Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/73

 He hates and bannes his faithfull birde bicause he did enforme Him of his lovers naughtinesse that made him so to storme. He hates his bow, he hates his shaft that rashly from it went: And eke he hates his hasty hands by whom the bow was bent. He takes hir up betweene his armes endevoring all too late By plaister made of precious herbes to stay hir helplesse fate. But when he saw there was no shift: but that she needes must burne, And that the solemne sacred fire was prest to serve the turne, Then from the bottome of his heart full sorie sighes he fet, (For heavenly powres with watrie teares their cheekes may never wet) In case as when a Cow beholdes the cruell butcher stand With launching Axe embrewd with bloud and lifting up his hand Aloft to snatch hir sucking Calfe that hangeth by the heeles And of the Axe the deadly dint upon his forehead feeles. Howbeit after sweete perfumes bestowde upon hir corse And much embracing, having sore bewailde hir wrong divorse, He followed to the place assignde hir bodie for to burne. There coulde he not abide to see his seede to ashes turne. But tooke the baby from hir wombe and from the firie flame, And unto double Chyrons den conveyed straight the same. The Raven hoping for his truth to be rewarded well, He maketh blacke, forbidding him with whiter birdes to dwell. The Centaure Chyron in the while was glad of Phebus boy, And as the burthen brought some care the honor brought him joy. Upon a time with golden lockes about hir shoulders spread, A daughter of the Centaurs (whome a certaine Nymph had bred About the brooke Caycus bankes) that hight Ocyroe Came thither. This same fayre yong Nymph could not contented be To learne the craft of Surgerie as perfect as hir Sire, But that to learne the secret doomes of Fate she must aspire. And therfore when the furious rage of frenzie had hir cought, And that the spright of Prophecie enflamed had hir thought, She lookt upon the childe and saide: Sweete babe the Gods thee make A man. For all the world shall fare the better for thy sake. All sores and sicknesse shalt thou cure: thy powre shall eke be syche, To make the dead alive again. For doing of the whiche Against the pleasure of the Gods, thy Graundsire shall thee strike