e, for in you lies my choice,
Hereat shee starts as what not feares the guiltie:
Thinking the shadowe knew her double sence,
and blushing, in strange feare departeth thence
blaming her selfe, for vttering her blacke fault
to him who armed stood gainst her assault.

Anon she spies many a youthfull Lord,
In seuerall Tables, each in seuerall guise;
Whose pictures they had sent with one accord,
To shew their manly features to her eyes,
Whose dumb'd perswasiue images were plac'd,
To see if any in her lookes were grac'd:
But heere in vaine, their faire assayes doe proue
for had they spake they could not win her loue.

Ouer her Mothers shape a vaile she drew,
and weeping, saide: may I nere see thee more:
Poore abus'd image, doost not turne thy hew,
to see so foule an obiect thee before?
Didst thou but know, what's sprung from out thy wombe,
thy shap cold speak, whilst yt thy self stodst d[=u]be.
Art would claime Nature in thy heauie woes,
thy shape haue limbs, thy limbs be stiff as those.

Anon she leapt on it with ardent heate,
and full of teares, yet falles vppon her backe:
Wishing euen in that griefe the lustfull feate,
Were now perform'd (woemen oft longings lack
down sunck the down, and with so deep impresse
that had Hermaphroditus bin there he might ges
Salmacis were aganie his prostitute,
or one more farte, then to denie her suite.

A strange conceite, had now possest hir braine,
nie equall to her lust, thought innocent:
She gaue vp to desire and leapes amaine,
From the bruisd bed, with bloodie fram'd int[=e]t
To hang her selfe O, me moste wofull theame.
She now espide an hie and sturdie beame:
Many staue liu'd to an vnpittied death,
who might haue dyed sometimes with famed breath.

Yet doth she thinke what terror death would be
and on her heart, imprints his Character:
Faine would she die, yet first would pleased be
with damned lust, which death could not deter
O sinne (saies she) thou must be Natures slaue,
In spight of Fate, goe to a pleasing graue.
When I haue sin'd, send _Ioue_ a thunder stroake
and spare thy chosen tree, the harmlesse Oake.

She thinkes againe, and sees nor time nor place,
to quench the thirstines of her parched blood:
Time still ranne on, with an auerted face,
and nothing but her passions did her good.
This thought confoundes her, a