THE TRANSFORMED Metamorphosis.  
By Cyril Turner.  
Malo virum pecunia, quam pecuniam viro indigentem  
Printed by Valentine Sims, and are to be sold at the sign of the white Swan on Adling hill. 1600.   


Pursue the bloody, that doth rob the poor,  
And drowns the orphans in their purple gore:   
 

So shall thy race, wherein thou hast begun;  
In heaven end, for which thou so dost run.    

To the right Worshipful, Sir Christopher Heydon, C.T. wisheth aeternal fruition of all felicity.  
THou, thou that art the Muses Adonie,  
Their Pyramid, adorner of their mount,  
Thou Christalizer of their Castalie,  
Thou Lillian-rose, sprung from the horse-foote fount,  
To thee, Art's Patron, Champion to the highest,  
That givest the Sun a fairer radiance,  
To thee Musophilus, that still appliest  
Thy sacred soul, to be truths esperance.  
To thee (this Epinyctall register,  
Razed out by Eos rays) I write to thee.  
To thee (this hoary Hiems, killed by Ver:)  
To thee (this metamorphosed Tragedy)  
To thee, I write my Apotheosie:  
Moecenae, strengthen my Tyrocinie.  
Your Worships ever, Cyrill Turner.   

The Author to his Book.  
O were thy margins, cliffs of itching lust;  
Or quotes to chalk out men the way to sin;  
Then were there hope, that multitudes would thrust  
To buy thee: but sith that thou dost begin  
To pull the curtains back, that closed vice in;  
Expect but flouts: for 'tis the hair of crime,  
To shun the breath that doth discloude it sin.  
What? (will he say) a recluse from the time?  
Nor canst thou hope that thy weak jointed rhyme  
Shall please the more, because it shrouds itself  
Under his shade, whose mighty arms do climb,  
e'en to the highest heaven; disdaining pelf:  
For heavenly minds, the brightlier they do shine:  
The more the world doth seek to work their tine:  
This only be thy hope; to please the best:  
And to be safe from malice of the rest.   

To the Reader.  
IT may be (Reader) I may gall those men,  
Whose golden thoughts think no man dare them touch;  
It may be (too) my fearless ayre-plume-pen,  
May rouse that sluggish watch, whose tongues are such,  
As are controlled by fear or gold too much:  
Yet were Apelles here, he could not paint  
Forth perfectly the world's deformities;  
For as the troubled mind, whose sad complaint  
Still tumbles forth, half breathed accenties,  
Th' Idea doth confuse and chaoize:  
So will the Chaos of up-heaped sin  
Confound his brain, that takes in hand to lay  
A platform plainly forth, of all (that in  
This Pluto-visag'd-world) hell doth bewray,  
When death or hell, doth work it lives decay:  
So perfect is our imperfectionesse,  
For imperfection is sins perfectness.  
Yet seek I not to touch as he that seeks,  
The public defamation of some one;  
Nor have I spent my void hours in three weeks,  
To show that I am unto hatred prone;  
For in particular I point at none:  
Nay, I am forced my lines to limit in  
Within the pale of generality;  
For should I seek by unites to begin,  
To point at all that in their sin do lie;  
And hunt for wickedness advisedly:  
As well I (then) might go about to tell,  
The perfect number of the ocean sands,  
Or by Arithmetic go down to hell,  
And number them that lie in horrors bands:  
(ne'er to be ransomed from the devils hands.)  
Who finds him touched, may blame himself, not me:  
And he will thank me, doth himself know free.  
Thine as I see thy affection. Cyrill Turner.   

The Prologue  

O Who persuades my willing errorie,  
Into this black Cymerianized night?  
Who leads me into this concavity,  
This huge cancavitie, defect of light,  
To feel the smart of Phlegetontike fight?  
O who, I say, persuades mine infant eye,  
To gaze upon my youth's obscurity?   

What ashy ghost, what dead cadavery,  
What Geomantic jaw howls in mine ears,  
The ecchoized sounds of horrorie?  
What chaoizd conceit doth form my fears?  
What object is't that thus my quiet tears?  
Who puts a flaming torch into my hand,  
And bids me charily see where I stand?   

