Which thy old sire with sacred pietie
Hath powred forth for thee, and th’ altars sprent:
Nought may thee save from heavens avengëment!
It fortuned (as heavens had behight)
That in this Gardin, where yong Clarion
Was wont to solace him, a wicked wight,
The foe of faire things, th’ author of confusion,
The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,
Had lately built his hatefull mansion;
And, lurking closely, in awaite now lay,