. Good, Sir, y'are welcome: sirrha, hold your prate.

_Ara_. What speed in that I told to you of late?

_Asca_. Both good and bad, as doth the sequel prove:
For (wretched) I have found and lost my love,
If that be lost which I can nere enjoy.

_Io_. Faith, mistresse, y'are too blame to be so coy
The day hath bene--but what is that to mee!--
When more familiar with a man you'ld bee.

_Ara_. I told ye you should finde a man of her,
Or else my rule did very strangely erre.

_Asca_. Father, the triall of your skill I finde:
My Love's transformde into another kinde:
And so I finde and yet have lost my love.

_Io_. Ye cannot tell, take her aside and prove.

_Asca_. But, sweet _Eurymine_, make some report
Why thou departedst from my father's court,
And how this straunge mishap to thee befell:
Let me entreat thou wouldst the processe tell.

_Eu_. To shew how I arrived in this ground
Were but renewing of an auncient wound,--
Another time that office Ile fulfill;
Let it suffice, I came against my will,
And wand'ring here, about this forrest side,
It was my chaunce of Phoebus to be spide;
Whose love, because I chastly did withstand,
He thought to offer me a violent hand;
But for a present shift, to shun his rape,
I wisht myself transformde into this shape,
Which he perform'd (God knowes) against his will:
And I since then have wayld my fortune still,
Not for misliking ought I finde in mee,
But for thy sake whose wife I meant to bee.

_Asca_. Thus have you heard our woful destenie,
Which I in heart lament and so doth shee.

_Ara_. The fittest remedie that I can finde
Is this, to ease the torment of your minde:
Perswade yourselves the great _Apollo_ can
As easily make a woman of a man
As contrariwise he made a man of her.

_Asca_. I think no lesse.

_Ara_. Then humble suite preferre
To him; perhaps our prayers may attaine
To have her turn'd into her forme againe.

_Eu_. But _Phoebus_ such disdain to me doth beare
As hardly we shal win his graunt I feare.

_Ara_. Then in these verdant fields, al richly dide
With natures gifts and _Floras_ painted pride,
There is a goodly spring whose crystall streames,
Beset with myrtles, keepe backe _Phoebus_ beames:
There in rich seates all wrought of Ivory
The Graces sit, listening the melodye,
The warbling Birds doo from their prettie billes
Vnite in concord as the brooke distilles,[126]
Whose gentle murmure with his buzzing noates
Is as a base un