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Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend :
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end ;

Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,

That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.
It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud ;
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'er-straw'd
With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile :

The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.

It shall be sparing, and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures :

It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,

Make the young old, the old become a child.
It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful, and too severe,
And most deceiving, when it seems most just;

Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward ;

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
It shall be cause of war, and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:

Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.

By this the boy, that by her side lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood, that on the ground lay spill’d,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white;

Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death :

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy father's guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For every little grief to wet his eyes :
To
grow

unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good

To wither in my breast, as in his blood.
Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:

There shall not be one minute in an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ;

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.

FINIS.

LUCRECE.

“Lvcrece. London. Printed by Richard Field, for Iohn Harrison, and are to be sold at the signe of the white Greyhound in Paules Churh-yard. 1594.” 4to. 47 leaves.

“Lvcrece At London, Printed by P. S. for Iohn Harrison. 1598." 8vo. 36 leaves.

“Lvcrece London. Printed by I. H. for Iohn Harrison. 1600.” 8vo. 36 leaves.

“ Lycrece. At London, Printed be N. 0. for Iohn Harison. 1607." 8vo. 32 leaves.

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