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Ad amicam si peccatura est, ut occulte peccet

Seeing thou art faire, I barre not thy false playing,
But let not mee poore soule know of thy straying.
Nor do I give thee counsaile to live chaste,
But that thou wouldst dissemble when tis paste.
She hath not trode awne that doth denie it,
Such as confesse, have lost their good names by it.
What madnesse ist to tell night prankes by day,
And hidden secrets openlie to bewray?
The strumpet with the stranger will not do,
Before the roome be deere, and doore put too.
Will you make shipwracke of your honest name,
And let the world be witnesse of the same?
Be more advisde, walke as a puritane,
And I shall thinke you chaste, do what you can.
Slippe still, onely denie it when tis done,
And before folke immodest speeches shunne,
The bed is for lascivious toyings meete,
There use all tricks, and tread shame under feete.
When you are up and drest, be sage and grave,
And in the bed hide all the faults you have,
Be not ashamed to strippe you being there,
And mingle thighs, yours ever mine to beare.
There in your rosie lippes my tongue intombe,
Practise a thousand sports when there you come,
Forbare no wanton words you there would speake,
And with your pastime let the bedsted creake,
But with your robes, put on an honest face,
And blush, and seeme as you were full of grace.
Deceive all, let me erre, and thinke I am right,
And like a wittall thinke thee voyde of slight.
Why see I lines so oft receivde and given,
This bed, and that by tumbling made uneven,
Like one start up your haire tost and displast,
And with a wantons tooth, your necke new raste?
Graunt this, that what you do I may not see,
If you wey not ill speeches, yet wey mee:
My soule fleetes when I thinke what you have done,
And thorough everie vaine doth cold bloud runne,
Then thee whom I must love I hate in vaine,
And would be dead, but dying with thee remaine.
Ile not sift much, but hold thee soone excusde,
Say but thou wert injurously accusde.
Though while the deede be doing you be tooke,
And I see when you ope the two leavde booke:
Sweare I was blinde, yeeld not, if you be wise,
And I will trust your words more then mine eses.
From him that yeelds the garland is quickly got,
Teach but your tongue to say, I did it not,
And being justified by two words, thinke
The cause acquits you not, but I that winke.

load focus English (various, 1855)
load focus Latin (R. Ehwald, 1907)
hide References (2 total)
  • Cross-references to this page (2):
    • A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (1890), COMA
    • A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (1890), SACRA
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