Could weenen, whether they were false or trew.
And on his head like to a Coronet
He wore, that seemed strange to common vew,
In which were many towres and castels set,
That it encompast round as with a golden fret.
Like as the mother of the Gods, they say, xxviii
In her great iron charet wonts to ride,
When to Ioues pallace she doth take her way:
Old Cybele, arayd with pompous pride,
Wearing a Diademe embattild wide