NERINA

Must I be then the Raven, and sinister Relater of so bitter news? Oh wretched, Wretched Montano; ah what wilt thou do, When thou shalt hear the sad, and killing story Of thy own only Silvia? poor old man, Most hapless father of a hapless child; Ah now no father. Yet he shall know it; and go gather up Unhappy relics, (if yet any be;) Ah Silvia Silvia, Oh accursed fate. Daphne? There's cause enough Daphne; ah too too much. Oh heaven, Must I be then th'vnhappy' historian? And yet it's fit I tell my sad tale out. Silu'ia starnak'd (whereof ye know perhaps The cause) came to our house, where being clad, She afterwards desired me I would go A hunting with her, as it was before Appointed, to the Grove of Oaks, (for so The place ye know is called;) I did agree; And onn we went, and found there many Nymph's Gathered together; not far off, behold Rushes a huge Wolf forth, whose yawning jaws Foamed with a bloody froth; Silvia then near him Let fly a shaft at him; and in his head The arrow light; he took the wood again, And she at heals pursued him with a Dart Into the wood.— I with and other Dart followed their footing; But setting out too late, was cast far off; And having gained the wood, I lost the sighed Of them; yet kept their track, and ran so far, Till I was God into the desertest And thickest of the wood; at length I found (And took up) Silvia's Dart upon the ground; And not far off a white veil, which (ere while) I did my self bind up her hair withal; And while I looked about Me, Ispi'de seven Wolves Licking blood off the ground, that scattered lay About a few bore bones; and 'twas my hap To escape unseen, while they so earnestly Minded their pray. I full of fear turned back, and came my way. And this is all that I can say of Silvia; And here's the veil. He breath's yet, he's but in a trance; Tarry he comes again t'himselfe. Ay me, wretch that I am, why did I speak? Shall I denie't, or shall I give it him? The cause he asks it for, bids me retain it. He runs so fast, will be in vain for us To follow him; 'twere best I onward went Upon my way; and yet perhaps 'twere better I stayed, and held my peace, then my self be Author of poor Montano's misery.