(155) Sweete saints it is no sinne nor blame, To loue a man of vertuous name.
Did neuer loue so sweetly breath In any mortall brest before, Did neuer muse inspire beneath, (160) A Poets braine with finer store: He wrote of loue with high conceit, And beautie reard aboue hir height.
Then Pallas afterward attyrde, Our Astrophill with hir deuice, (165) Whom in his armor heauen admyrde, As of the nation of the skies, He sparkled in his armes afarrs,As he were dight with fierie starrs.
The blaze whereof when Mars beheld, (170) (An enuious eie doth see afar) Such maiestie (quoth he) is seeld, Such maiestie my mart may mar, Perhaps this may a suter be, To set Mars by his deitie.
(175) In this surmize he made with speede, An iron cane wherein he put, The thunder that in cloudes do breede, The flame and bolt togither shut. +With priuie force burst out againe, (180) And so our Astrophill was slaine.
This word (was slaine) straightway did moue, And natures inward life strings twitch, The skie immediately aboue, Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch, (185) The wrastling winds from out the ground, Fild all the aire with ratling sound.