A New Sonnet shewing how the Goddess Diana, transforme[d]
Acteon into the shape of a Hart. To a New Tune.
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DIANA and her Darlings dear,
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went walking on a day,
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Throughout the Woods and waters clear
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for their disports and play,
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The leaves aloft were very green,
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and pleasant to behold,
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These Nimphs they walkt the trees between
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under the shaddows cold.
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So long at last they found a place,
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of Springs and waters clear,
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A fairer Bath there never was
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found out this thousand year:
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Wherein Diana daintily
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her self began to Bath.
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And all her Virgins fair and pure,
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themselves did wash and lave.
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And as the Nymphs in water stood,
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Acteon passed by,
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As he came running through the Wood,
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on them he cast his eye:
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And eke beheld their bodies bare,
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then presently that tide,
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And as the Nymphs of him were ware,
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with voice aloud they cry'd.
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And clos'd Diana round about,
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to hide her body small,
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Yet she was highest in the rout,
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and seen above them all.
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And when Diana did perceive
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where Acteon he did stand,
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A furious look to him she gave,
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and took her Bow in hand;
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And as she was about to shoot,
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Acteon began to run,
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To hide he thought it was no boot,
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his former sight was done.
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And as he thought from her to scape,
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she brought it so to pass,
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Incontinently she chang'd his Shape,
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even running as he was:
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Each Goddess took Diana's part,
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Acteon to transform,
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To make of him a huge Wild Hart,
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there they did all determ:
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His skin that was so fine and fair,
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was made a Tawny red,
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His body overgrown with hair,
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from feet unto the head.
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And on his head great horns were set,
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most wonderous to behold,
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A huger hart was never met
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nor seen upon the Mold:
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His ears and eyes that was so fair,
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transformed were full strange,
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His hands his feet compelled were,
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throughout the Woods to range.
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Thus was he made a perfect Hart,
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and waxed fierce and grim,
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His former shape did quite depart
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from every joynt and Limb:
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But still his memory did remain,
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although he might not speak,
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Nor yet among his friends complain,
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his woful mind to break.
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At length he thought for to repair
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home to his dwelling place,
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Anon of him his hounds were ware
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and 'gan to run apace,
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Then Acteon was soon agast
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his hounds would him devour,
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And from them then he fled full fast,
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with all his might and power.
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The Second Part to the Same Tune.
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HE spared neither Bush nor Brake,
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but ran through thick and thin,
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With all the swiftness he could make,
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in hope to save his skin:
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Yet were his hounds so near his tail,
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and followed him so fast,
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His running might not him avail,
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for all his speed and hast,
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For why his hounds would never lin.
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till they him overtook,
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And then they rent and tore his skin,
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and all his body shook;
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I am your Master Acteon
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then cry'd he to his hounds,
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And made unto them rueful moans,
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with sad lamenting sounds:
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I have been he which gave you food,
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wherein I took delight,
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Therefore suck not your masters blood,
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his friendship to requite:
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But those Curs of a cursed kind,
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on him had no remorse,
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Although he was their dearest friend,
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they pulld him down by force.
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There was no man to take his part,
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the story telleth plain,
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Thus Acteon a huge wild hart
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among the Does was slain.
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You hunters all that range the wood
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although you rise up rath,
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Beware you come not nigh the flood,
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were Virgins use to Bath.
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For if Diana you espy,
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amongst her Darlings dear,
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Your former shape she will disguise,
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and make you horns to wear;
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And so I now conclude my Song,
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have nothing to alledge,
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If Acteon had right or wrong,
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let all true Virgins judge.
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COme little Babe, come silly soul,
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thy Fathers shame and mothers grief,
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Born as I doubt to all our doles,
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and to thy self unhappy chief:
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Sing lullaby and keep it warm,
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Poor soul it think'st no creature harm;
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Thou little think'st and least doth know,
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the cause of this thy Mothers moan:
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Thou wantest wit to wail or woe,
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and I my self am left alone;
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Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
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And knowest not what doth thee ail?
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Come silly wretch, ah silly heart,
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my only joy, what can I more?
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If there be any wrong thy smart,
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that may thy destiny deplore;
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'Tis I, I say against my will,
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I wait the time, but be thou still;
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And dost thou smile, O thou sweet face
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I would thy Dad the same might see,
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No doubt but it would purchase grace,
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I know it would for thee and me.
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But come to mother babe and play,
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Poor Father false is fled away.
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Sweet babe if't be thy fortune chance,
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thy Father home again to send,
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If death doth strike me with his Launce,
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yet mayst thou me to him commend;
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If any ask thy Mothers name,
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Tell how by love she purches'd blame.
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Then will his gentle heart soon yield,
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I know him of a Noble mind,
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Although a Lyon in the field,
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a Lamb in Town thou shalt him find:
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Ask blessing Lad, be not afraid,
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his Sugred lips hath me betray'd.
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Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
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although in woe I seem to mourn,
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Thy Father is no Rascal Lad,
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a noble youth of blood and bone.
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His glancing look if he once smile,
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Right honest Women will beguile.
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Come little boy and Rock asleep,
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sing Lullaby and do not cry,
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I can do nought else but weep,
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and sit by thee the Lullaby.
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God bless the babe and Lullaby,
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From this thy Fathers quality.
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FINIS.
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