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