Who fills my nostrils with thick foggy scents?  
Who feeds my taste with hony-smacking gall?  
What pallid spirit tells of strange events?  
Of eviternal night? of Phoebus' fall?  
Where is that Symphony harmonical,  
Wherewith my heart was wont to tune sweet lays,  
And teach my tongue to sing th'eternal's praise?   

O who, O who hath metamorphosed  
My sense? and plutonized my heavenly shape?  
What martyred Diana is't doth read  
The tragic story of Lucretia's rape?  
O who affrights me with black horrors gape?  
Who tells me that the azure-coloured sky,  
Is now transformed to hel's enuironrie.   

Are not the lights that jupiter appointed  
To grace the heavens, and to direct the sight,  
Still in that function, which them first anointed?  
Is not the world directed by their light?  
And is not rest, the exercise of night?  
Why is the sky so pitchy then at noon,  
As though the day were governed by the Moon?   

Look on my sight you lycophosed eyes,  
And tell me whether it be bleared or no:  
Dazzled with objects contrarieties,  
With opposites of sad confused woe,  
Or else transpiercing ayre-cleare brightness, lo:  
My eyes, whether they be, or dimmed or clear,  
Clearly discern a Transformation near.    

The Transformed Metamorphosis.  

O Whence comes this? awake sad Mercury;  
And Pegase-winged place the milky way:  
Awake heavens harbinger; awake and fly  
To high jehovah: O awake I say;  
Why sluggish Mercury, art made of clay?  
O where can life celestial inherit,  
If it remains not in a heavenly spirit?   

Awake O heaven; for (lo) the heavens conspire:  
The silver-feathered Moon, and both the Bears,  
Are posted down for Phlegetonticke fire:  
Lo, now they are upon the azure spheres,  
(My soul is vexed with sense-confounding fears)  
Now are they mounted into Carol's wain,  
With all the stars like to an armed train.   

ay, even those stars, which for their sacred minds,  
(They once terrestrial) were stellified,  
With all the force of Aeol's saile-swelled winds  
And fearful thunder, vailer of earth's pride,  
Upon the lofty firmament do ride:  
All with infernal concord do agree,  
To shake the strength of heavens axle-tree.   

Eue'n from the arctic to the antartique pole,  
All in a row in rank proportionate;  
Subject unto th'unsteadfast moves control,  
Do stand the lights that should truth animate;  
And by their shine her woe extenuate.  
With Phlegetonticke flame these tapers fed,  
Celestial light have quite extinguished.   

O see how dampy shows yond torches flame,  
Earth stop thy scent, for their infernal smell,  
(O let me speak, lest I incur heavens blame)  
Will all thy arterizing strength expel;  
And make thy heart an agonizing hell.  
See how their sulphur gathers to a cloud;  
And like black Orcus' vault the earth doth shroud.   

What Morpheus rocks the sense of heaven asleep?  
Why heaven awake; though long Endimionie  
Hath pierced the clearness of thy sight so deep,  
Thou canst not see them proudly mounted high;  
Yet mayst thou hear them plot their treachery.  
Their treason's plotted, they with fiery shot,  
Are driving Phoebus from his chariot.   

Lo, lo, the sky whose hue was azurie,  
Is clothed with moorie Vesperugoe's coat,  
The form Chaos of this Cosmosie,  
Is now transformed to tawny Charon's boat;  
And on the Acheronticke main doth float.  
Th'olympic Globe is now a hollow ball:  
The huge concavity black Plutoe's hall.   

Where shall I stand, that I may freely view,  
Earth's stage complete with tragic scenes of woe?  
No mead, no grove, whose comfortizing hue  
Might make sad Terror my sad mind forego?  
No sun-graced mount soule-frighting horrors foe?  
No sun-graced mount? how can the sun mounts grace  
When mountains seek his countenance to deface?   

See, see, that mount that was the worlds admire,  
The stately Pyramid of glorious price;  
Whose seven hilled head did over all aspire,  
Is now transformed to Hydraheaded vice:  
Her hellish brain pan of each enterprise.  
On sins full number (lo) she is erect;  
For why? Great Pluto was her Architect.   

Black Avarice, makes sale of Holiness,  
And steaming luxury doth broach her lust;  
Red-tyrannizing wrath doth souls oppress,  
And cankered Envy falsifies all trust,  
T'enrich her coffers with soule-choaking dust;  
On sloth and gluttony they build their bliss,  
Whereon they raise Ambition's Pyramid.   

