Wast there enwouen, and the sad distresse,
In which that boy thee plonged, for despight,
That thou bewray’dst his mothers wantonnesse,
When she with Mars was meynt in ioyfulnesse:
For thy he thrild thee with a leaden dart,
To loue faire Daphne, which thee loued lesse:
Lesse she thee lou’d, then was thy iust desart,
Yet was thy loue her death, and her death was thy smart.
So louedst thou the lusty Hyacinct, xxxvii
So louedst thou the faire Coronis deare: