SALMACIS
AND
HERMAPHRODITVS.
Salmacida spolia sine sanguine
& sudore.
Imprinted at London for Iohn Hodgets:
And are to be sold at his shop in Fleete-
street, at the signe of the Flowre
de Luce, neere Fetter-Lane.
1602.
To the true patronesse of all Poetrie,
CALIOPE.
Tis a statute in deepe wisdomes lore,
That for his lines none should a patro chuse
By wealth or pouerty, by lesse or more,
But who the same is able to peruse;
Nor ought a man his labours dedicate,
Without a true and sensible desert,
To any power of such a mighty state,
And such a wise Defendresse as thou art.
Thou great and powerfull Muse, then pardon mee,
That I presume thy Mayden-cheeke to stayne,
In dedicating such a worke to thee,
Sprung from the issue of an idle brayne.
I vse thee as a woman ought to bee:
I consecrate my idle howres to thee.
In laudem Authoris.
LIke to the weake estate of a poore friend,
To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow,
VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend,
VVhen his poore state may his affection shew:
So fares my loue, not able as the rest,
To chaunt thy prayses in a lofty vayne,
Yet my poore Muse doth vow to doe her best,
And wanting wings, shee'le tread an humble strayne.
I thought at first her homely steps to rayse,
And for some blazing Epithites to looke;
But then I fear'd, that by such wondrous prayse,
Some men would grow suspicious of thy booke:
For hee that doth thy due deserts reherse,
Depriues that glory from thy worthy verse.
W. B.
To the Authour.
EYther the goddesse drawes her troupe of loues
From Paphos, where she erst was held diuine,
And doth vnyoke her tender-necked Doues,
Placing her seat in this small papry shrine;
Or the sweet Graces through th'Idalian groue,
Led the blest Author in their daunced rings;
Or wanton Nymphs in watry bowres haue woue,
With fine Mylesian threds, the verse he sings;
Or curious Pallas once againe doth striue,
With prowd Arachne for illustrious glory,
And once againe doth loues of gods reuiue,
Spinning in silken twists a lasting story:
If none of these, then V enus chose his sight,
To leade the steps of her blind sonne aright.
I. B.
To the Author.
THe matchlesse Lustre of faire poesie,
Which erst was bury'd in old Romes decayes,
Now 'gins with height of rising maiesty,
Her dust-wrapt head from rotten tombes to rayse,
And with fresh splendor gilds her toplesse crest,
Rearing her palace in our Poets brest.
The wanton Ouid, whose inticing rimes
Haue with attractiue wonder forc't attention,
No more shall be admir'd at: for these times
Produce a Poet, whose more mouing passion
VVill teare the loue-sick mirtle from his browes,
T'adorne his Temple with deserued bowes.
The strongest Marble feares the smallest rayne:
The rusting Canker eates the purest gold:
Honours best dye dreads enuies blackest stayne:
The crimson badge of beautie must waxe old.
But this faire issue of thy fruitfull brayne,
Nor dreads age, enuie, cankring rust, or rayne.
A. F.
The Author to the Reader.
I Sing the fortunes of a lucklesse payre,
Whose spotlesse soules now in one body be:
For beauty still is Prodromus to care,
Crost by the sad starres of natiuitie;
And of the strange inchauntment of a well
Gi'n by the gods my sportiue Muse doth write,
Which sweet-lipt Ouid long agoe did tell,
Wherein who bathes, strait turnes Hermaphrodite.
I hope my Poeme is so liuely writ,
That thou wilt turne halfe-mayd with reading it.