The frame's too slender for continuance,  
Too earthly high for souls to build upon;  
And of her strength my only esperance,  
Is for to see her sad confusion;  
Whose vapours are the worlds infection.  
Her high esteem, is of high heaven despised;  
O see ere long her Babel Babellized.   

Where shall I find a safe all-peacefull seat,  
To whose prospect the worlds circumference  
Presents itself? high jove I thee entreat,  
Let Dodon's grove be lavish in expense;  
And scaffoldize her oaks for my defence.  
Forgive me God, for help doth not consist:  
In Dodon's grove, nor a Dodonian fist.   

Where shall I stand? O heaven conduct me now,  
jove Israellize my tongue, and let my voice  
Prevail with thee; show me the manner how  
To free me from this change: O soul rejoice,  
For heaven hath freed me from black hell's annoys.  
O see, O see, jove sets me free from thrall,  
Such is his love to them that on him call.   

Lo where I stand upon a steadfast rock,  
Whose peerless trust is free from all compare:  
See how it brooks the Phlegetonticke shock,  
And bides what foemen to each other share:  
The raging sea, on this side doth it dare,  
On that side flames; such is the earthly state,  
Of those from earth seek them to alienate.   

Now eyes prepare, and be your sight as clear,  
As is the Sky, when none but Phaeton's sire  
Inhabits it: for O (alas) I fear  
They will be dazzled with smoke and fire,  
That with repulse of heaven doth down retire,  
Heart, teach my tongue directed by mine eye,  
To be the Chorus to this tragedy.   

Mark, you spectators of this tragic act,  
(If any rest unmetamorphosed)  
O you whose souls with hell are not contract,  
Whose sacred light is not extinguished;  
Whose intellectual tapers are not fed  
With Hell's flame: mark the transformation,  
Wrought by the charms of this rebellion.   

That sacred female (which appeared to him,  
Who was inspired with heavens intelligence;  
Who was the last that drunk upon the brim,  
Of deep divining sacred influence)  
That heavenly one, of glorious eminence.  
She, whom Apollo clothed with his rob:  
And placed her feet upon th'inconstant globe.   

So clothed, his mantle might her shelter be,  
To shroud her safe from Acheronticke mists:  
So placed, her ground might feed her egencie,  
far as it on necessity consists;  
And not t'exceed the bound of heavenly lists;  
So clothed, she might to heaven her mind apply:  
So placed, to use it in necessity.   

But (mark O woe) her high rebellious stars,  
(Their minds ambitionized) do seek her fall,  
And having dimmed the Sun with smoky wars,  
Have found his dearest one how to appall;  
And mix her honey with the bitter'st gall.  
See, how her eyes are fixed on the globe:  
Which, which (O woe) hath quite transformed her rob.   

Her rob, that like the Sun did clearly shine,  
Is now transformed unto an earthy coat,  
Of massive gold: because she did combine  
Affection with the Moon; and did remote  
Her heart from heavens book where her name was wrote.  
The globe takes head, that was her footstool set:  
And from her head doth pull her coronet.   

Her twelve starred glorious coronet, (which jove  
Did make her temples rich enuironrie:  
And for the more to manifest his love,  
Encircled them with fair imbrodetie,  
Of sacred lights in ayre-cleare azurie.)  
She is deprived off and doth begin,  
To be the coverture of laethall sin.   

The vines Aedonides; dead Murcianie;  
Smooth Philoxenus; murders ground;  
Disquiet Eriphila; hel's Syrenie;  
Philocrematos; the souls deep wound;  
And whatso else in Hydra's head is found,  
Do mask themselves within her pleasing smile:  
And so with deadly sin the world beguile.   

What dreadful sight (O) do mine eyes behold?  
See, frosty age, that should direct aright,  
The grassy brain (that is in vice so bold)  
With heedy doctrine and celestial light;  
Hath been conversing with hell's taper, night,  
Whose devilish charms, like Circés sorcery,  
Have metamorphosed Eos Eonie.   

Apolloes herald, that was wont to cheer,  
Night-wounded souls with bright celest'all rays:  
Fair Phosphorus (whose look was wont to fear  
Infernal hags, that haunt frequented ways,  
To draw the soul to hell that wandering strays;  
Is metamorphosed to a torch of hell:  
And makes his mansi'on-house black horrors cell.   

