Ara.  Well said, my Boy:  thou knowest not how to lie.

Io.  To lye, Sir? how say you, was it not so?  You were at my heeles, though farre off, ye know.  For, maister, not to counterfayt with ye now, Hee’s as good a footeman as a shackeld sow.

Asca.  Good, Sir, y’are welcome:  sirrha, hold your prate.

Ara.  What speed in that I told to you of late?

Asca.  Both good and bad, as doth the sequel prove:  For (wretched) I have found and lost my love, If that be lost which I can nere enjoy.

Io.  Faith, mistresse, y’are too blame to be so coy The day hath bene—­but what is that to mee!—­ When more familiar with a man you’ld bee.

Ara.  I told ye you should finde a man of her, Or else my rule did very strangely erre.

Asca.  Father, the triall of your skill I finde:  My Love’s transformde into another kinde:  And so I finde and yet have lost my love.

Io.  Ye cannot tell, take her aside and prove.

Asca.  But, sweet Eurymine, make some report
Why thou departedst from my father’s court,
And how this straunge mishap to thee befell: 
Let me entreat thou wouldst the processe tell.

Eu.  To shew how I arrived in this ground
Were but renewing of an auncient wound,—­
Another time that office Ile fulfill;
Let it suffice, I came against my will,
And wand’ring here, about this forrest side,
It was my chaunce of Phoebus to be spide;
Whose love, because I chastly did withstand,
He thought to offer me a violent hand;
But for a present shift, to shun his rape,
I wisht myself transformde into this shape,
Which he perform’d (God knowes) against his will: 
And I since then have wayld my fortune still,
Not for misliking ought I finde in mee,
But for thy sake whose wife I meant to bee.

Asca.  Thus have you heard our woful destenie, Which I in heart lament and so doth shee.

Ara.  The fittest remedie that I can finde
Is this, to ease the torment of your minde: 
Perswade yourselves the great Apollo can
As easily make a woman of a man
As contrariwise he made a man of her.

Asca.  I think no lesse.

Ara.  Then humble suite preferre To him; perhaps our prayers may attaine To have her turn’d into her forme againe.

Eu.  But Phoebus such disdain to me doth beare As hardly we shal win his graunt I feare.

Ara.  Then in these verdant fields, al richly dide
With natures gifts and Floras painted pride,
There is a goodly spring whose crystall streames,
Beset with myrtles, keepe backe Phoebus beames: 
There in rich seates all wrought of Ivory
The Graces sit, listening the melodye,
The warbling Birds doo from their prettie billes