The Rape of Lucrece.
121
At last he takes her by the bloudlesse hand,
And thus begins: What uncouth ill event
Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?
Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent?
Unmask, dear Dear, this moody heavinesse,
And tell thy griefe, that we may give redresse.
And thus begins: What uncouth ill event
Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?
Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent?
Unmask, dear Dear, this moody heavinesse,
And tell thy griefe, that we may give redresse.
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire,
E're once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length addrest to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her Honor is ta'n prisoner by the Foe;
While Colatine and his consorted Lords
With sad attention long to hear her Words.
E're once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length addrest to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her Honor is ta'n prisoner by the Foe;
While Colatine and his consorted Lords
With sad attention long to hear her Words.
And now this pale Swan in her watry nest,
Begins the Dirge of her certain ending;
Few words (quoth she) shall fit the trespasse best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending,
In me more woes than words are now depending,
And my laments would be drawn out too long,
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
Begins the Dirge of her certain ending;
Few words (quoth she) shall fit the trespasse best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending,
In me more woes than words are now depending,
And my laments would be drawn out too long,
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
Then be this all the task it hath to say.
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay,
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head,
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay,
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head,
And