Whose deep foundation's raised from Phlegeton,  
The fiery river of black Orcus' hall:  
Whence pillars rise, which do themselves upon  
Quadrangle wise, uphold Erebus wall:  
Worlds trustless trust, souls unmistrusted fall.  
Birds, vines, and flowers, and every sundry fruit  
Do compass it; for best that place they suit.   

For since the spirit the body's prisoner,  
Of heavenly substance wholly is compact:  
And since the flesh the soul's imprisoner,  
Of excremental earth is wholly fact:  
Since this with that itself cannot contract,  
Needs must the soul (the earthly prison doubled:  
For all earth's pleasures slime) be smothered.   

From out the lake a bridge ascends thereto,  
Whereon in female shape a serpent stands,  
Who eyes her eye, or views her blue veined brow,  
With sence-bereaving gloss she enchants,  
And when she sees a worldling blind that haunts  
The pleasure that doth seem there to be found:  
She soothes with Leucrocutanized sound.   

Thence leads an entry to a shining hall,  
Bedecked with flowers of the fairest hue,  
The Thrush, the Lark, and nights-ioy nightingale,  
There minutize their pleasing lays anew,  
This welcome to the bitter bed of rue;  
This little room, will scarce two wights contain,  
T'enjoy their joy, and there in pleasure reign.   

But next thereto adjoins a spacious room,  
More fairly far adorned then the other:  
(O woe to him at sinne-awhaping doom,  
That to these shadows hath his mind given over.  
For (O) he never shall his soul recover:  
If this sweet sin still feeds him with her smack:  
And his repentant hand him hales not back.   

The fraudful floor of this deceitful place,  
Is all of quagmires, to entrap the wight  
That treads thereon: yet covered o'er with grass  
Of youthful hue, all pleasing to earth's sight,  
For so doth satan work his devilish spite.  
This room will centuries of worlds contain,  
How small mirth's place, how large the place of pain!   

Who ever's deceived by this illusion,  
Must surely fall into this deep abyss,  
Down to the horror of deep Phlegeton,  
Whose fiery flames like vultures gnaw on flesh;  
Yet jot of it never consumed is.  
O let no wight trust to this worldly sheen:  
For such joys hate, of God best loved been.   

Erinys' purveyor, young elth I mean,  
Tears up our mother's womb to find her slime:  
And doth ysearch her bowels all unclean,  
For noisome filth; the poison of our time,  
(Base dunghill slave) for means for his to clime;  
So may he well, for now earth's badst good,  
Makes every peasant seem of gentle blood.   

Yet certs, if the naked truth I say,  
Nor from the golden mine comes gentry true,  
Nor can this age, the next, and so for ay,  
Each his succeeding age with it endue:  
For it's no heritage to heirs t'ensue,  
But shines in them to heaven their mind that give:  
Then who doth so, in him doth gentry live.   

O, that old age (that kept the treasuries  
Of great Apollo once,) whose faltering tongue,  
Entreats old earth perform his obsequies,  
Should now by hell be metamorphosed young,  
And with desire of soule-infecting dung,  
Seek unto vice, weak infancy to win,  
And make his heart, Epithesis of sin.   

The oldest man, saith each day, one day more,  
One day? nay sure a twelvemonth's time 'twill be,  
Ere sergeant death will call me at my door;  
Crazed drooping age, why can thine eyes not see  
Pale death arresting tender infancy?  
O that his memory thee still would tell,  
Now out of me might death my breath expel.   

Where are the sentinels? the armed watch,  
Who draw their breath from Phoebus' treasury?  
Somnus, awake; unlock the rusty latch,  
That leads into the caves somniferie,  
Rouse up the watch, lulled with worlds Syrenie,  
Somnus, awake: pull off their golden mask,  
And bid them straight finderesize their task.   

Somnus, awake: hell and the world conspire:  
Pan is transformed, and all his flock near drowned;  
Pan that from heaven received his due paid hire,  
He that was wont, upon the fertile ground  
Of Arcady to feed, wherein was found,  
No golden India that might prevent,  
That high estate of poor, mean, rich content.   

