Oenone to Paris

To Paris that was once her owne though now it be not so,
From Ida, Oenon greeting sendes as these hir letters show,
May not thy novell wife endure that thou my Pistle reade?
That they with Grecian fist were wrought thou needste not stand in dreade.
Pegasian nymph renounde in Troie, Oenone hight by name,
Of thee (that were mine owne) complaine if thou permit the same.
What froward God doth seeke to barre Oenone to be thine?
Or by what guilt have I deservde that Paris should decline?
Take paciently deserved wo and never grutch at all:
But undeserved wrongs will grieve a woman at the gall.
Scarce were thou of so noble fame, as platly doth appeare:
When I (the offspring of a floud) did choose thee for my feere.
And thou, who now art Priams sonne, (all reverence layd apart)
Were tho a Hyard to beholde when first thou wanste my heart.
How oft have we in shaddow laine whylst hungrie flocks have fedde?
How oft have we of grasse and greaves preparde a homely bed?
How oft on simple stacks of strawe and bennet did we rest?
How oft the dew and foggie mist our lodging hath opprest?
Who first discoverde thee the holtes and lawndes of lurcking game?
Who first displaid thee where the whelps lay sucking of their Dame?
I sundrie tymes have holpe to pitch thy toyles for want of ayde:
And forst thy Hounds to climbe the hilles that gladly would have stayde.
One boysteous Beech Oenones name in outward barke doth beare:
And with thy carving knife is cut OENON, every wheare.
And as the trees in tyme doe ware so doth encrease my name:
Go to, grow on, erect your selves helpe to advance my fame.
There growes (I minde it verie well) upon a banck, a tree
Whereon ther doth a fresh recorde and will remaine of mee,
Live long thou happie tree, I say, that on the brinck doth stande:
And hast ingraved in thy barke these wordes, with Paris hande:
" When Pastor Paris shall revolte, and Oenons love forgoe:
Then Xanthus waters shall recoile, and to their Fountaynes floe."
Now Ryver backward bend thy course, let Xanthus streame retier:
For Paris hath renounst the Nymph and proovde himself a lier.
That cursed day bred all my doole, the winter of my joy,
With cloudes of froward fortune fraught procurde me this annoy;
When cankred craftie Juno came with Venus (Nurce of Love)
And Pallas eke, that warlike wench, their beauties pride to prove.