The Rape of Lucrece.
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My bloody Judge forbad my tongue to speak,
No rightful plea might plead for Justice there:
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear,
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes,
And when the Judge is rob'd, the prisoner dies.
No rightful plea might plead for Justice there:
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear,
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes,
And when the Judge is rob'd, the prisoner dies.
O teach me how to make mine own excuse,
Or (at the least) this refuge let me find;
Tho my grosse blood be stain'd with this abuse,
Immaculate and spotlesse is my mind,
That was not forc'd; that never was inclin'd
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.
Or (at the least) this refuge let me find;
Tho my grosse blood be stain'd with this abuse,
Immaculate and spotlesse is my mind,
That was not forc'd; that never was inclin'd
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.
Loe here the hopelesse Merchant of this losse,
With head inclin'd, and voice dam'd up with woe,
With sad set eyes, and wretched arms acrosse,
From lips new waxen pale, begins to blow
The grief away that stops his answer so:
But wretched as he is, he strives in vain,
What he breaths out, his breath drinks up again.
With head inclin'd, and voice dam'd up with woe,
With sad set eyes, and wretched arms acrosse,
From lips new waxen pale, begins to blow
The grief away that stops his answer so:
But wretched as he is, he strives in vain,
What he breaths out, his breath drinks up again.
As through an Arch the violent roaring Tide,
Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste:
Yet in the Eddy boundeth in his pride,
Backe to the strait that forc'd him on so fast;
In rage sent out, recall'd in rage being past;
Even so his sighs his sorrows make a saw,
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.
Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste:
Yet in the Eddy boundeth in his pride,
Backe to the strait that forc'd him on so fast;
In rage sent out, recall'd in rage being past;
Even so his sighs his sorrows make a saw,
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.
Which