Pan, that was wont to make his quiet life,  
Th'exordium of each soule-sweet argument:  
Pan, that was wont to make his void of strife,  
The period of each sentence of Content;  
Tempered with surrop of heavens document,  
Pan, that was once a clear Epitimie:  
Is now transformed to hot Epithymie.   

O, where are they, Apollo did appoint,  
To guard Arcadia's sea-enuironed banks?  
The oceans monarch, whom jove did anoint,  
The great controller of the whaly ranks  
Is landed on Arcadia's tender flanks.  
envies protector, Pan, with gold hath fed:  
And Pan with gold is metamorphosed.   

Wealth's shipwreck; India's minerie;  
The pearly pebble which the Ocean keeps;  
The treasure-house of Neptune's Thetisie;  
The fair sweet poison of th'infernal deeps,  
Hell's twinckliug instrument that never sleeps;  
Is that great gift Tridentifer presents,  
To make fair passage for his soul intents.   

O see that head that once was covered,  
With fleecy wool, that hung on earth-low brakes,  
Is scarce contented now, itself to wed,  
With what Eriphila from India takes,  
Now Pan of gold, himself a Cor'net makes.  
His eyes that 'fore were clearly cophosie,  
Now cannot see but in a minery.   

His hand, to paws, his sheephook to a mace,  
Are metamorphosed; his heart (whose height  
Did ne'er before o're-peere Arcadia's face,)  
With cloud-high thoughts aspiring high is freight,  
And chaoized Ideas of conceit,  
Doth make his gesture seem a troubled sky:  
And fills his countenance with sad meteorie.   

Awake O heaven, and all thy powers awake,  
For Pan hath sold his flock to Thetis pheer:  
O how the centre of my soul doth quake,  
That barbarous India should overpeer  
Fruitful Arcadia, the world's great Peer!  
Hot fiery dust, with trickling tears ec'n weeps,  
To see Arcadia's flocks drowned in the deeps.   

O how vnworthie's he a heard to be,  
That leaves his flock for each temptation!  
As, into magistrates each man may see,  
When by the means of vice theyare called upon,  
To execute their duteous function;  
O e'en as they are known, when vaporous vice,  
Breathes forth a mist of black iniquities;   

e'en so a shepherd tells where to he's bend,  
When mighty jove after long summer's joy,  
(Of high celestial kindness to us lent)  
Doth please us try with winter's sharp annoy;  
Or tempt his heart with earthly seeming joy,  
Which time, if he with care his flock doth feed,  
Shows love to's flock, and hate to's earthly meed.   

But though I speak against this hypocrisy,  
This hellish ill o'remasked with holiness,  
Na'th less I neither can, nor will deny,  
That if thereby we reave no wight of bliss,  
We may prevent our earthly wretchedness,  
For lawful 'tis our own harm to prevent,  
If not by ill we compass our intent.   

Is't possible the world should yet afford,  
More cause of woe, than yet mine eyes have seen?  
Can Pluto in his horror's cave yet hoard,  
More woe than in this tragic scene hath been?  
Is't true I see? Or do I overween?  
O, O, I see more than I can express,  
Amazed with sence-confounding wretchedness.   

In Delta that's environed with the sea,  
The hills and dales with herds are peopled,  
That tend their tender flocks upon the lee,  
And tune sweet lays unto their pipes of reed,  
Mean while their flocks upon the hillocks feed;  
And sometime nibble on the busky root,  
That did his tender bud, but lately shoot.   

Long while the herds enjoyed this sweet content,  
Not fearing wolves that might their flocks molest:  
(For nothing harboured near that harm them meant)  
And this content long might they have possessed,  
Had not a beast spoiled this their sweetened rest.  
Whether the soil him bred, or foes him brought,  
I doubt; seems, some that Deltaes damage sought.   

Among the shrubs had set him privily,  
To spoil the lambs that sometime did estray;  
Nor only thus devoured them theevishly;  
But oft alured them from out their way.  
With such changed voice, no mortal wight could say,  
But that the notes were voice of man he sung:  
O what deceit is lodged in the tongue?   

