XV
Far off he wonders, what them makes so glad,
Or Bacchus merry fruit[°] they did invent,
Or Cybeles franticke rites[°] have made them mad,
They drawing nigh, unto their God present
That flowre of faith and beautie excellent.
The God himselfe, vewing that mirrhour rare,[°]
Stood long amazd, and burnt in his intent;
His owne faire Dryope[°] now he thinkes not faire,
And Pholoe fowle when her to this he doth compaire.