Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/334

 Although (to say the very truthe) he is the man, and wee Through fayntnesse that that he was borne by nature for to bee. What profits theis huge limbes of ours? what helpes our dowble force? Or what avayles our dowble shape of man as well as horse By puissant nature joynd in one? I can not thinke that wee Of sovereigne Goddesse Juno were begot, or that wee bee Ixions sonnes, who was so stout of courage and so hault, As that he durst on Junos love attempt to give assault. The emny that dooth vanquish us is scarcely half a man Whelme blocks, and stones, and mountaynes whole uppon his hard brayne pan: And presse yee out his lively ghoste with trees. Let timber choke His chappes, let weyght enforce his death in stead of wounding stroke. This sayd: by chaunce he gets a tree blowne downe by blustring blasts Of Southerne wynds, and on his fo with all his myght it casts, And gave example to the rest to doo the like. Within A whyle the shadowes which did hyde mount Pelion waxed thin: And not a tree was left uppon mount Othris ere they went. Sir Cenye underneathe this greate huge pyle of timber pent, Did chauf and on his shoulders hard the heavy logges did beare. But when above his face and head the trees up stacked were, So that he had no venting place to drawe his breth: One whyle He faynted: and another whyle he heaved at the pyle, To tumble downe the loggs that lay so heavy on his backe, And for to winne the open ayre ageine above the stacke: As if the mountayne Ida (lo) which yoonder we doo see So hygh, by earthquake at a tyme should chaunce to shaken bee. Men dowt what did become of him. Sum hold opinion that The burthen of the woodes had driven his soule to Limbo flat. But Mopsus sayd it was not so. For he did see a browne Bird flying from amid the stacke and towring up and downe. It was the first tyme and the last that ever I behild That fowle. When Mopsus softly saw him soring in the feeld, He looked wistly after him, and cryed out on hye: Hayle peerlesse perle of Lapith race, hayle Ceny, late ago A valeant knyght, and now a bird of whom there is no mo. The author caused men beleeve the matter to bee so. Our sorrow set us in a rage. It was too us a greef