Prometheus when firste frome heaven hye
 He broughte downe fyre, 'ere then on earthe not seene,
Fond of Delight, a Satyre standing bye
 Gaue it a kyss, as it lyke Sweete had bene.


Feelinge forthewithe the other's burninge powre,
 Wood withe the smarte, with shoutes and shreakinge shrill,
He soughte his ease in river, feilde and bowre,
 But for the tyme his griefe wente with him still.


So seelye I, with that unwonted syghte
 In humane shape, an angell from above,
Feedinge mine eyes, th'impressione there did lyghte,
 That since I reste and runn as pleaseth Love.


The difference is, the Satyre's lypps, my harte,--
He for a tyme, I evermore,--have smarte.


Finis.