Where stands a Cops, in which the wood-Nymphs shrove,
(No wood) it rather seemes a slender Grove.
The humble shrubs and bushes hide the grasse,
Here Lawrell, Rosemary, here Myrtill was.
Here grew thicke Box, and Tam'rix, that excells,
And made a meere confusion of sweet smels:
The Triffoly, the Pine, and on this Heath
Stands many a plant that feeles coole Zephirs breath.
Here the young Cephalus tyr'd in the chace,
Vsd his repose and rest alone t'embrace,
And where he sat, these words he would repeate,
Come Ayre, sweete Ayre, come coole my heate:
Come gentle Ayre, I never will forsake thee,
Ile hug thee thus, and in my bosome take thee.
Some double dutious Tel-tale hapt to heare this,
And to his jealous wife doth straight-way beare this.
Which Procris hearing, and with all the Name
Of Ayre, (sweete Ayre) which he did oft proclaime,
She stands confounded, and amaz'd with griefe,
Be giving this fond tale too sound beleefe.
And lookes as doe the trees by Winter nipt,
Whom Frost and cold, of fruit and leaves halfe stript,
She bends like corveile, when too ranke it growes,
Or when the ripe fruits clog the Quince-tree bowes:
But when she comes t'her selfe, she teares
Her Garments, her eyes, her cheekes, and haires,
And then she starts, and to her feete applies her,
Then to the Woods (starke Wood) in rage she hies her,
Approaching some-what neare her servants they
By her appointment in a Vally stay,
Whilst she alone with creeping paces steales
To take the strumpet whom her Lord conceales.

What mean'st thou Procris in these Groves to hide thee?
What rage of love doth to this madnesse guide thee?
Thou hop'st the Ayre he cals, in all her braverie
Will straight approach, and thou shalt see their knavery?
And now againe it Irkes her to be there,
For such a killing sight her heart will teare.
No truce can with her troubled thoughts dispence,
She would not now be there, nor yet be thence:
Behold the place: her jealous minde foretels,
Here doe they Vse to meete, and no where else:
The Grasse is laid, and see their true impression,
Even here they lay: I, here was their transgression.
A bodies print she saw, it was his seate,
Which makes her faint heart gainst her ribs to beate,
Phœbus the lofty Easterne Hill had scald,
And all moist vapours from the earth exhald:
Now in his noone-tide point he shineth bright,
It was the middle houre, twixt noone and night:
Behold young Cephalus drawes to the place,
And with the Fountaine water sprinkes his face,
Procris is hid, upon the grasse he lies,
And come sweete Zephir, Come sweet Ayre he cryes.
She sees her error now from where he stood,
Her mind returnes to her, and her fresh blood,
Among the Shrubs and Briers she moves and rustles,
And the injurious boughes away she justels,
Intending, as he lay there to repose him,
Nimbly to run, and in her armes inclose him:
He quickly casts his eye upon the bush,
Thinking therein some savage beast did rush,
His bow he bends, and a keene shaft he drawes,
Vnhappy man, what dost thou? Stay and pause.

It is no bruit beast thou wouldst reave of life;
(Oh man unhappy) thou hast slaine thy wife?
Oh Heaven she cries, Oh helpe me I am slaine,
Still doth thy Arrow in my wound remaine,
Yet though by timelesse Fate my bones here lie,
It glads me most, that I, no Cuck-queane die:
Her breath (thus in the Armes she most affected,)
She breaths into the Ayre (before suspected
The whilst he lifts her body from the ground,
And with his teares doth wash her bleeding wound.

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