Away slippes fleeting tyme unspyde and mocks us to our face,And nothing may compare with yeares in swiftnesse of theyr pace.That wretched imp whom wickedly his graundfather begate,And whom his cursed suster bare, who hidden was alateWithin the tree, and lately borne, became immediatly The beawtyfullyst babe on whom man ever set his eye.Anon a stripling hee became, and by and by a man,And every day more beawtifull than other he becam,That in the end Dame Venus fell in love with him: wherbyHe did revenge the outrage of his mothers villanye. For as the armed Cupid kist Dame Venus, unbewareAn arrow sticking out did raze hir brest uppon the bare.The Goddesse being wounded, thrust away her sonne. The woundAppeered not to bee so deepe as afterward was found.It did deceyve her at the first. The beawty of the lad Nor unto Paphos where the sea beats round about the shore,Inflaamd her. To Cythera Ile no mynd at all shee had.Nor fisshy Gnyde, nor Amathus that hath of metalls store.Yea even from heaven shee did absteyne. Shee lovd Adonis moreThan heaven. To him shee clinged ay, and bare him companye. And in the shadowe woont shee was to rest continually,And for to set her beawtye out most seemely to the eyeBy trimly decking of her self. Through bushy grounds and groves,And over Hills and Dales, and Lawnds and stony rocks shee roves,Bare kneed with garment tucked up according to the woont Of Phebe, and shee cheerd the hounds with hallowing like a hunt,Pursewing game of hurtlesse sort, as Hares made lowe before,Or stagges with loftye heades, or bucks. But with the sturdy BoareAnd ravening woolf, and Bearewhelpes armd with ugly pawes, and eekeThe cruell Lyons which delyght in blood, and slaughter seeke, Shee meddled not. And of theis same shee warned also thee,Adonis, for to shoonne them, if thou wooldst have warned bee.Bee bold on cowards (Venus sayd) for whoso dooth advaunceHimselfe against the bold, may hap to meete with sum mischaunce.Wherfore I pray thee, my sweete boy, forbeare too bold to bee. For feare thy rashnesse hurt thy self and woork the wo of meEncounter not the kynd of beastes whom nature armed hath,For dowt thou buy thy prayse too deere procuring thee sum scath.Thy tender youth, thy beawty bryght, thy countnance fayre and braveAlthough they had the force to win the hart of Venus, have No powre ageinst the Lyons, nor ageinst the bristled swyne.The eyes and harts of savage beasts doo nought to theis inclyne.The cruell Boares beare thunder in theyr hooked tushes, andExceeding force and feercenesse is in Lyons to withstand.And sure I hate them at my hart. To him demaunding why, A monstrous chaunce (quoth Venus) I will tell thee by and by,That hapned for a fault. But now unwoonted toyle hath madeMee weerye: and beholde, in tyme this Poplar with his shadeAllureth, and the ground for cowch dooth serve to rest uppon.I prey thee let us rest us here. They sate them downe anon. And lying upward with her head uppon his lappe along,Shee thus began, and in her tale shee bussed him among:

Perchaunce thou hast or this tyme heard of one that overcameThe swiftest men in footemanshippe. No fable was that fame.She overcame them out of dowt. And hard it is to tell Thee whither she did in footemanshippe or beawty more excell.Uppon a season as she askt of Phebus, what he wasThat should her husband bee, he sayd: For husband doo not passe,O Atalanta, thou at all of husband hast no neede.Shonne husbanding. But yit thou canst not shonne it, I thee reede. Alyve thou shalt not be thy self. Shee being sore afraydOf this Apollos Oracle, did keepe herself a mayd,And lived in the shady woodes. When wooers to her came,And were of her importunate, shee drave away the sameWith boystous woordes, and with the sore condition of the game. I am not to be had (quoth shee) onlesse yee able beeIn ronning for to vanquish mee. Yee must contend with meeIn footemanshippe. And who so winnes the wager, I agreeTo bee his wife. But if that he bee found too slowe, then heeShall lose his head. This of your game the verrye law shall bee. Shee was in deede unmercifull. But such is beawties powre,That though the sayd condition were extreme and over sowre,Yit many suters were so rash to undertake the same.Hippomenes as a looker on of this uncurteous game,Sate by, and sayd: Is any man so mad to seeke a wyfe With such apparant perill and the hazard of his lyfe?And utterly he did condemne the yongmens love. But whenHe saw her face and bodye bare, (for why the Lady thenDid strippe her to her naked skin) the which was like to myne,Or rather (if that thou wert made a woman) like to thyne: He was amazde. And holding up his hands to heaven, he sayth:Forgive mee you with whom I found such fault even now: in faythI did not know the wager that yee ran for. As hee praysethThe beawty of her, in himselfe the fyre of love he rayseth.And through an envy fearing lest