But when that Cupid once had whetted her, she twines her lilly stalks about his necke: So clings young _Ivie_ bout the aged oake there, _Venus_ smile, but frowning _Iuno_ checks. Their stolne delight, no nuptiall tapers shone, No Virgin belt vntyed, but all vndone, the Athenian God, kindled no hallowed fires, darke was the night, suiting to their desires. The morrow came, toyled with wakes and lust, she leaues her father, when as the rising Sun Couering the easterne Pines and mountaine dust, spyed Mirrha from her couch of sin to runne. Then blusht he first, and backward would ha fled And euer since in's rising hee's still red, Nere Turkas was at sicke blood more estrang'd, then Mirrha when her chastitie was chang'd. Oft would she leane against her fathers knees, & tie his garter in a true loue's knot: And then vndoo't againe, as to shew she were vndone, yet he conceiu'd it not. And woman like that, keep not secrets long, she shewd her loue in d[=u]b shewes with out tung, her lust she knew (yet hardly it concealde) like Fayries Treasur's vanish'd if reueal'd. A third night came, darker then shores belowe, when Cyniras (father of feareful lust) Willing to see the foule that did bestowe So many pleasures on him (Ioue is iust) Did reach a taper, whose confusiue light, Strucke like a blasting at that horrid sight. The light fell from him loathing his defame, things senceles oft are mou'd, wh[=e] men not shame. At length with bloodie eye fixed on her, out of an Iuorie scabberd hanging by: He drew a monumental Semiter, thinking with death that both their shames shold dye But night that oft befriended her with sinne, In her blacke wombe too, did her freedome win, For through the darke she slipt, and left her fire, to mourne his Fate, not execute his ire. Sped with her lust, and flying thence apace, in feares and trembling, feare doth giue vs eies: For saftie to the Gods, she lifts her face, & her claspt hands to what she now not see's, loues browe was darke, Boetes had amaine Driuen his Oxen to the lower plaine. Phebae fled heauen, her face no tincture beares, Because shee saw a deed, worthie her teares. The morning came, where yet the fatall print of Mirrha lay vpon the pillow: _Cynix_ he Clog'd with distresse, a fathers cursse did hint, vpon that place of foule inchastitie, the sight of what we loath, breedes loathing more and vertue once renounc'd ingenders store, Leaue we him touz'd in care, for worldly wee, loue to leaue great men in their miserie.