Envies the wanton Heyfers to the death.
Tis said, that for this Bull the doting lasse,
Did use to crop young boughes, and mow fresh grasse,
Nor was the Amorous Cretan Queene a feard
To grow a kinde Companion to the Heard:
Thus through the Champion she is madly borne
And a wilde Bull, to Mynos gives the horne,
Tis not for bravery he can love or loath thee,
Then why Pasiphae dost thou richly cloth thee?
Why shouldst thou thus thy face and lookes prepare?
What makest thou with thy glasse ordering thy haire?
Vnlesse thy glasse could make thee seeme a Cow,
But how can hornes grow on that tender brow?
If Mynos please thee, no Adulterer seeke thee,
Or if thy husband Mynos doe not like thee,
But thy lascivious thoughts are still increas'd,
Deceive him with a man, not with a beast:
Thus by the Queene the wilde Woods are frequented,
And leaving the Kings bed, she is contented
To use the Groves, borne by the rage of minde,
Even as a ship with a full Easterne winde:
Some of these Strumpet-Heyfers the Queene slew,
Her smoaking Altars their warme bloods imbrew,
Whilst by the sacrificing Priest she stands,
And gripes their trembling entrailes in her hands;
At length, the Captaine of the Heard beguil'd,
With a Cowes skin, by curious Art compil'd,
The longing Queene obtaines her full desire,
And in her infants birth bewraies the Sire.

^note
When Dedalus the laborinth had built,
In which t'include the Queene Pasiphaes guilt,
And that the time was now expired full,
To inclose the Mynotaure halfe man, halfe Bul:
Kneeling he saies, Iust Mynos end my mones
And let my Native soile intombe my bones:
Or if dread Soveraigne I deserve no grace,
Looke with a pitious eye on my sonnes face.
And grant me leave from whence we are exild,
Or pitty me, if you deny my child:
This and much more he speakes, but all in vaine,
The King, both Sonne and Father will detaine,
Which he perceiving sayes: Now, now, tis fit,
To give the world cause to admire my wit,
Both Land and Sea, are watcht by day and night,
Nor Land nor Sea lies open to our flight :
Onely the Ayre remaines, then let us trie
To cut a passage through the Ayre and fly,
Iove bee aspicious to my enterprise,
I covet not to mount above the skies:
But make this refuge, since I can prepare
No meanes to flie my Lord, but through the ayre,
Make me immortall, bring me to the brim
Of the blacke Stigian Water, Styx Ile swim:
Oh humane wit, thou canst invent much ill?

Thou searchest strange Arts, who would thinke by skill,
A heavie man, like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty Heavens finde a way.
He placeth in just order all his Quils,
Whose bottomes with resolved waxe he fills,
Then binds them with a line, and being fast tide,
He placeth them like Oares on either side,
The tender Lad the downy Feathers blew,
And what his Father meant, he nothing knew:
The waxe he fastned, with the strings he plaide
Not thinking for his shoulders they were made,
To whom his Father spake (and then lookt pale)
With these swift Ships, we to our Land must saile.
All passages doth cruell Mynos stop,
Onely the empty Ayre he still leaves ope.
That way must we; the Land and the rough deepe
Doth Mynos barre, the ayre he cannot keepe:
But in thy way beware thou set no eye
On the signe Virgo, nor Boetes hye:
Looke not the blacke Orionin the face
That shakes his Sword, but just with me keepe pace.
Thy wings are now in fastning, fastning, follow me,
I will before thee fly as thou shalt see,
Thy Father mount, or stoope, so I aread thee,
Make me thy Guard, and safely I will lead thee:
If we should soare to neere great Phœbus seate,
The melting Waxe will not endure the heate,
Or if we flie too neere the Humid Seas,
Our moystened wings we cannot shake with ease.
Fly betweene both, and with the gusts that rise,
Let thy light body saile amidst the skies,
And ever as his little sonne he charmes,

He fits the feathers to his tender Armes:
And shewes him how to move his body light,
As Birds first teach their little young ones flight:
By this he calls to Counsell all his wits,
And his owne wings unto his shoulders fits,
Being about to rise, he fearefull quakes,
And in this new way his faint body shakes:
First ere he tooke his flight, he kis'd his sonne,
Whilst by his cheekes the brinish waters runne:
There was a Hillocke not so towring tall
As lofty Mountaines be, nor yet so small
To be with Valleyes even, and yet a hill,
From this thus both attempt their uncouth skill:
The Father moves his wings, and with respect
His eyes upon his wandring sonne reflect:
They beare a spacious course, and the apt boy
Fearelesse of harme, in his new tract doth joy,
And flies more boldly: Now upon them lookes
The Fishermen, that angle in the brookes,
And with their eyes cast upward, frighted stand,
By this is Samos Isle on their lift hand,
Vpon the right Lehinthos they forsake,
Aslipalen and the Fishie Lake.
Shady Pachime full of Woods and Groves.
When the rash youth too bold in ventring, roves;
Looseth his guide, and takes his flight so high
That the soft Waxe against the Sunne doth frie,
And the Cords slip that kept the Feathers fast,
So that his Armes have power upon no blast:
He fearefully from the high clouds lookes downe,
Vpon the lower heavens, whose curl'd waves frowne
At his ambitious height, and from the skies

He see blacke night and death before his eyes,
Still melts the waxe, his naked armes he shakes,
And thinking to catch hold, no hold hee takes:
But now the naked Lad downe headlong falls,
And by the way, he Father, Father calls:
Helpe Father helpe, I die, and as he speakes,
A violent surge his course of language breakes.
Th'unhappy Father, but no Father now,
Cries out aloud, Sonne Icarus where art thou?
Where art thou Icarus, where dost thou flie?
Icarus where art? When loe he may espie
The Feathers swim, aloud he doth exclaime,
The earth his bones, the Sea still beares his name.
Now from another World doth saile with joy,
A welcome daughter to the King of Troy,
The whilst the Græcians are already come,
(Mov'd with that generall wrong 'gainst Ishum:)
Achilles in a Smocke, his Sex doth smother,
And laies the blame upon his carefull mother,
What mak'st thou great Achilles, teazing Wooll,
When Pallas in a Helme should claspe thy Scull?
What doth these fingers with fine threds of gold?
Which were more fit a Warlike Shield to hold.
Why should that right hand, Rocke or Tow containe,

By which the Trojan Hector must be slaine?
Cast off thy loose vailes, and thy Armour take,
And in thy hand the Speare of Pellas shake.
Thus Lady-like he with a Lady lay,
Till what he was, must her belly bewray,
Yet was she forc't (so should we all beleeve)
Not to be forc't so, now her heart would grieve:
When he should rise from her, still would she crie,
(For he had arm'd him, and his Rocke laid by)
And with a soft voyce spake: Achilles stay,
It is too soone to rise, lie downe I pray,
And then the man that forc't her, she would kisse,
What force (Delademea) call you this?

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