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De amica, quoe periuraverat

What, are there Gods? her selfe she hath forswore,
And yet remaines the face she had before.
How long her lockes were, ere her oath she tooke:
So long they be, since she her faith forsooke.
Faire white with rose red was before commixt:
Now shine her lookes pure white and red betwixt.
Her foote was small: her footes forme is most fit:
Comely tall was she, comely tall shee's yet.
Sharpe eyes she had: radiant like starres they be,
By which she perjurd oft hath lyed to me.
Insooth th'eternall powers graunt maides society
Falsely to sweare, their beauty hath some deity.
By her eyes I remember late she swore,
And by mine eyes, and mine were pained sore.
Say gods: if she unpunisht you deceive,
For others faults, why do I losse receive?
But did you not so envy CepheusDaughter,
For her ill-beautious Mother judgd to slaughter?
Tis not enough, she shakes your record off;
And unrevengd mockt Gods with me doth scoffe.
But by my paine to purge her perjuries,
Couzend, I am the couzeners sacrifice.
God is a name, no substance, feard in vaine,
And doth the world in fond beliefe deteine.
Or if there be a God, he loves fine wenches,
And all things too much in their sole power drenches.
Mars girts his deadly sword on for my harme:
Pallas launce strikes me with unconquerd arme.
At me Apollo bends his pliant bowe:
At me Joves right-hand lightning hath to throwe.
The wronged Gods dread faire ones to offend,
And feare those, that to feare them least intend.
Who now will care the Altars to perfilme?
Tut, men should not their courage so consume.
Jove throwes downe woods, and Castles with his fire:
But bids his darts from perjurd girles retire.
Poore Semele, among so many burn'd;
Her owne request to her owne torment turnd.
But when her lover came, had she drawne backe,
The fathers thigh should unborne Bacchus lacke.
Why grieve I? and of heaven reproches pen?
The Gods have eyes, and brests as well as men.
Were I a God, I should give women leave,
With lying lips my God-head to deceave,
My selfe would sweare, the wenches true did sweare,
And I would be none of the Gods severe.
But yet their gift more moderately use,
Or in mine eyes good wench no paine transfuse.

load focus English (various, 1855)
load focus Latin (R. Ehwald, 1907)
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