shee should away be woonne, He wisht that nere a one of them so swift as shee might roonne.And wherfore (quoth hee) put not I myself in preace to tryeThe fortune of this wager? God himself continuallyDooth help the bold and hardye sort. Now whyle HippomenesDebates theis things within himselfe and other like to these, The Damzell ronnes as if her feete were wings. And though that sheeDid fly as swift as arrow from a Turkye bowe: yit heeMore woondred at her beawtye than at swiftnesse of her pace.Her ronning greatly did augment her beawtye and her grace.The wynd ay whisking from her feete the labells of her socks Uppon her back as whyght as snowe did tosse her golden locks,And eeke th'embroydred garters that were tyde beneathe her ham.A rednesse mixt with whyght uppon her tender bodye cam,As when a scarlet curtaine streynd ageinst a playstred wallDooth cast like shadowe, making it seeme ruddye therwithall. Now whyle he straunger noted this, the race was fully ronne,And Atalant (as shee that had the wager cleerely wonne)Was crowned with a garlond brave. The vanquisht sighing sore,Did lose theyr lyves according to agreement made before.Howbeeit nought at all dismayd with theis mennes lucklesse cace He stepped foorth, and looking full uppon the maydens face,Sayd: Wherfore doost thou seeke renowne in vanquisshing of suchAs were but dastards? Cope with mee. If fortune bee so muchMy freend to give mee victorie, thou needest not hold scorneTo yeeld to such a noble man as I am. I am borne The sonne of noble Megaree, Onchestyes sonne, and heeWas sonne to Neptune. Thus am I great graundchyld by degreeIn ryght descent, of him that rules the waters. Neyther dooI out of kynd degenerate from vertue meete therto,Or if my fortune bee so hard as vanquisht for to bee, Thou shalt obteine a famous name by overcomming mee.In saying thus, Atlanta cast a gentle looke on him:And dowting whither shee rather had to lose the day or win,Sayd thus: What God, an enmy to the beawtyfull, is bentTo bring this person to his end, and therefore hath him sent To seeke a wyfe with hazard of his lyfe? If I should beeMyselfe the judge in this behalfe, there is not sure in meeThat dooth deserve so deerely to bee earned. Neyther doothHis beawty moove my hart at all. Yit is it such in soothAs well might moove mee. But bycause as yit a chyld he is, His person mooves mee not so much as dooth his age Iwis.Beesydes that manhod is in him, and mynd unfrayd of death:Beesydes that of the watrye race from Neptune as he sethHe is the fowrth: beesydes that he dooth love mee, and dooth makeSo great accompt to win mee to his wyfe, that for my sake He is contented for to dye, if fortune bee so soreAgeinst him to denye him mee. Thou straunger hence therfore.Away, I say, now whyle thou mayst, and shonne my bloody bed.My mariage cruell is, and craves the losing of thy hed.There is no wench but that would such a husband gladly catch. And shee that wyse were myght desyre to meete with such a match.But why now after heading of so many, doo I careFor thee? Looke thou to that. For sith so many men as areAlreadye put to slawghter can not warne thee to beeware,But that thou wilt bee weerye of thy lyfe, dye: doo not spare. And shall he perrish then bycause he sought to live with mee?And for his love unwoorthely wvith death rewarded bee?All men of such a victory will speake too foule a shame.But all the world can testifye that I am not to blame.Would God thou wouldst desist. Or else bycause thou are so mad, I would to God a little more thy feete of swiftnesse had.Ah what a maydens countenance is in this chyldish face.Ah, foolish boy Hippomenes, how wretched is thy cace.I would thou never hadst mee seene. Thou woorthy art of lyfe.And if so bee I happy were, and that to bee a wyfe The cruell destnyes had not mee forbidden, sure thou artThe onely wyght with whom I would bee matcht with all my hart.This spoken: shee yit rawe and but new striken with the dartOf Cupid, beeing ignorant, did love and knew it nat.Anon her father and the folk assembled, willed that They should begin theyr woonted race. Then Neptunes issue praydWith carefull hart and voyce to mee, and thus devoutly sayd:O Venus, favour myne attempt, and send mee downe thyne aydTo compasse my desyred love which thou hast on mee layd.His prayer movd mee (I confesse,) and long I not delayd Before I helpt him. Now there is a certaine feeld the whichThe Cyprian folk call Damasene, most fertile and most richOf all the Cyprian feelds: the same was consecrate to meeIn auncient tyme, and of my Church the glebland woont to bee.Amid this feeld, with golden leaves there growes a goodly tree The crackling boughes whereof are all of yellew gold. I cameAnd gathered golden Apples three: and bearing thence the sameWithin my hand, immediatly to Hippomen I gatInvisible to all wyghts else save him and taught him whatTo doo with them.

