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- # THE RAPE OF LYCRECE.
Now stole vppon the time the dead of night,
VV hen heauie fleecep had clofd vp mortall eyes,
No comfortable ftarre did lend his light,
No noise but Owles, & wolues death-boding cries:
Now serues the season that they may surprise
The fillie Lambes, pure thoughts are dead & still,
VVhile Luft and Murder wakes to staine and kill.
And now this luftfull Lord leapt from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely ore his arme,
Is madly toft betweene defire and dred;
Th'one sweetely flatters, th'other feareth harme,
But honest feare, bewicht with luftes foule charme,
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brainefickie rude defire.
- His Faulchon on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the could ftone sparkes of fire doe flie,
VVhereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
VVhich muft be lodeftarre to his luftfull eye.
And to the flame thus speakes aduifedlie;
As from this cold flint I enforft this fire,
So Lycrece muft I force to my defire.
C
ll. 162—182
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