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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 stand
Thrace (Greece) (search for this): book 13, card 494
or all is lost. Nay yit remaynes (for whome I well can fynd In hart to live a little whyle) an imp unto my mynd Most deere, now only left alone, sumtyme of many mo The yoongest, little Polydore, delivered late ago To Polemnestor, king of Thrace, whoo dwelles within theis bounds. But wherefore doo I stay so long in wasshing of her wounds, And face berayd with gory blood? In saying thus, shee went To seaward with an aged pace and hory heare beerent. And (wretched woman) as shee calld fo, And wirryed it beetweene her teeth. And as shee opte her chappe To speake, in stead of speeche shee barkt. The place of this missehappe Remayneth still, and of the thing there done beares yit the name. Long myndfull of her former illes, shee sadly for the same Went howling in the feeldes of Thrace. Her fortune moved not Her Trojans only, but the Greekes her foes to ruthe: her lot Did move even all the Goddes to ruthe: and so effectually, That Hecub to deserve such end even Juno did denye.
beene stone. One whyle the ground shee staard uppon. Another whyle a gastly looke shee kest to heaven. Anon Shee looked on the face of him that lay before her killd. Sumtymes his woundes, (his woundes I say) shee specially behilld. And therwithall shee armd her selfe and furnisht her with ire: Wherethrough as soone as that her hart was fully set on fyre, As though shee still had beene a Queene, to vengeance shee her bent Enforcing all her witts to fynd some kynd of ponnishment. And as a Lyon robbed of her whelpes becommeth wood, And taking on the footing of her emnye where hee stood, Purseweth him though out of syght: even so Queene Hecubee (Now having meynt her teares with wrath) forgetting quyght that shee Was old, but not her princely hart, to Polemnestor went The cursed murtherer, and desyrde his presence to th'entent To shew to him a masse of gold (so made shee her pretence) Which for her lyttle Polydore was hid not farre from thence. The Thracian king beleeving her, as
m 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 stTroy 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 ng and forswearing too, shee looked sternely tho, And beeing sore inflaamd with wrath, caught hold uppon him, and Streyght calling out for succor to the wyves of Troy at hand Did in the traytors face bestowe her nayles, and scratched out His eyes, her anger gave her hart and made her strong and stout. Shee thrust her fingars in
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 al