This daily spoil through each man's ear did run,  
At length Mavortio, a gallant Knight,  
The mean whereby his Country honour won,  
Herd of the harm wrought by Hyenn'as spite:  
Scarce heard he of the spoil, but that his sprite  
ethereal (not able to endure,  
His heart should knowledge of such harm immure   

An hour, and th'wrong rest unirrooted out)  
Him drove as sail-sweled barks are drove by wind,  
And straight he armed him (mounting's prancer stout)  
He forward pricks, spurred by a noble mind,  
Awaited on by Truth his Page full kind,  
And by a'squire that artful strength was called:  
Seemed, Hercules him could not have appalld:   

Thus (pricking on the plain) at last he eyed  
The grisly beast as in her den she lay,  
Tearing a lamb with jaws far stretched awide,  
A silly lambkin which she made her pray,  
Strait with a courage bold began assay,  
How he could buckle with the monsters force:  
Not meaning once to harbour mild remorse.   

Down he alighted, from his milk-white steed,  
And gave him Veramount to walk o'th' plain:  
Then stepped to'th monster with a wise-bold heed,  
Thou monstrous fiend (quoth he) thy prey refrain,  
For with my sword I'll work thy mortal pain:  
The beast 'gan look as one that were adread,  
Fearing her future hap would prove full bad.   

At length, as one that from a trance awakes,  
She stretched forth herself upon the ground;  
And to her cursed tongue herself be takes,  
Hoping her speech would yield best aid that stound.  
Fair Sir (quoth she) 'tis said this soil hath found,  
That I have brought this Country's good to spoil:  
But (knight) believe me, I have taken much toil.   

To fear the wolves with changed voice of tongue,  
When they have even been ready to assail  
The ewes that have been suckling their young:  
Then hath my speech their purpose caused to fail:  
My very heart doth bleed; O how I wail  
To think upon the spoil the wolves would make;  
Did not my Care them force their prey forsake?   

To her Syrenian song, the Knight gave ear,  
And noted in her speech how subtle Art,  
Her gesture framed to every word so near,  
That (had he been a man of massive heart,  
He would have melted at her mermaids part:  
But he being a Knight of noble spirit:  
Her tongue could not him of his heart dis'nherit.   

But spurred him to revenge the spoil she made;  
(Commixed with poison of hypocrisy)  
He straight unsheathes his trusty steeled blade,  
And (silent) doth demonstrate presently,  
The bottom of his mind effectually.  
Soon as she feels the smart, she starts aback,  
And (for defence) with poison hellie black.   

Forth hurled from her wide stretched foaming throat,  
She thinks t'infect the uninfected Knight:  
But stout Mavortio wore a steeled coat,  
So iunctly jointed, that in all their fight,  
Her hellish poison, never enter might;  
(All were it natured still to search for way:)  
To save her life by her foes lives decay.   

Short had the fight been, had she only been,  
(And great his honour by her only death)  
But every drop of blood his sword all keen,  
Caused issue from her noisome steaming breath,  
Transformed were to monsters on the heath.  
All with their poison like a rounding ring:  
The good encumbered Knight encompassing.   

So that the more that she enhoped him,  
(By deadly gaps) the conquest soon would end;  
The more his labour sprung: and seemed to dim  
eftsoons (alas) the hope his toil did send.  
Yet he of all was victor in the end.  
And for this act until the end his fame,  
Will through the world high raise Mauortio's name.   

The Knight (about to sheath) chanced turn his eye,  
And spies the multitude that him enround:  
Nay (than quoth he) no time approacheth me,  
To take our leaves of this thiefe-harb'ring ground  
Before Apollo Thetis lap hath found,  
They all shall die; if heaven doth smiling stand:  
Viewing the heart of his Mauortio's hand.   

His ' squire with artful courage aids his knight:  
Both used their blades unto so good avail,  
That who had eyed this bloody fiery fight,  
Might here see maimed wights low creeping trail  
Their own hewed limbs, there gasping jaws that wail  
To see their limbs lopped from their bodies lie,  
On huge heaps, like unto mountains high.   

And twixt them streams of streaming blood swift running  
With bloodless trunks, lop'd heads, legs, thighs, and arms,  
Upon the river like dead fishes swimming;  
Ere Sol with Neptune sleeped, slept their harms;  
All being shook with deaths all deadly charms.  
O happy hour! that so Mavortio joyed:  
To see the monsters by his arm destroyed.   

