The Rape of Lucrece.
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My sorrowes interest, let no mourner say
He weepes for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be waild by Colatine.
He weepes for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be waild by Colatine.
O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spild.
Woe, woe, quoth Colatine, she was my wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kild.
My daughter and my wife with clamors fild
The disperst aire, who holding Lucrece life,
Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.
Which she too early and too late hath spild.
Woe, woe, quoth Colatine, she was my wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kild.
My daughter and my wife with clamors fild
The disperst aire, who holding Lucrece life,
Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.
Brutus, who pluckt the knife from Lucrece side,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Began to cloth his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece wound his follies show:
He with the Romanes was esteemed so,
As silly leering ideots are with kings,
For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Began to cloth his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece wound his follies show:
He with the Romanes was esteemed so,
As silly leering ideots are with kings,
For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.
But now he throwes that shallow habit by,
Wherein the Policy did him disguise,
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the teares in Colatinus eyes,
Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise.
Let my unsounded self suppos'd a fool
Now set thy long experienst wit to school.
Wherein the Policy did him disguise,
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the teares in Colatinus eyes,
Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise.
Let my unsounded self suppos'd a fool
Now set thy long experienst wit to school.
Why Colatine, is woe the cure for woe;
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is
