A new Sonnet, shewing how the Goddesse Diane transformed Acteon into the shape of an Hart.
To the tune of, Rogero.
Diana and her Darlings Deare
went walking on a Day,
Throughout the Woods and waters clear,
for their disport and play:
The leaves aloft were gay and gréen,
and pleasant to behold,
These Nymphs they walkt the Trées betwéen,
under the shadow cold
So long at last they found a place
Of springs and waters cleare,
A fairer Bath their never was
found out this thousand yeare:
Wherein Diana daintily
her selfe began to bathe,
And all her Virgins faire and pure
themselves did wash and lave.
And as the Nymphs in water stood,
Acteon passed by
As he came running through the Wood
on them he cast his eye,
And eke behold their bodies bare,
then prensently that Live:
And as the Nymphs of him were ware,
with voyce aloud they cry'd,
And clos'd Diana round about,
to hide her body small
Yet she was highest in the rout,
and seene above them all.
And when Diana did perceive
where Acteon did stand,
A furious look to him she gave,
and took her Bow in hand;
And as she was about to shoot,
Acteon began to run
To bide he thought is was to boot,
his former fights were done:
And as he thought from her to scape.
she brought it so to passe,
[...]inent she chang'd his shape,
[...]en running as he was.
Each Goddesse took Diana's part,
Acteon to transforme
To make of him a huge wild Hart,
there they did all determe;
His skin that was so fine and faire,
was made a tawnie red,
His Body overgrowne with haire,
from foot unto the head;
And on his head great hornes were set,
most monstrous to behold,
A huger Hart was never met,
nor sée upon the Mould;
His eares his eyes, his face full faire,
transformed were full strange,
His hands for féet compelled were
throughout the Wood to range.
Thus was he made a perfect Hart,
and waxed fierce and grim,
His former shapes did cleane depart
from every joynt and limb:
But still his memory did remaine,
although he might not speake,
Nor yet among his friends complaine,
his wofull minde to breake,
At length he thought for to repaire,
home to his dwelling place;
Anon his Hounds of him were ware,
and gan to try a pace:
Then Acteon was sore agast,
his Hounds would him devoure,
And from them then he fled full fast,
with all his might and power;
He spared neither Bush nor Brake,
but ran through thick and thin,
With all the swiftnesse he could make,
in hope to save his skin:
Yet were his hounds so neare his tayle,
and f [...]llowed him so fast,
His running might not him avail;
for all his speed and haste.
The second part,
to the same tune.
FOr why, his Hounds would never lin,
till him they overtook,
And then they rent and tore the skin,
and all his body shook:
I am your Master Acteon,
then cry'd he to his Hounds,
And made to them most rufull moane,
with shrill lamenting sounds.
I have been he that gave you food,
wherein I did delight,
Wherefore suck not your masters bloud,
his feiendship to requite:
But those Curres of a cursed kind,
of him had no remorse
Although he was their dearest friend,
they pul'd him downe by force.
There was no man to take his part,
the story telleth plaine;
Thus Acteon formed like a Hart,
amongst the Dogs was slaine.
Your Hunters all that range the Woods
although you rise up rath.
Beware you come not néer the Floods
where Virgins use to bathe.
For if Diana you espy
among her Darlings deare
Your former shape she shall disguise,
and make you hornes to weare.
And so I now conclude my Song,
having no more to alledge,
If Acteon had right or wrong,
let all faire Virgins judge.
A Lullaby
COme little Babe, come silly Soule,
thy Fathers shame & Mothers grief,
Borne (as I doubt) to all our doles,
and to thy self unpappy chief:
Sing Lullaby, and wrap it warme,
Poore Soul it thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think'st, and least dost know
the cause of this his Mothers moane,
Thou wantst the wit to wayle her woe,
and I my self am all alone:
Why dost thou weep, why dost thou wail,
And knowst not now what thou dost ail?
Come little wretch, ah silly heart!
mine onely joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
that may thy destinie, deplore;
'Twas I, I say against my will,
I waile the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? Oh thy sweet face,
I would thy Dad the same might see,
No doubt but it would purchase grace,
I know it well, for thee and me:
But come to Mother, Babe, and play,
For Father false is fled away.
Sweet Boy, if it thy fortune chance.
thy Father home againe to send,
If Death doth strike me with his Lance,
yet may'st thou me commend?
If any aske thy Mothers name,
Tell how by love she purchas'd blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yeeld,
I know him of a noble mind,
Although a Lyon in the field,
a Lamb in Town thou shalt him find,
Ask blessing Lad, be not afraid,
His sugred lips have me betray'd.
Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
although in woe I seeme to moane:
Thy Father is no rascall Lad,
a noble Youth of blood and bone;
His glancing look, if he once smile,
Right honest Woman will beguile.
Come little Boy, and rock asleep,
sing Lullaby, and be thou still,
I that can doe nought else but weep,
will sit by thee and Lullaby,
God blesse my Babe and Lullaby
From this his Fathers quality.
Finis
London, Printed for J. W. dwelling in the Old-Bayly.