Shame of thy mother soyle! ill-nurtur'd tree!
Sett, to the mischeife of posteritie!
That hand (what e're it wer) that was thy nurse,
Was sacrilegious (sure) or somewhat worse.
Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sight
Thy rising topp first stain'd the bashfull light.
That man-­-I thinke—wrested the feeble life
From his old father, that man's barbarous knife
Conspir'd with darknes 'gainst the strangers throate;
(Whereof the blushing walles tooke bloody note)
Huge high-floune poysons, eu'n of Colchos breed,
And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed,
His hands haue padled in; his hands, that found
Thy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground.
Perfidious totterer! longing for the staines
Of thy kind Master's well-deseruing braines.
Man's daintiest care, & caution cannot spy
The subtile point of his coy destiny,
W^ch way it threats. With feare the merchant's mind
Is plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind,
(Rowz'd in an angry tempest), Oh the sea!
Oh! that's his feare; there flotes his destiny:
While from another (vnseene) corner blowes
The storme of fate, to w^ch his life he owes;
By Parthians bow the soldier lookes to die,
(Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.)
The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name,
Fledg'd with her eagle's wing; the very chaine
Of his captivity rings in his eares.
Thus, Ô thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares
Farre distant from our fates, our fates, that mocke
Our giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke.
A little more, & I had surely seene
Thy greisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene;
And Œacus on his tribunall too,
Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!)
You euer-blushing meads, where doe the blest
Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest.
There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her lute
Her loue's crosse fortune, that the sad dispute
Runnes murmuring on the strings. AlcÆus there
In high-built numbers wakes his golden lyre
To tell the world, how hard the matter went,
How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment.
There these braue soules deale to each wondring eare
Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare
Without religious silence; aboue all
Warre's ratling tumults, or some tyrant's fall.
The thronging clotted multitude doth feast:
What wonder? when the hundred-headed beast
ears Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly lines;
The Furies' curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines,
And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire.
Prometheus selfe, and Pelops stervÈd sire
Are cheated of their paines; Orion thinkes
Of lions now noe more, or spotted linx.