The Complaint of the V Satyres against the Nymphs

Tell me, O Nymphes, why do you
Shune vs that your loues pursue?
What doe the Satyres notes retaine
That should merite your disdaine?

On our browes if hornes doe growe,
Was not Bacchus armèd soe?
Yet of him the Candian maid
Held no scorne, nor was affraid.

Say our colours tawny bee,
Phoebus was not faire to see;
Yet faire Clymen did not shunn
To bee Mother of his Sonne.

If our beards be rough and long,
Soe had Hercules the strong:
Yet Deianier, with many a kisse,
Joyn'd her tender lipps to his.

If our bodies hayry bee,
Mars as rugged was as wee:
Yet did Ilia think her grac'd,
For to be by Mars imbrac'd.

Say our feet ill-fauored are,
Cripples leggs are worse by farre:
Yet faire Venus, during life,
Was the lymping Vulcan's wife.

Breefly, if by nature we
But imperfect creatures be;
Thinke not our defects so much,
Since Celestial Powers be such.

But you Nymphes, whose veniall loue
Loue of gold alone doth moue,
Though you scorne vs, yet for gold
Your base loue is bought and sold.