Another wishes, oh for such a face! Nor can I blame her though she did wish so: For sure, were I a wench, t'had bin my case, for nature heere, made both her ioy and woe, And spight that (but herself) commendeth none, Of force must say, this was a rarer one Then either nature did, or ere shall make, whose life holdes vp her age, whose deathe's her wrack. Eyes like two stars falne from their proper sphears as if they scorn'd the beaten pathes of heauen: Or enuying of beautie of the beares, showne firmer heere, and brighter then the seau[=e] Such was he as was Cupid wont to be In pictures lim'd, and that they may agree, furnish the babe with winges and quiuer light, or from loues God, take wings, and quier quite. Nought may compare with Time in his swift race the babe ere while feeles now youths hot alarms And as in yeares, so beautious grew his face, that he is fit againe for Ladies armes: Nor Cupid now could wound more dames th[=e] he That Venus who Captiues all, is not free From her own power, she loue's Adonis milde, That Mars doth storm, & wish he were no childe. Nor Paphos, Amathus nor fishie Gnide, delights she now to haunt, nor Etna now Burnes more then her, she roans the wood so wide after her game, that to his game doth bow. And will not heare or see, for eies and eares, If they her heare or see, their vse forbeares Yet she persues, and leaues her power vn euen on heauen & earth, she loues him more th[=e] heau[=e]. Oft would she say, and bathe those words in tears oh thou fair boy, wold God thou loudst like me but sure thou art not flesh, it well appeares, thou wert the stubborne issue of a tree, So hard thou art, then she a sigh would fet, and wish that Vulcan had not made his net, For boysterous Mars, shee'd fayner ha' bin sped with this choice floure, claspt in her yron bed. Shee'd nere haue blusht, th[=e] she does make a vow though al the Gods of both worlds had th[=e] seen She raveth that she euer lou'd til now, that she might worthily ha bin loues Queene. wel, wel (quoth she) thou hast reueng'd the spight which from my accurst Sons bow did fowly light On thy faire Mother, O immortall boy, Though thou be faire, tis I that should be coy. But stay my Muse in thine owne confines keepe, & wage not warre with so deere lou'd a neighbor, But hauing sung thy day song, rest & sleepe preserue thy small fame and his greater fauor: His song was worthie merrit (_Shakspeare_ hee) sung the faire blossome, thou the withered tree _Laurell_ is due to him, his art and wit hath purchast it, _Cypres_ thy brow will fit. FINIS. Hiren: _OR_ The faire Greeke: _By_ William Barksted, _one of_ the seruants of his Maiesties Revels. Ovid. ----_nonparuas animo dat gloria vires, Et fecunda facit pectora laudis amor._ _LONDON_: