Xv

Far off he wonders, what them makes so glad, Or Bacchus merry fruit° they did invent, Or Cybeles franticke rites° have made them mad, They drawing nigh, unto their God present That flowre of faith and beautie excellent. The God himselfe, vewing that mirrhour rare,° Stood long amazd, and burnt in his intent; His owne faire Dryope° now he thinkes not faire, And Pholoe fowle when her to this he doth compaire.