Three Sorts Of Serpents Doe Resemble Thee; That Daungerous Eye-Killing Cockatrice, Th' Inchaunting Syren, Which Doth So Entice, The Weeping Crocodile; These Vile Pernicious Three. The Basiliske His Nature Takes From Thee, Who For My Life In Secret Wait Do'St Lye, And To My Heart Send'St Poyson From Thine Eye: Thus Do I Feele The Paine, The Cause Yet Cannot See. Faire-Mayd No More, But Mayr-Maid Be Thy Name, Who With Thy Sweet Aluring Harmony Hast Playd The Thiefe, And Stolne My Hart From Me, And, Like A Tyrant, Mak'St My Griefe Thy Game. The Crocodile, Who, When Thou Hast Me Slaine, Lament'St My Death With Teares Of Thy Disdaine.