Epithalamia in nuptiis ornatissimi humanissimique viri domini m. Ioannis Stridacheri, Tettnangensis, in alma Friburgi Brisgoici schola artium decurionis dignissimi, ethicesque professoris ibidem: et honestissimae, pudicissimaeque virginis Agathae Schnelliae, Tettnangensis

of the triplets, from which he would have been unharmed and safe by right, by patronage, and also by the covering of the sacred laurel, and by the leaves with which he was twice girded on his forehead, which he long ago deserved with the honor of being rich in wisdom. Was your alumnus foster-child not protected in such a way, O Phoebus Apollo, that the arrow from the art of Venus, which swift and petulant Love shot at him, would never have harmed him? Was this pleasing to the gods? Does Pallas Minerva seem to approve, and does a sentiment similar to the Aonian Muses' offspring arise? Whether the mother was wicked, or that boy was wicked who, by his mother’s warning and his own reckless craft, dared to spread nets for the Apollonian initiate? But neither the mother, as in many things, is infamous in this; I suspect the boy did not act wantonly even then: for the cause of writing this poem was mine, by which he commanded me to play the allowed nuptial songs. And that faith might be a firmer witness for you, receive what I saw recently, while Cynthius Apollo, who poorly carried Helle, the daughter of Nephele, across the sea, having almost measured it, removes the ground from the cold humors, and strips off the hoary winter and old age, compelling the flowery fields to flourish with the Zephyrs west winds. But come, what I was able to see then, I ask you to store in your innermost heart, revolving in words certainly not vain, if no illusion tricked my senses: whatever it is, however, whether this is a deceptive shadow of a body, or a species of truth, or if it was mad sleep. The sun had progressed far to the shores of the Antipodes, and Phoebus was entering the high, wide-open windows,