Sayd theis and many other woordes with brest bescratcht and rent:
O daughter myne, the last for whom thy moother may lament,
(For what remaynes?) O daughter, thou art dead and gone. I see
Thy wound which at the verry hart strikes mee as well as thee.
And lest that any one of myne unwounded should depart,
Thou also gotten hast a wound. Howbee't bycause thou wart
A woman, I beleeved thee from weapon to bee free.
But notwithstanding that thou art a woman, I doo see
Thee slayne by swoord. Even he that kild thy brothers killeth thee,
Achilles, the decay of Troy and maker bare of mee.
What tyme that he of Paris shaft by Phebus meanes was slayne,
I sayd of feerce Achilles now no feare dooth more remayne.
But then, even then he most of all was feared for to bee.
The asshes of him rageth still ageinst our race I see.
Wee feele an emny of him dead and buryed in his grave.
To feede Achilles furie, I a frutefull issue gave.
Great Troy lyes under foote, and with a ryght great greevous fall
The mischeeves of the common weale are fully ended all.
But though to others Troy be gone, yit standes it still to mee:
My sorrowes ronne as fresh a race as ever and as free.
I late ago a sovereine state, advaunced with such store
Of daughters, sonnes, and sonneinlawes, and husband over more
And daughtrinlawes, am caryed like an outlawe bare and poore,
By force and violence haled from my childrens tumbes, to bee
Presented to Penelope a gift, who shewing mee
In spinning my appoynted taske, shall say: This same is shee
That was sumtyme king Priams wyfe, this was the famous moother
Of Hector. And now after losse of such a sort of other,
Thou (whoo alonly in my greefe my comfort didst remayne,)
To pacifye our emnyes wrath uppon his tumb art slayne.
Thus bare I deathgyfts for my foes. To what intent am I
Most wretched wyght remayning still? Why doo I linger? Why
Dooth hurtfull age preserve mee still alive? To what intent,
Yee cruell Goddes, reserve yee mee that hath already spent
Too manye yeeres, onlesse it bee new buryalls for to see?
And whoo would think that Priamus myght happy counted bee
Sith Troy is razed? Happy man is hee in being dead.
Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/354
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