Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/97

 There was a spring withouten mudde as silver cleare and still, Which neyther sheepeheirds, nor the Goates that fed upon the hill, Nor other cattell troubled had, nor savage beast had styrd, Nor braunch nor sticke, nor leafe of tree, nor any soule nor byrd. The moysture fed and kept aye fresh the grasse that grew about, And with their leaves the trees did keepe the heate of Phoebus out. The stripling wearie with the heate and hunting in the chace, And much delighted with the spring and coolenesse of the place, Did lay him downe upon the brim: and as he stooped lowe To staunche his thurst, another thurst of worse effect did growe. For as he dranke, he chaunst to spie the Image of his face, The which he did immediately with fervent love embrace. He feedes a hope without cause why. For like a foolishe noddie He thinkes the shadow that he sees, to be a lively boddie. Astraughted like an ymage made of Marble stone he lyes, There gazing on his shadowe still with fixed staring eyes. Stretcht all along upon the ground, it doth him good to see His ardant eyes which like two starres full bright and shyning bee, And eke his fingars, fingars such as Bacchus might beseeme, And haire that one might worthely Apollos haire it deeme, His beardlesse chinne and yvorie necke, and eke the perfect grace Of white and red indifferently bepainted in his face. All these he woondreth to beholde, for which (as I doe gather) Himselfe was to be woondred at, or to be pitied rather. He is enamored of himselfe for want of taking heede, And where he lykes another thing, he lykes himselfe in deede. He is the partie whome he wooes, and suter that doth wooe, He is the flame that settes on fire, and thing that burneth tooe. O Lord how often did he kisse that false deceitfull thing? How often did he thrust his armes midway into the spring To have embraste the necke he saw and could not catch himselfe? He knowes not what it was he sawe. And yet the foolish elfe Doth burne in ardent love thereof. The verie selfsame thing That doth bewitch and blinde his eyes, encreaseth all his sting. Thou fondling thou, why doest thou raught the fickle image so? The thing thou seekest is not there. And if aside thou go,