With raging fits, thou fool, run mad, O fond Pigmalion?
Yet sure, if that thou sawest my dear, the like thou could’st make none:
Then what may I? O gods above, bend down to hear my cry,
As once ye[176] did to Salmacis, in pond hard Lycia by.
O, that Virginia were in case as sometime Salmacis,
And in Hermophroditus stead myself might seek my bliss!
Ah gods, would I unfold her arms complecting of my neck?
Or would I hurt her nimble hand, or yield her such a check?
Would I gainsay her tender skin to bathe, where I do wash,
Or else refuse her soft, sweet lips to touch my naked flesh?