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Rh Her throes with scorne the taunting Dryads eyd, The Nymph changd colour, and hung down her head; Still change thy blushing hue, the Goddess cryd: Forthwith a freezing languor gan invade Her limbs; and now, with suddein leaves arrayd, A Russian Poppey she transmewd remains; The various colours ever rise and fade, The tints still shifting mock the Painters pains; And still her drowsie mood the beauteous Nymph retains.

Meanwhile his new-born elfe Favonius bore, Soft lapt, on balmy pinions farre away; And with the Fawns, by Peneus flowry shore, From earliest youth the laughing Imp did play, For ever fluttering, debonair, and gay, And restlesse, as the dove Deucalion sent To spy if peering oake did yet bewray Its braunching head above the flooded bent; But ydlie beating round the day in vain was spent.