Panchaia, whose confines diuorc'd
Her fathers land: here grew all choicest fumes:
That to Ioues temples often men presumes:
and on his altars them accumulate,
and how they first sprung, here thereof the Fate.

_Hebae_ now banish'd from th' _Aetherian_ boule
vppon a feast day mongst the Gods aboue,
Where twas made lawfull, all without controule,
might freely drink it chanc'd the Queen of loue
Whether she long'd, or enuied _Hebes_ starre,
(Women are enuious, where they long for nectar)
forc'd her to skinke so much, the iuice ran ore,
so that Ioues drinke washt the defiled flore.

With this he storm'd, that's Priests from altars flie
streight banish'd _Hebae_, & the world did thinke
To a second Chaos they should turned be,
the clouds for feare wept out th' immortal drinke
and on _Panchaia_ there this Nectar fell,
Made rich th' adiacent lands with odorous smell,
and such rare spices to the shoares are giuen,
as Ioue would thinke no Nectar were in heauen.

There was a Satire rough and barbarous,
pleasing his pallat at a trembling spring:
Vnder a Beech with bowes frondiferous,
though he had seene a nimph or rarer thing
Then flesh and blood, for in the calmed streame,
He saw her eyes like stars, whose raies did gleame
Boue Phoebus farre, and so amazed stood,
as if she had bin Goddesse of that flood.

And as you see a man that hath bin long
Possessed with a furie of the shades:
after some prayers and many a sacred song,
with blessed signes, the euill spirit vades,
so fell his rudenesse from him, and her shine,
Made all his earthie parts pure and diuine.
O potent loue, great is thy power be falne,
That makes the wife mad, & the mad man calme.

Thus he begins, fairer then Venus farre,
If Venus be, or if she be tis thee:
Louelie as Lillies, brighter then the starre
that is to earth the mornings Mercurie:
Softer then Roses, sweeter breath'd then they,
blush't boue _A_urora, better cloath'd then May.
lipt like a cherrie, but of rarer taste,
Deuine as Dian, and as fully chaste.

Pardon my rude tongue, if I chance to erre,
as Hermes selfe might erre being the God
of Eloquence: for your bright eye doth beare
all earthly blessings in a faire abode,
Excuse me if I trip, I meane your weale,
Error's no error, where tis done with zeale.
Loue like materiall fires is made