Where be the walks that thou wast wont to haue The 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 of _Sap_ doth 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 t[=o]gue 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 issue _Myrrh_, 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 begge _Lucina's_ aid, 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 so _Lucina_ laid her hand thereon, And speaking words, receiu'd the words anon. The watry _Nymphs_ this 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.