This noble conquest made him famoused,  
By all the herds throughout the Deltan soil,  
Who vowed his name should be aeternized,  
(Despite of Fortune and her trustless foil)  
In memorizing lines, which worldly broil,  
Nor envies canker, never should deface,  
Long as the world retaines her worldly face.   

O peerless worth! O worth Mavortian!  
Heaven upholding Atlas; wars melody;  
Knight of the lily; heavens champion;  
Arts patron; Muses dearest Adonie;  
Vrania's soul refreshing Castalie;  
Worthy the world; the world not worthy thee:  
That art deemed worthy of the deity.   

Of heaven itself, that but e'en now lamented  
The sun-fall of thyself, whom heaven (disdained)  
Whom heavens high trinary was not contented,  
That in the world thy spirit be contained,  
But there should dwell where jove himself remained;  
For that on earth, thy spirit earth directed,  
Heaven hath thy spirit for high heaven elected.   

While heaven did deign the world should him enjoy,  
The ninefold Sorory themselves exiled,  
Even from their native home to arts annoy,  
From twin-topt mount, unto a place defiled,  
(Where pined writ and starved art compiled)  
Their harm they knew, & harm with heart embraced,  
To nurse their dear heart by their cheap art graced.   

Graced by nurses (arts nurse highly graced him)  
Who fed him with pure marrow of the Muses;  
And when he list, with moisture to refresh him,  
He drunk clear Helicon: clear from abuses,  
He bent his mind to pure Vranian uses,  
Vranianie, him did to heaven uprear:  
And made to man, him demi-god appear.   

Since wisdom than upreares a man to heaven,  
Since wisdom then (that doth high God adore)  
When he of all that earth yields is bereau'n,  
When all else fails, doth Godlike him decore,  
O world erect thy bliss on wisdoms lore.  
The greatest man decores not wisdoms horn:  
But wisdom doth the meanest wight adorn.   

Pieria's darling; cleare-streaming Helicon;  
Boeotia's pearl; the nine voiced harmony;  
Heart crystalline; tongue pure Castalion;  
Delta's Adamant; Elizium's melody;  
Vrania's self, that sung coelestially;  
Was then for Mars apt, by the Muses nursed,  
For Mars his knights, are ' squires to'th muses first.   

Down to the world descended Mars at length,  
When the Pierideses had knit the veins,  
That from his heart did give his body strength,  
With soule-sweet Manna, marrow of the reins:  
Down he descended, and no whit disdains  
To live on earth, leaving the sacred skies,  
Only the muses dear to Martialize.   

But (O) when Delta's hope, the muse's wonder,  
Foes fear, fears foe, Ioues martialist,  
On Thetis 'gan like to a fearful thunder  
Make Hydra shake with a Dodonian fist;  
When Delta deemed herself in him thus blest,  
Then Delta of her hope was quite bereaved:  
See how the world is by the world deceived!   

The Phoebus of his soil, scarce showed his sheen,  
And faced the West with smiling Aurory,  
When fatal Neptune with his trident keen,  
(Behind him) haled him to his Thetisie,  
But jove down sent swiftwinged Mercury,  
And charged him to lay him's wings upon,  
And be the convoy of his champion.   

When Mercury approached the seat of jove,  
With Mavors' spirit on his winged arm;  
jove deigned descend down from his seat above,  
And him embraced with all heavenly charm.  
Above the lofty skies, devoid of harm  
Sits Mavors' spirit, as a demi-god:  
Instead of Mars, swaying his warlike rod.   

While Mars himself goes wandering up and down,  
Associated with the sacred brood,  
That hand in hand (like an enchaining rowne)  
Encompass him: e'en dead with want of food;  
(If want may heaven hurt with deadly bood)  
Much teen they bide in search for such an one:  
Whom they may make their nurs'ries paragon.   

A pitchy night encurtained with clouds  
(That kept from it heavens star-bright comforture)  
Is the sole Theatre that them enshrowdes;  
Fogs, damps, trees, stones, their sole encompassure,  
To whom they moan, black toads give responsure:  
Their woe is like unto that wretch's pain,  
Whom (s'parents dead) no man will entertain.   

Before that death by life had stellified  
Great Mavors' spirit in the lofty sky:  
Befote his spirit in heaven was deified,  
Mars and the Muses had their dignity,  
The sacred sisters did him aptifie  
For Mars: he kindly fed his parents want,  
And made that plenty which before was scant.   

