Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/363

 Had at his foote layd downe his staffe which was a whole Pyne tree Well able for to bee a maast to any shippe, he takes His pype compact of fyvescore reedes, and therwithall he makes So loud a noyse that all the hilles and waters therabout Myght easly heere the shirlnesse of the shepeherds whistling out. I lying underneathe the rocke, and leaning in the lappe Of Acis markt theis woordes of his which farre I heard by happe: More whyght thou art then Primrose leaf, my Lady Galatee. More fresh than meade, more tall and streyght than lofty Aldertree. More bright than glasse, more wanton than the tender kid forsooth. Than Cockleshelles continually with water worne, more smoothe. More cheerefull than the winters Sun, or Sommers shadowe cold, More seemely and more comly than the Planetree to behold, Of valew more than Apples bee although they were of gold. More cleere than frozen yce, more sweete than Grape through rype ywis, More soft than butter newly made, or downe of Cygnet is. And much more fayre and beawtyfull than gardein to myne eye, But that thou from my companye continually doost flye. And thou the selfsame Galate art more tettish for to frame Than Oxen of the wildernesse whom never wyght did tame. More fleeting than the waves, more hard than warryed Oke to twyne, More tough than willow twiggs, more lyth than is the wyld whyght vyne. More than this rocke unmovable, more violent than a streame. More prowd than Peacocke praysd, more feerce than fyre and more extreeme. More rough than Breers, more cruell than the new delivered Beare, More mercilesse than troden snake, than sea more deafe of eare. And which (and if it lay in mee I cheefly would restrayne) Not only swifter paced than the stag in chace on playne, But also swifter than the wynd and flyghtfull ayre. But if Thou knew me well, it would thee irke to flye and bee a greef To tarrye from mee. Yea thou wouldst endeavour all thy powre To keepe mee wholly to thy self. The Quarry is my bowre Heawen out of whole mayne stone. No Sun in sommer there can swelt. No nipping cold in wintertyme within the same is felt. Gay Apples weying downe the boughes have I, and Grapes like gold, And purple Grapes on spreaded Vynes as many as can hold. Bothe which I doo reserve for thee. Thyself shalt with thy hand