And all about her altar scattered lay xliii Great sorts of louers piteously complayning, Some of their losse, some of their loues delay, Some of their pride, some paragons disdayning, Some fearing fraud, some fraudulently fayning, As euery one had cause of good or ill. Amongst the rest some one through loues constrayning, Tormented sore, could not containe it still, But thus brake forth, that all the temple it did fill. Great _Venus_, Queene of beautie and of grace, xliv The ioy of Gods and men, that vnder skie Doest fayrest shine, and most adorne thy place, That with thy smyling looke doest pacifie The raging seas, and makst the stormes to flie; Thee goddesse, thee the winds, the clouds doe feare, And when thou spredst thy mantle forth on hie, The waters play and pleasant lands appeare, And heauens laugh, and al the world shews ioyous cheare. Then doth the dædale earth throw forth to thee xlv Out of her fruitfull lap aboundant flowres, And then all liuing wights, soone as they see The spring breake forth out of his lusty bowres, They all doe learne to play the Paramours; First doe the merry birds, thy prety pages Priuily pricked with thy lustfull powres, Chirpe loud to thee out of their leauy cages, And thee their mother call to coole their kindly rages. Then doe the saluage beasts begin to play xlvi Their pleasant friskes, and loath their wonted food; The Lyons rore, the Tygres loudly bray, The raging Buls rebellow through the wood, And breaking forth, dare tempt the deepest flood, To come where thou doest draw them with desire: So all things else, that nourish vitall blood, Soone as with fury thou doest them inspire, In generation seeke to quench their inward fire. So all the world by thee at first was made, xlvii And dayly yet thou doest the same repayre: Ne ought on earth that merry is and glad, Ne ought on earth that louely is and fayre, But thou the same for pleasure didst prepayre. Thou art the root of all that ioyous is, Great God of men and women, queene of th’ayre, Mother of laughter, and welspring of blisse, O graunt that of my loue at last I may not misse. So did he say: but I with murmure soft, xlviii That none might heare the sorrow of my hart, Yet inly groning deepe and sighing oft, Besought her to graunt ease vnto my smart, And to my wound her gratious help impart. Whilest thus I spake, behold with happy eye I spyde, where at the Idoles feet apart A beuie of fayre damzels close did lye, Wayting when as the Antheme should be sung on hye.