Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/283

 Shee told her, shee did plyght her fayth and help to her releef. Shee lifted up her head, and then with teares fast gushing out Beesloobered all her nurces brest: and going oft about To speake, shee often stayd: and with her garments hid her face For shame, and lastly sayd: O happye is my moothers cace That such a husband hath. With that a greevous sygh shee gave, And hilld her peace. Theis woordes of hers a trembling chilnesse drave In nurcis limbes, which perst her bones: (for now shee understood The cace) and all her horye heare up stiffly staring stood And many things she talkt to put away her cursed love, If that it had beene possible the madnesse to remove. The Mayd herself to be full trew the councell dooth espye: Yit if shee may not have her love shee fully myndes to dye. Live still (quoth nurce) thou shalt obteine (shee durst not say thy father, But stayd at that). And forbycause that Myrrha should the rather Beleeve her, shee confirmd her woordes by othe. The yeerely feast Of gentle Ceres came, in which the wyves bothe moste and least Appareld all in whyght are woont the firstlings of the feeld, Fyne garlonds made of eares of come, to Ceres for to yeeld. And for the space of thryce three nyghts they counted it a sin To have the use of any man, or once to towche his skin. Among theis women did the Queene freequent the secret rites. Now whyle that of his lawfull wyfe his bed was voyd a nightes, The nurce was dooble diligent: and fynding Cinyras Well washt with wyne, shee did surmyse there was a pretye lasse In love with him. And hyghly shee her beawty setteth out. And beeing asked of her yeeres, she sayd shee was about The age of Myrrha. Well (quoth he) then bring her to my bed. Returning home she sayd: bee glad my nurcechilde: we have sped. Not all so wholly in her hart was wretched Myrrha glad, But that her fore misgiving mynd did also make her sad. Howbee't shee also did rejoyce as in a certaine kynd, Such discord of affections was within her combred mynd. It was the tyme that all things rest. And now Bootes bryght, The driver of the Oxen seven, about the northpole pyght Had sumwhat turnd his wayne asyde, when wicked Myrrha sped About her buysnesse. Out of heaven the golden Phoebee fled.