poysing with my strained arme, I threw
So farre that it beyond the other flew:
My _Hiacinth_, delighting in the game,
Desierd to proue his manhood in the same,
And, catching ere the sledge lay still on ground,
With violent force aloft it did rebound
Against his head and battered out his braine;
And so alas my louely boy was slaine.

1 _Cha_. Hard hap, O _Phoebus_; but, sieth it's past & gone,
We wish ye to forbeare this frustrate mone.

_Ap_. Ladies, I knowe my sorrowes are in vaine,
And yet from mourning can I not refraine.

1 _Cha_. _Eurania_ some pleasant song shall sing
To put ye from your dumps.

_Ap_. Alas, no song will bring
The least reliefe to my perplexed minde.

2 _Cha_. No, _Phoebus_? what other pastime shall we finde
To make ye merry with?

_Ap_. Faire dames, I thanke you all;
No sport nor pastime can release my thrall.
My grief's of course; when it the course hath had,
I shall be merrie and no longer sad.

1 _Cha_. What will ye then we doo?

_Ap_. And please ye, you may goe,
And leaue me here to feed vpon my woe.

2 _Cha_. Then, _Phoebus, we can but wish ye wel againe.

[_Exeunt Charites_.

_Ap_. I thanke ye, gentle Ladies, for your paine.--
O _Phoebus_, wretched thou, thus art thou faine
With forg'de excuses to conceale thy paine.
O, _Hyacinth_, I suffer not these fits
For thee, my Boy; no, no, another sits
Deeper then thou in closet of my brest,
Whose sight so late hath wrought me this unrest.
And yet no Goddesse nor of heauenly kinde
She is, whose beautie thus torments my minde;
No Fayrie Nymph that haunts these pleasaunt woods,
No Goddesse of the flowres, the fields, nor floods:
Yet such an one whom iustly I may call
A Nymph as well as any of them all.
_Eurymine_, what heauen affoords thee heere?
So may I say, because thou com'st so neere,
And neerer far vnto a heauenly shape
Than she of whom _Ioue_ triumph't in the Rape.
Ile sit me downe and wake my griefe againe
To sing a while in honour of thy name.

THE SONG.

Amidst the mountaine Ida groues,
Where _Paris_ kept his Heard,
Before the other Ladies all
He would haue thee prefer'd.
_Pallas_, for all her painting, than
Her face would seeme but pale,
Then _Iuno_ would haue blush't for shame
And _Venus_ looked stale.
_Eurymine_, thy selfe alone
Shouldst beare the golden ball;
So far would thy most heauenly forme
Excell the others all;