Kitap 1
Caught heate by warmnesse of the Sunne, and calmenesse of the skie,
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Things out of number in the worlde, forthwith it did applie.
Whereof in part the like before in former times had bene,
And some so straunge and ougly shapes as never erst were sene.
In that she did such Monsters breede, was greatly to hir woe,
But yet thou, ougly Python, wert engendred by hir thoe.
A terror to the newmade folke, which never erst had knowne
So foule a Dragon in their lyfe, so monstrously foregrowne;
So great a ground thy poyson paunch did underneath thee hide.
The God of shooting who no where before that present tide
Those kinde of weapons put in ure, but at the speckled Deare,
Or at the Roes so wight of foote, a thousand shaftes well neere,
Did on that hideous serpent spende: of which there was not one,
But forced forth the venimd bloud along his sydes to gone.
So that his quiver almost voyde, he nailde him to the grounde,
And did him nobly at the last by force of shot confounde.
And least that time might of this worke deface the worthy fame,
He did ordeyne in mynde thereof a great and solemne game,
Which of the serpent that he slue of Pythians bare the name.
Where who so could the maistrie winne in feates of strength, or sleight
Of hande or foote or rolling wheele, might claime to have of right,
An Oken garland fresh and brave. There was not any wheare
As yet a Bay: by meanes whereof was Phebus faine to weare
The leaves of every pleasant tree about his golden heare.
Peneian Daphne was the first where Phebus set his love,
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Which not blind chaunce but Cupids fierce and cruel wrath did move.
The Delian God but late before surprisde with passing pride
For killing of the monstrous worme, the God of love espide,
With bowe in hand alredy bent and letting arrowes go:
To whome he sayd, and what hast thou thou wanton baby so
With warlike weapons for to toy? It were a better sight,
To see this kinde of furniture on my two shoulders bright:
Who when we list with stedfast hand both man and beast can wound,
Who tother day wyth arrowes keene, have nayled to the ground
The serpent Python so forswolne, whose filthie wombe did hide
So many acres of the grounde in which he did abide.
Content thy selfe sonne, sorie loves to kindle with thy brand,
For these our prayses to attaine thou must not take in hand.
To him quoth Venus sonne againe, well Phebus I agree
Thy bow to shoote at every beast, and so shall mine at thee
