I sing the fortune of a luckless pair, br Whose spotless souls now in one body be; br For beauty still is Prodromus to care, br Crost by the sad stars of nativity: br And of the strange enchantment of a well, br Given by the Gods, my sportive muse doth write, br Which sweet-lipp'd Ovid long ago did tell, br Wherein who bathes, straight turns Hermaphrodite: br I hope my poem is so lively writ, br That thou wilt turn half-mad with reading it.