But now (O woe) they long may go unfed.  
Aid (mighty jove) for Nilus' Crocodiles  
Are bathing in the pure Castalian head.  
Pure horsefoot Helicon, their filth defiles,  
Art, like Egyptian dogs, must scape their wiles.  
O dreary woe! the Muses did but sup,  
And are infected with that poisonous cup.   

How like black Orcus looks this dampy cave,  
This obscure dungeon of Cimmerian sin,  
This hugy hell! my spirit 'gins to rave,  
To see black Pluto banqueting within  
The once-formed world with his fair Proserpin.  
O see the world, all is by heaven rejected,  
Now that the sacred Muses are infected.   

See, where Urania, onelie's seated on  
The twin-toped hill, the steepy craggy mount,  
That over-peeres, (once) crystal Helicon:  
There bides she every storm, that once was wont  
To bathe herself in the Castalian fount.  
Yet this me glads, though she of joy be reau'n,  
Yet is she now come nearer unto heaven.   

O where's Mavortis? may the Muses say:  
And have the heavens bereaved us of bliss?  
O heavens! nay O sweet heaven fed Muses stay.  
Exclaim not on the sacred heavens for this:  
But as a mother (that her child doth miss)  
Lament: and be your heart from despair won:  
Your womb may bring forth such another son.   

And as thy Sun not still could face the north,  
But by his falling reaved thee of day;  
(Because the day light's by the night put forth)  
Nor can thy night's black hue endure alway:  
Then hope sweet Delta hope, from murmur stay,  
Thy Phoebus slumbereth but in Thetis lap:  
he'll rise before thou thinkst of such a hap.   

See that same rock, the rock of my defence,  
Is metamorphosed to an Unicorn:  
Whose shining eyes of glorious eminence,  
Doth all the world with brightness clear adorn,  
And with Ioues strength, her life-preserving horn,  
Hath purified the cristallized fount,  
That streams along the valley of Arts mount.   

Her streaming rays have pierced the cloudy skies,  
And made heavens traitors blush to see their shame;  
Cleared the world of her black vironries,  
And with palefeare doth all their treason tame.  
Delta's Bellonian, (name of peerless fame)  
Hath freed Apollo from their treachery,  
And placed him in his former dignity.   

Come, come, you wights that are transformed quite,  
Eliza will you retransform again;  
Come star-crowned female and receive thy sight,  
Let all the world wash in her boundless main,  
And for their pain receive a double gain.  
My very soul with heavenly pleasure's fed,  
To see th'transformed remetamorphosed.   

Urania sits amid Parnassus' vale,  
O'er shelterd with an aire-cleare Canopy:  
O senses nurse! soule-sweet refreshing dale,  
God's nectar; heavens sweet ambrosianie;  
Convert each river to pure Castalie.  
That India itself, may sweetly raise,  
Her well tuned notes in high jehovah's praise.   
FINIS.   

The Epilogue.  

NOw are the pitchy Curtains (that enclosed  
The heavenly radiance of Apollo's shine)  
Drawn back; and all that in hell's cave reposed,  
Are dancing cheerly in a silver twine,  
With heavens Urania, shaming Proserpina.  
Hell's Phlegetontike torches are put forth:  
And now the Sun doth face the frosty north.   

Sacred Apollo, cheers the lightsome day,  
And swan-plumed Phoebe guards the star-faire night,  
Lest Pluto's forester, should cause estray,  
Dark Cosmos Pilgrim's wandering without light;  
Heavens star-embroderie doth shine full bright,  
heavens sacred lights agree in one consent,  
To drive the clouds from forth the firmament.   

Now is the Moon not blemished with a cloud,  
Nor any lamp (that should illuminate  
And lighten every thing that heaven doth shroud)  
Darkened; or else my sight 'gins to abate,  
And s'reaued of it intellectuate.  
Each obscure cave is lightened by the day:  
Or else mine eyes are forced to estray.   

But when my heart was urged forth to breath,  
Fell accents of soule-terrifying pain;  
My subject was a heavenly tapers death;  
Night was my lamp; my ink, hell's pitchy main:  
Then blame me not, if my wits light did wain,  
Since but with night, I could with none confer  
In this my Epinyctall register.   
FINIS.