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- # THE RAPE OF LYCRECE
Poore Instrument (quoth shee) without a sound,
Ile tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
And drop sweet Balme in PRIAMS painted wound,
And raile on PIRRHYS that hath done him wrong;
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long;
And with my knife scratch out the angrie eyes,
Of all the Greekes that are thine enemies.
Shew me the strumpet that began this stur,
That with my nailes her beautie I may teare:
Thy heat of lust fond PARIS did incur
This lode of wrath, that burning Troy doth beare;
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,
And here in Troy for trespasse of thine eye,
The Sire, the sonne, the Dame, and daughter die.
V Vhy should the priuate pleasure of some one
Become the publicke plague of manie moe?
Let finne alone committed, light alone
Vppon his head that hath transgressed so.
Let guiltlesse soules be freed from guilty woe,
For ones offence why should so many fall?
To plague a priuate finne in generall.
11. 1464—1484
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