man call.
Thrice had the golden sun his hot steeds wash'd
In the west main, and thrice them smartly lash'd
Out of the balmy east, since the sweet maid
Had in that dismal cave been sadly laid.
Where hunger pinch'd her so, she need not stand

Limos had all this while been wanting thence,
And but just Heav'n preserv'd pure innocence
By the two birds, her life to air had flit,
Ere the curst caitiff should have forced it.
The first night that he left her in his den,
He got to shore, and near th' abodes of men
That live as we by tending of their flocks,
To interchange for Ceres' golden locks,
Or with the neatherd for his milk and cream,
Things we respect more than the diadem
His choice made-dishes. O! the golden age
Met all contentment in no surplusage
Of dainty viands, but, as we do still,

As in the rainbow's many-colour'd hue,
Here see we watchet deepen'd with a blue:
There a dark tawny with a purple mix'd,
Yellow and flame, with streaks of green betwixt,
A bloody stream into a blushing run,
And ends still with the colour which begun;
Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'st again,
With such rare art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blue with watchet, green and red with yellow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the dove's neck with variety,
Where none can say (though he it strict attends)

The morning now in colours richly dight
Stepp'd o'er the Eastern thresholds, and no lad
That joy'd to see his pastures freshly clad,
But for the holy rites himself address'd
With necessaries proper to that feast.
The altars everywhere now smoking be
With bean-stalks, savin, laurel, rosemary,
Their cakes of grummell-seed they did prefer,
And pails of milk in sacrifice to her.
Then hymns of praise they all devoutly sung
In those Palilia for increase of young.
But ere the ceremonies were half past
One of their boys came down the hill in haste,

As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne
To take the kind air of a wistful morn
Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe
More strains than from my pipe can ever flow),
Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin
To chide the river for his clam'rous din;
There seem'd another in his song to tell,
That what the fair stream did he liked well;
And going further heard another too,
All varying still in what the others do;
A little thence, a fourth with little pain
Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again;
So numberless the songsters are that sing

Look as a maiden sitting in the shade
Of some close arbour by the woodbind made,
Withdrawn alone where undescri'd she may
By her most curious needle give assay
Unto some purse (if so her fancy move)
Or other token for her truest love;
Variety of silk about her pap,
Or in a box she takes upon her lap,
Whose pleasing colours wooing her quick eye,
Now this she thinks the ground would beautify,
And that, to flourish with, she deemeth best;
When spying others, she is straight possess'd
Those fittest are; yet from that choice doth fall,

More she had spoke, but that the gallant flood
Replied: ye wanton rangers of the wood,
Leave your allurements; hie ye to your chase;
See where Diana with a nimble pace
Follows a struck deer; if you longer stay
Her frown will bend to me another day.
Hark how she winds her horn; she some doth call,
Perhaps for you, to make into the fall.
With this they left him. Now he wonders much
Why at this time his Walla's stay was such,
And could have wish'd the nymphs back, but for fear
His love might come and chance to find them there.

Chastest Diana! in the deserts wild,
Have I so long thy truest handmaid been?
Upon the rough rock-ground thine arrows keen,
Have I (to make thee crowns) been gath'ring still
Fair-cheek'd Etesia's yellow camomile?
And sitting by thee on our flow'ry beds
Knit thy torn buckstalls with well-twisted threads,
To be forsaken? O now present be,
If not to save, yet help to ruin me!
If pure virginity have heretofore
By the Olympic powers been honour'd more
Than other states; and gods have been dispos'd
To make them known to us, and still disclos'd

Look as a lover with a ling'ring kiss
About to part with the best half that's his,
Fain would he stay but that he fears to do it,
And curseth time for so fast hast'ning to it:
Now takes his leave, and yet begins anew
To make less vows than are esteemed true:
Then says he must be gone, and then doth find
Something he should have spoke that's out of mind;
And whilst he stands to look for't in her eyes,
Their sad-sweet glance so tie his faculties
To think from what he parts, that he is now
As far from leaving her, or knowing how,

Yet as when I with other swains have been
Invited by the maidens of our green
To wend to yonder wood, in time of year
When cherry-trees enticing burdens bear,
He that with wreathed legs doth upwards go,
Plucks not alone for those which stand below;
But now and then is seen to pick a few
To please himself as well as all his crew:
Or if from where he is he do espy
Some apricock upon a bough thereby,
Which overhangs the tree on which he stands,
Climbs up and strives to take it with his hands:
So if to please myself I somewhat sing,