Giue to her golde of Ophire Indian shels, Cloath her with Tirian purple skin of beast: Perfurme her waies with choice Arabian smells, Present her with the Phoenix in her nest, Delight her eare with song of poets rare, All these with _Cyneas_ might naught compare, "The comfort of the minde being tane away, "_Nectar_ not pleaseth, nor _Ambrosia_. The feast of _Bacchus_ at this present time, Was by the giddie _Menades_ intended There _Mirrha_ daunc'd, and _Orpheus_ sung in rime crownd with green thirses, now yet y[=u]hes ended with praise to _Bacchus_ all depart with spright, vnto their feastes, feasts that deuoure the night, for loe, the stars, in trauaile in the skie, brought forth their brightnes to each waking eye. High midnight came, and she to bedward hies, pretending rest, to beguile natures rest: Anon the gloomy gallerie she spies, toward her chamber, and she first that blest, Her care-fild eyes, her fathers picture was Arm'd but the face, although it dumbe, alasse, she ask'd and if he call'd, seeing no reply, she answer'd for her father, and said I. Daughter (quoth she) why art thou thus alone? Let Doues so mourn girle, yt hath lost their mates Thine is to come, then prethee cease thy mone, Care shold not dwel with great & high estates. Let her that needs and is not faire at all, Repine at fortune, loue shall be thy thrall, wing'd as he is, and armed thou shalt see, (I haue the power to giue) & giue him thee. Father (quoth she) and spoke with smaller voice, Nature hath made me yours, yours I must be: You choose my choice, for in you lies my choice, Hereat shee starts as what not feares the guiltie: Thinking the shadowe knew her double sence, and blushing, in strange feare departeth thence blaming her selfe, for vttering her blacke fault to him who armed stood gainst her assault. Anon she spies many a youthfull Lord, In seuerall Tables, each in seuerall guise; Whose pictures they had sent with one accord, To shew their manly features to her eyes, Whose dumb'd perswasiue images were plac'd, To see if any in her lookes were grac'd: But heere in vaine, their faire assayes doe proue for had they spake they could not win her loue. Ouer her Mothers shape a vaile she drew, and weeping, saide: may I nere see thee more: Poore abus'd image, doost not turne thy hew, to see so foule an obiect thee before? Didst thou but know, what's sprung from out thy wombe, thy shap cold speak, whilst yt thy self stodst d[=u]be. Art would claime Nature in thy heauie woes, thy shape haue limbs, thy limbs be stiff as those.