The Trumpets blew: and girding forward, both Set foorth, and on the hovering dust with nimble feete eche goth.A man would think they able were uppon the Sea to goAnd never wet theyr feete, and on the ayles of come alsoThat still is growing in the feeld, and never downe them tread.The man tooke courage at the showt and woordes of them that sed: Now, now is tyme, Hippomenes, to ply it, hye apace:Enforce thyself with all thy strength: lag not in any cace:Thou shalt obteine. It is a thing ryght dowtfull whither heeAt theis well willing woordes of theyrs rejoysed more, or shee.For old religion, not unlike a cave: wher priests of yoreBestowed had of Images of wooden Goddes good store.Hippomenes entring herinto defyld the holy place,With his unlawfull lust: from which the Idolls turnd theyr face. And Cybell with the towred toppes disdeyning, dowted whitherShee in the lake of Styx might drowne the wicked folk togither.The pennance seemed over lyght. And therefore shee did cawseThinne yellow manes to growe uppon theyr necks: and hooked pawesIn stead of fingars to succeede. Theyr shoulders were the same They were before: with woondrous force deepe brested they became.Theyr looke beecame feerce, cruell, grim, and sowre: a tufted tayleStretcht out in length farre after them upon the ground dooth trayle.In stead of speech they rore: in stead of bed they haunt the wood:And dreadful unto others they for all theyr cruell moode With tamed teeth chank Cybells bitts in shape of Lyons. ShonneTheis beastes deere hart: and not from theis alonely see thou ronne,But also from eche other beast that turnes not backe to flightBut offreth with his boystows brest to try the chaunce of fyght:Lest that thyne overhardinesse bee hurtfull to us both. This warning given, with yoked swannes away through aire she goth.But manhod by admonishment restreyned could not bee.By chaunce his hounds in following of the tracke, a Boare did see,And rowsed him. And as the swyne was comming from the wood,Adonis hit him with a dart askew, and drew the blood. The Boare streyght with his hooked groyne the hunting staffe out drewBestayned with his blood, and on Adonis did pursew.Who trembling and retyring back, to place of refuge drew.And hyding in his codds his tuskes as farre as he could thrustHe layd him all along for dead uppon the yellow dust. Dame Venus in her chariot drawen with swannes was scarce arrivedAt Cyprus, when shee knew afarre the sygh of him depryvedOf lyfe. Shee turnd her Cygnets backe and when shee from the skyeBeehilld him dead, and in his blood beweltred for to lye:Shee leaped downe, and tare at once hir garments from her brist, And rent her heare, and beate upon her stomack with her fist,And blaming sore the destnyes, sayd: Yit shall they not obteineTheir will in all things. Of my greefe remembrance shall remayne(Adonis) whyle the world doth last. From yeere to yeere shall groweA thing that of my heavinesse and of thy death shall showe The lively likenesse. In a flowre thy blood I will bestowe.Hadst thou the powre, Persephonee, rank sented Mints to makeOf womens limbes? and may not I lyke powre upon mee takeWithout disdeine and spyght, to turne Adonis to a flowre?This sed, shee sprinckled Nectar on the blood, which through the powre Therof did swell like bubbles sheere that ryse in weather cleereOn water. And before that full an howre expyred weere,Of all one colour with the blood a flowre she there did fyndEven like the flowre of that same tree whose frute in tender ryndeHave pleasant graynes inclosde. Howbee't the use of them is short. For why the leaves do hang so looce through lightnesse in such sort,As that the windes that all things perce, with every little blastDoo shake them off and shed them so as that they cannot last.

