The dewe which on the tender grasse,
130The Euening had distill'd,
To pure Rose-water turned was,
The shades with sweets that fill'd.
The windes were husht, no leafe so small
At all was scene to stirre:
Whilst tuning to the waters fall,
The small Birds sang to her.
Where she too quickly me espies,
When I might plainely see,
A thousand Cupids from her eyes
140Shoote all at once at me.
Into these secret shades (quoth she)
How dar'st thou be so bold
To enter, consecrate to me,
Or touch this hallowed mold.
Those words (quoth she) I can pronounce,
Which to that shape can bring
Thee, which the Hunter had who once
Sawe Dian in the Spring.
Bright Nimph againe I thus replie,
150This cannot me affright:
I had rather in thy presence die,
Then liue out of thy sight.
I first vpon the Mountaines hie,
Built Altars to thy name;
And grau'd it on the Rocks thereby,
To propogate thy fame.
I taught the Shepheards on the Downes,
Of thee to frame their Layes:
T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes,
160With Ditties of thy praise.
Thy colours I deuis'd with care,
Which were vnknowne before:
Which since that, in their braded hayre
The Nimphes and Siluans wore.
Transforme me to what shape you can,
I passe not what it be:
Yea what most hatefull is to man,
So I may follow thee.