ELEGIA 7
Ad pacandam amicam, quam verberaveratBinde fast my hands, they have deserved chaines,
While rage is absent, take some friend the paynes.
For rage against my wench mov'd my rash arrne,
My Mistresse weepes whom my mad hand did harme.
I might have then my parents deare misus'd,
Or holy gods with cruell strokes abus'd.
Why? Ajax, maister of the seven-fould shield,
Butcherd the flocks he found in spatious field,
And he who on his mother veng'd his sire,
Against the destinies durst sharpe darts require.
Could I therefore her comely tresses teare?
Yet was she graced with her ruffled hayre.
So fayre she was, she resembled,
Before whose bow th'Arcadian wild beasts trembled.
Such Ariadne was, when she bewayles
Her perjur'd Theseus flying vowes and sayles,
So chast Minerva did Cassandra fall,
Deflowr'd except, within thy Temple wall.
That I was mad, and barbarous all men cried,
She nothing said, pale feare her tongue had tyed.
But secretlie her lookes with checks did trounce mee,
Her teares, she silent, guilty did pronounce me.
Would of mine armes, my shoulders had beene scanted,
Better I could part of my selfe have wanted.
To mine owne selfe have I had strength so furious?
And to my selfe could I be so injurious?
Slaughter and mischiefs instruments, no better,
Deserved chaines these cursed hands shall fetter,
Punisht I am, if I a Romaine beat,
Over my Mistris is my right more great?
Tydides left worst signes of villanie,
He first a Goddesse strooke; an other I.
Yet he harrn'd lesse, whom I profess'd to love,
I harm'd: a foe did Diomedes anger move.
Go now thou Conqueror, glorious triumphs raise,
Pay vowes to Jove, engirt thy hayres with baies,
And let the troupes which shall thy Chariot follow,
Jo, a strong man conquerd this Wench, hollow.
Let the sad captive formost with lockes spred
On her white necke but for hurt cheekes be led.
Meeter it were her lips were blewe with kissing
And on her necke a wantons marke not missing.
But though I like a swelling floud was driven,
And as a pray unto blinde anger given,
Wa'st not enough the fearefull Wench to chide?
Nor thunder in rough threatings haughty pride?
Nor shamefully her coate pull ore her crowne,
Which to her wast her girdle still kept downe.
But cruelly her tresses having rent,
My nayles to scratch her lovely cheekes I bent.
Sighing she stood, her bloodlesse white lookes shewed
Like marble from the ParianMountaines hewed.
Her halfe dead joynts, and trembling limmes I sawe,
Like Popler leaves blowne with a stormy flawe,
Or slender eares, with gentle Zephire shaken,
Or waters tops with the warme south-winde taken.
And downe her cheekes, the trickling teares did flow,
Like water gushing from consuming snowe.
Then first I did perceive I had offended,
My bloud, the teares were that from her descended.
Before her feete thrice prostrate downe I fell,
My feared hands thrice back she did repell.
But doubt thou not (revenge doth griefe appease)
With thy sharpe nayles upon my face to seaze.
Bescratch mine eyes, spare not my lockes to breake,
(Anger will helpe thy hands though nere so weake.)
And least the sad signes of my crime remaine,
Put in their place thy keembed haires againe.