Now whyle the Thracian Poet with this song delyghts the myndsOf savage beastes, and drawes both stones and trees ageynst their kynds,Behold the wyves of Ciconie with red deer skinnes aboutTheir furious brists as in the feeld they gadded on a rout,Espyde him from a hillocks toppe still singing to his harp. Of whom one shooke her head at him, and thus began to carp:Behold (sayes shee) behold yoon same is he that doth disdeineUs women. And with that same woord shee sent her lawnce amayneAt Orphyes singing mouth. The Lawnce armd round about with leaves,Did hit him, and without a wound a marke behynd it leaves. ' Another threw a stone at him, which vanquisht with his sweeteAnd most melodius harmonye, fell humbly at his feeteAs sorye for the furious act it purposed. But rashAnd heady ryot out of frame all reason now did dash,And frantik outrage reigned. Yit had the sweetenesse of his song Appeasd all weapons, saving that the noyse now growing strongWith blowing shalmes, and beating drummes, and bedlem howling out,And clapping hands on every syde by Bacchus drunken rout,Did drowne the sownd of Orphyes harp. Then first of all stones wereMade ruddy with the prophets blood, and could not give him eare. And first the flocke of Bacchus froes by violence brake the ringOf Serpents, birds, and savage beastes that for to heere him singSate gazing round about him there. And then with bluddy handsThey ran uppon the prophet who among them singing stands.They flockt about him like as when a sort of birds have found An Owle a daytymes in a tod: and hem him in full round,As when a Stag by hungrye hownds is in a morning found,The which forestall him round about and pull him to the ground.Even so the prophet they assayle, and throwe their Thyrses greeneAt him, which for another use than that invented beene. Sum cast mee clods, sum boughes of trees, and sum threw stones. And lestThat weapons wherwithall to wreake theyr woodnesse which increastShould want, it chaunst that Oxen by were tilling of the groundAnd labring men with brawned armes not farre fro thence were foundA digging of the hardned earth, and earning of theyr food, With sweating browes. They seeing this same rout, no longer stood,But ran away and left theyr tooles behynd them. Every whereThrough all the feeld theyr mattocks, rakes, and shovells scattred were.Which when the cruell feends had caught, and had asunder rentThe horned Oxen, backe ageine to Orphy ward they went, And (wicked wights) they murthred him, who never till that howreDid utter woordes in vaine, nor sing without effectuall powre.And through that mouth of his (oh lord) which even the stones had heard,And unto which the witlesse beastes had often given regard,His ghost then breathing into aire, departed. Even the fowles Were sad for Orphye, and the beast with sorye syghing howles:The rugged stones did moorne for him, the woods which many a tymeHad followed him to heere him sing, bewayled this same cryme.Yea even the trees lamenting him did cast theyr leavy heare.The rivers also with theyr teares (men say) encreased were. Yea and the Nymphes of brookes and woods uppon theyr streames did sayleWith scattred heare about theyr eares, in boats with sable sayle.His members lay in sundrie steds. His head and harp both camTo Hebrus, and (a woondrous thing) as downe the streame they swam,His Harp did yeeld a moorning sound: his livelesse toong did make A certeine lamentable noyse as though it still yit spake,And bothe the banks in moorning wyse made answer to the same.At length adowne theyr country streame to open sea they came,And lyghted on Methymnye shore in Lesbos land. And thereNo sooner on the forreine coast now cast aland they were, But that a cruell naturde Snake did streyght uppon them fly,And licking on his ruffled heare the which was dropping drye,Did gape to tyre uppon those lippes that had beene woont to singMost heavenly hymnes. But Phebus streyght preventing that same thins,Dispoynts the Serpent of his bit, and turnes him into stoneWith gaping chappes. Already was the Ghost of Orphye goneTo Plutos realme, and there he all the places eft beehildThe which he heretofore had seene. And as he sought the feeldOf fayre Elysion (where the soules of godly folk doo woonne,)He found his wyfe Eurydicee, to whom he streyght did roonne,And hilld her in imbracing armes. There now he one while walksTogither with hir cheeke by cheeke: another while he stalksBefore her, and another whyle he followeth her. And nowWithout all kinde of forfeyture he saufly myght avowHis looking backward at his wyfe. But Bacchus greeved atThe murther of the Chapleine of his Orgies, suffred notThe mischeef unrevengd to bee. For by and by he boundThe Thracian women by the feete with writhen roote in ground,As many as consenting to this wicked act were found.And looke how much that eche of them the prophet did pursew,So much he sharpening of their toes, within the ground them drew.And as the bird that fynds her legs besnarled in the netThe which the fowlers suttletye hathe clocely for her set,And feeles shee cannot get away, stands flickering with her wings,And with her fearefull leaping up drawes clocer still the strings:So eche of theis when in the ground they fastned were, assaydAflayghted for to fly away. But every one was staydWith winding roote which hilld her downe. Her frisking could not boote.And whyle she lookte what was become of Toe, of nayle, and foote,Shee sawe her leggs growe round in one, and turning into woode.And as her thyghes with violent hand shee sadly striking stoode,Shee felt them tree: her brest was tree: her shoulders eeke were tree.Her armes long boughes yee myght have thought, and not deceyved bee.

But Bacchus was not so content: he quyght forsooke their land:And with a better companye removed out of hand Unto the Vyneyarde of his owne mount Tmolus, and the riverPactolus though as yit no streames of gold it did deliver,Ne spyghted was for precious sands. His olde accustomd routOf woodwards and of franticke froes envyrond him about.But old Silenus was away. The Phrygian ploughmen found Him reeling bothe for droonkennesse and age, and brought him boundWith garlands unto Midas, king of Phrygia, unto whomThe Thracian Orphye and the preest Eumolphus comming fromThe towne of Athens erst had taught the Orgies. When he knewHis fellowe and companion of the selfesame badge and crew, Uppon the comming of this guest, he kept a feast the spaceOf twyce fyve dayes and twyce fyve nyghts togither in that place.And now th'eleventh tyme Lucifer had mustred in the skyThe heavenly host, when Midas commes to Lydia jocundlyAnd yeeldes the old Silenus to his fosterchyld. He, glad That he his fosterfather had eftsoones recovered, badKing Midas ask him what he would. Right glad of that was hee,But not a whit at latter end the better should he bee.He minding to misuse his giftes, sayd: Graunt that all and someThe which my body towcheth bare may yellow gold become. God Bacchus graunting his request, his hurtfull gift performd,And that he had not better wisht he in his stomacke stormd.Rejoycing in his harme away full merye goes the king:And for to try his promis true he towcheth every thing.Scarce giving credit to himself, he pulled yoong greene twiggs From off an Holmetree: by and by all golden were the spriggs.He tooke a flintstone from the ground, the stone likewyse becamePure gold. He towched next a clod of earth, and streight the sameBy force of towching did become a wedge of yellow gold.He gathered eares of rypened come: immediatly beholde The come was gold. An Apple then he pulled from a tree:Yee would have thought the Hesperids had given it him. If heeOn Pillars high his fingars layd, they glistred like the sonne.The water where he washt his hands did from his hands so ronne,As Danae might have beene therwith beguyld. He scarce could hold His passing joyes within his harr, for making all things gold.Whyle he thus joyd, his officers did spred the boord anon,And set downe sundry sorts of meate and mancheate theruppon.Then whither his hand did towch the bread, the bread was massy gold:Or whither he chawde with hungry teeth his meate, yee might behold The peece of meate betweene his jawes a plat of gold to bee.In drinking wine and water mixt, yee myght discerne and seeThe liquid gold ronne downe his throte. Amazed at the straungeMischaunce, and being both a wretch and rich, he wisht to chaungeHis riches for his former state, and now he did abhorre The thing which even but late before he cheefly longed for.No meate his hunger slakes: his throte is shrunken up with thurst:And justly dooth his hatefull gold torment him as accurst.Then lifting up his sory armes and handes to heaven, he cryde:O father Bacchus, pardon mee. My sinne I will not hyde. Have mercy, I beseech thee, and vouchsauf to rid mee quyghtFrom this same harme that seemes so good and glorious unto syght.The gentle Bacchus streight uppon confession of his crymeRestored Midas to the state hee had in former tyme.And having made performance of his promis, hee beereft him The gift that he had graunted him. And lest he should have left himBeedawbed with the dregges of that same gold which wickedlyHee wished had, he willed him to get him by and byTo that great ryver which dooth ronne by Sardis towne, and thereAlong the chanell up the streame his open armes to beare Untill he commeth to the spring: and then his head to putFull underneathe the foming spowt where greatest was the gut,And so in washing of his limbes to wash away his cryme.The king (as was commaunded him) ageinst the streame did clyme.And streyght the powre of making gold departing quyght from him, Infects the ryver, making it with golden streame to swim.The force whereof the bankes about so soked in theyr veynes,That even as yit the yellow gold uppon the cloddes remaynes.