First grew her hayre vp like the Summer Corne, or as a blazing starre whose streames rise vpward & being changd, fell leaues, that vp were borne, by the rude windes, yet had you but haue heard You'd sware, a sigh for Mirrha's transmigration Had beene decreed by all the windie nation. and euerie Autume, since a thing moste rare, The falling leaues, resemble Mirrha's haire. To barke her yuorie skin polisht congeald, each blew rig'd current into melting sap, Her nailes to bolssome faire, & what reueal'd with accents sad, the babe yet in her lap. Her fingers twigs, her bright eyes turn'd to gum, Buried on earth, and her owne selfe the toombe, her sences gone, yet this sence did she win, to aye relent, the horror of her sinne. For euen as from a guilty man, that's pleading for remorse, teares follow teares, as hoping to preuaile, So from this tree, (though now a senceleffe course) flowe pretious teares, as seemes she doth bewaile In death, with euer liuing teares, the act fore-done These _Pius_ drops, made densiue by the sunne, are kept for holy vses, and the Mir, That so distilles, doth beare the name of her. The misbegotten babie, swels the tree, and loathing the defiled wombe sought vent: Those panges that mothers haue felt shee, and solemne sighes had issue, as they'd rent, and spoile the shape, she newly had assum'd, But wordes within the close bark were inhumbd Yet wept it out, as it to water would, Or seem'd it mockt Pactolus waues of golde. Till chast Lucina, whome the Poets giue, The mid-wiues power in producing creatures, by whose change we last die, and first doe liue, (be they not violent each) she that giues features Forme or takes away, makes foule or faire, Discending from her Spheare next to our ayre: with armes yspred, vppon the melting mir, brought diuine comfort downe from heau[=e] with her Few wordes she spake, but euery sillable, of power to comfort the afflicted Ghostes; Or any other sencelesse thing make able, doe better deedes then those _Alcides_ boastes, the tree streight craynes, & springs forth the child who the first minut, though his countenance smild cryed out a maine, our first propheticke breath, showes our first houre, is mother to our death. The water Nymphes then caught him tenderly, who laid him streight on the enameled bankes, and bath'd him with his mothers teares, whereby they made him fairer, and in merry prankes The Ladies call a conuocation there, Some praise his nose, his lips, his eye, his eare. Some his streight fingers, whilst a fist doth sweare his verry breath yet smelleth of the mirre.