CHORUS

¶To mingle tears w to other tears it does us good to moan: In those the burning teary streams more ardently do boil, Who ̄ secret thoughts of lurking ears in pryuy breast urmoyle: Though that thou were a gossop stout, that brook much sorrow may I warrant the, thou mightest well, lament this soar decay. Not sad and solemn A done that in the woods does sing Her sugared ditties finely tunde on sweet and pleasant string: Recording tys woeful hap in dyuers kind of note, whom Progne though he were her child and of her womb begotten, For to revenge his father's fault, she did not spare to kill: And gave his flesh and blood for food the father's maw to fill. Nor Progne who in swallows shape upon the rydges hie, Of houses sits in Biston town bewailing peteou lie, With chattering throat, of Tereus her spouse the cruel act, (Who did by strength & force of arms a shameful brutish fact. Defile the sister of his wife, fair Philomel by name, And ache cut out her tongue, least she should blab it to his shame) Though Progne this her husbands rape lamenting very soar Do wail, and weep w to piteous plaint, yet can she not deplore Sufficiently, though that she would our countries petious plight: Though he him self among the swans sir Cygnus lyllye white. who dwells in stream of Ister ood, and Tanais channel could, His weeping voice most earnestly though utter out he would: Although the Morning Halcyons with doleful sighs do wail, At such time as the fighting floods their Cyex did assail, Or rashly wearing bold attempt the seas now laid at rest, Or being very fearful fede their brood in tottering nest, Although as sqeimysh hearted men those priests in bedlam rage, Whom mother Cyble being born n high in lofty stage, Does move, so play on shaums, Ȝatys the Phrygian to lament, Yet can not they this lot bewail, though brawn from ̄ arms they rend. Cassandra in our tears there is, no measure to refrain, Those miseries all measure pa see, that plunged us in pain. The sacred fillets from thy heads, why dost thou hale and pull? They chyflye ought to worship God, whose hearts with grief be dull. ¶ The sacred Phaebus prophet is with sudden silence hushed: A quaking trembling shivering fear throughout her limbs hath rushed: Her face as pale as ashes is, her fillits stand upright, The soft and gentle goldilocks start up of her affrigyt. Her panting breathing breast stuffed up within does grunt and groan. Her glaring bright and steaming eyes are hither and thither thrown Now glau ̄ cyng up & down they roll: now standing stiff they stare. she stretcheth up her head more straight then commonly she bore, Bolt up she goes, her wrestling jaws that fast together cling, She does attempt by dyuers means, on sunder how to wring. Her more ̄ bling words in gambling mouth shut up she does assuage, As Menas mad that Bacchus ears does serve in furious rage. ¶The furious rage clean overpassed begins it self to slake, And flyps away, even as a Bull that deadly wound does take On gashed neck afront the ears: come let us ease at last Her lymbes, that of the sprite of God hath felt the mighty blast. Returning home again at length and crowned with Laurel bow (A sign of worthy victory) is Agamemnon now. The wit to meet her husband, does her speedy passage ply, Returning hand in hand, and foot by foot most lovingly.