I wonder not at Procris raging fits,
Who was affraid of thy entangling grace:
O there be many sorcerers in thy face,
Whose Magicke may enchaunt the rarest wits.
To Cephalus what would thy lookes haue bred,
When thou while as the world thy sight pursude,
As blushing of so many to be view'd,
A vale of roses ore thy beauties spred:
Then euer gazing on thine yuorie browes,
He wounded with thy Christall-pointed eyes,
Had rear'd a Trophee to the morning skies,
Not mindfull of his Hymenean vowes.
But I am glad it chanc'd not to be so,
Least I had partner bene of Procris wo.