The Rape of Lucrece.
101
9.Lucrece continuing her laments, disputeth whether she should kill her self or no.A solemn night with slow sad gate descended
To ugly Hell, when loe the blushing morrow
Lends light to al faire eyes that light would borrow,
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloistred be.
To ugly Hell, when loe the blushing morrow
Lends light to al faire eyes that light would borrow,
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloistred be.
Revealing day through every cranny spies,
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping,
To whom she sobbing speakes, O eye of eyes,
Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy peeping,
Mock with thy tickling beames, eyes that are sleeping,
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do whats done by night.
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping,
To whom she sobbing speakes, O eye of eyes,
Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy peeping,
Mock with thy tickling beames, eyes that are sleeping,
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do whats done by night.
Thus cavils she with every thing she sees,
True grief is fond and testie as a child,
Who way-ward once, his mood with nought agrees,
Old woes, not infant sorrows bear them milde;
Continuance tames the one, the other wilde,
Like an unpractiz'd swimmer plunging still,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill.
True grief is fond and testie as a child,
Who way-ward once, his mood with nought agrees,
Old woes, not infant sorrows bear them milde;
Continuance tames the one, the other wilde,
Like an unpractiz'd swimmer plunging still,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill.
So she deep drenched in a Sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she viewes,
And to her self all sorrow doth compare,
No object but her passions strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues,
Sometime her grief is dumbe and hath no words,
Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.
Holds disputation with each thing she viewes,
And to her self all sorrow doth compare,
No object but her passions strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues,
Sometime her grief is dumbe and hath no words,
Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.
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