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