Her chaunging lookes no colour longe can holde,
Her shifting feete still travasse to and froe.
Even as the fearce and ravening Tyger olde
That doth unware his sucking whelpes forgoe,
Doth rampe, and rage, most eger ferce and wood,
Among the shrubs and bushess that doe growe
On Ganges stronde that golden sanded flood,
Whose silver streame through India doth flowe.
Even so Medea sometime wantes her wits
To rule the rage of her unbrydeled ire,
Nowe Venus Sonne, wyth busie froward fits,
Nowe Wrath, and Love enkyndle both the fire.
What shall shee doe? when will this heynous wyght
With forwarde foote bee packing hence away
From Greece? to ease our Realme of terrour quight,
And prynces twayne whom she so sore doth fray.