Her snowy substance melted as with heat,
Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought,
But th’emptie girdle, which about her wast was wrought.
As when the daughter of Thaumantes faire, xxv
Hath in a watry cloud displayed wide
Her goodly bow, which paints the liquid ayre;
That all men wonder at her colours pride;
All suddenly, ere one can looke aside,
The glorious picture vanisheth away,
Ne any token doth thereof abide: