are but ill,
flourish & ioy, wh[=e] I shal droope and languish,
All plentious good awaite vpon thy will,
wh[=e] extreame want shal bring my soule deaths anguish.
Forced by thee (thou mercy-wanting mayd)
must I abandon this my natiue soyle,
Hoping my sorrowes heate will be allayd
by absence, tyme, necessity or toyle.
So, nowe adiew; the winds call my depart.
Thy beauties excellence, my rudest quill
Shall neuer-more vnto the world impart,
so that it know thy hate, I haue my will;
And when thou hear'st that I for thee shall perrish,
Be sorrowfull. And henceforth true loue cherrish.

FINIS.

_Poco senno basta a chi Fortuna suona._

MIRRHA
_THE_
Mother of Adonis:
_OR,
Lustes Prodegies_.

By William Barksted.

_Horrace.
Nansicetur enim pretium, nomenque
Poeta._

_Whereunto are added certaine Eglogs._

_By_ L.M.

LONDON

_Printed by_ E.A. _for_ Iohn Bache, and are to
be sold at his shop in the Popes-head Palace,
nere the Royall Exchange. 1607.

To his belooued; the Author.

_Praise where so er't be found, if it be due,
Shall no vaine cullour neede to set it foorth:
Why should I idely then extoll the worth,
Which heere (dere friend) I finde belong to you.
And if I er'd, full well the learned knewe,
How wide, amisse my mark I taken had,
Since they distinguish can the good from bad.
And through the varnish well discerne the hewe
Be glad therefore, this makes for you, and knowe,
When wiser Readers, heere shall fixe their sight,
For vertues sake, they will doe vertue right.
So shalt thou not (Friend) vnrewarded goe,
Then boldly on, good fortune to thy Muse,
Should all condemne, thou canst as well excuse_.

I.W.

_To his Louing friend and_ Kinsman:
W.B.

Thamis _nere heard a Song equall to this,
Although the Swan that ow'd this present quill
Sung to that Eccho, her owne Epitaph
As proude to die, and render up her wing
To Venus Swan, who doth more pleasing sing,
Produce thy worke & tell the powerfull tale.
Of naked Cupid, and his mothers will
My selfe I doe confine from_ Helicon,
_As loath to see the other Muses nine,
So imodestlie eye shoot, and gaze uppon
Their new borne enuie: this tenth Muse of thine,
Which in my selfe I doe in thee admire,
As_ Aesops _S