With thousand forms she doth herself endue.
For all the words that from your lips repair,
Are nought but tricks and turnings of the Air.
45.
"Hence is her prattling daughter, Echo, born,
That dances to all voices she can hear.
There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorn;
Nor any time, wherein she will forbear
The airy pavement with her feet to wear;
And yet her hearing sense is nothing quick,