eed the Brooks low muttering Base,
With the birds trebbles pearch'd on higher place.

But senses objects soon do glut the soul,
Or rather weary with their emptinesse;
So I, all heedlesse how the waters roll
And mindlesse of the mirth the birds expresse,
Into my self 'gin softly to retire
After hid heavenly pleasures to enquire.

While I this enterprize do entertain;
Lo! on the other side in thickest bushes
A mighty noise! with that a naked swain
With blew and purple wings streight rudely rushes.
He leaps down light upon the flowry green,
Like sight before mine eyes had never seen.

At's snowy back the boy a quiver wore
Right fairly wrought and gilded all with gold.
A silver bow in his left hand he bore,
And in his right a ready shaft did hold.
Thus armed stood he and betwixt us tway
The labouring brook did break his toilsome way.

The wanton lad whose sport is others pain
Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart,
And drawing to the head with might and main,
With fell intent he aim'd to hit my heart.
But ever as he shot his arrows still
In their mid course dropt down into the rill.

Of wondrous virtues that in waters been
Is needlesse to rehearse, all books do ring
Of those strange rarities. But ne're was seen
Such virtue as resided in this spring.
The novelty did make me much admire
But stirr'd the hasty youth to ragefull ire.

As heedlesse fowls that take their per'lous flight
Over that bane of birds, _Averno lake_,
Do drop down dead: so dead his shafts did light
Amid this stream, which presently did slake
Their fiery points, and all their feathers wet
Which made the youngster Godling inly fret.

Thus lustfull Love (this was that love I ween)
Was wholly changed to consuming ire.
And eath it was, sith they're so near a kin
They be both born of one rebellious sire.
But he supprest his wrath and by and by
For feathered darts, he winged words let flie:

Vain man! said he, and would thou wer'st not vain
That hid'st thy self in solitary shade
And spil'st thy precious youth in sad disdain
Hating this lifes delight! Hath god thee made
Part of this world, and wilt not thou partake
Of this worlds pleasure for its makers sake?

Unthankfull wretch! Gods gifts thus to reject
And maken nought of Natures goodly dower
That milders still away through thy neglect
And dying