Huc ades, O virgo pariter moritura, sepulchro;
Sic ait, et facies pallida morte mutat.
Who doth desire the trump of fame to sound unto the skies,
Or else who seeks the holy place where mighty Jove he lies,
He must not by deceitful mind, nor yet by puissant strength,
But by the faith and sacred life he must it win at length,
And what she be that virgin’s life on earth would gladly lead
The floods that Virginia did fall I wish her to read:
Her dolor and her doleful loss, and yet her joys at death:
Come, Virgins pure, to grave with me, quoth she with latest breath.