Salues to his wounds, and medicines of might:
For Tryphon of sea gods the soueraine leach is hight.
The whiles the Nymphes sit all about him round, xliv
Lamenting his mishap and heauy plight;
And oft his mother vewing his wide wound,
Cursed the hand, that did so deadly smight
Her dearest sonne, her dearest harts delight.
But none of all those curses ouertooke
The warlike Maid, th’ensample of that might,
But fairely well she thriu’d, and well did brooke