- description
- # II. 561—581
## Overview
This section, titled "II. 561—581," is a segment of a larger work, likely a poem or play, extracted from a file. It spans lines 5034 to 5064 of the source document.
## Context
The section is part of the chapter titled "[THE RAPE OF LYGRECE.](arke:01KG6S4F3XW2RKF6WDXEATZYAA)" and was extracted from the file "[pdf-01KG6Q7Q25RHMFT3SJXPV18VFF.txt](arke:01KG6S2X2EBB305ENM00G16GWA)". It is also associated with the collection "[PDF Workflow Main Test 2026-01-30T00:26:53](arke:01KG6NWQ2H2K4PGG7H4ZHYCZ3Y)". This section follows "[II. 540—560](arke:01KG6S5MK850ECT1ZMB1GFCYK3)" and precedes "[II. 582—602](arke:01KG6S5MK5BWBC6V1A9G1AH4KV)".
## Contents
The text within this section contains dramatic verse, likely from a dramatic poem or play. It features a character pleading with another, using appeals to friendship, power, and compassion. The speaker implores the listener not to deceive them, comparing their own distress to a troubled ocean and the listener's heart to rock. The text also includes a passage where the speaker questions the listener's identity and motives, suggesting they may be impersonating someone of high status. The verse is characterized by its rhyming couplets and elevated language, typical of early modern English dramatic poetry.
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- 2026-01-30T06:26:02.862Z
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- description_title
- II. 561—581
- end_line
- 5064
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:24:08.804Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5034
- text
- II. 561—581
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# THE RAPE OF LYCRECE.
My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me,
Thy selfe art mightie, for thine own sake leaue me:
My selfe a weakling, do not then infnare me.
Thou lookst not like deceipt, do not deceiue me.
My sighes like whirlewindes labor hence to heaue
If euer man were mou'd with womäs mones, (thee.
Be moued with my teares, my sighes, my grones.
All which together like a troubled Ocean,
Beat at thy rockie, and wracke-threaming heart,
To soften it with their continuall motion:
For stones diffolu'd to water do convert.
O if no harder then a stone thou art,
Melt at my teares and be compassionate,
Soft pittie enters at an iron gate.
In TARQVING likenesse I did entertaine thee,
Hast thou put on his shape, to do him shame?
To all the Host of Heaven I complaine me.
Thou wrongst his honor, woudst his princely name:
Thou art not what thou seemst, and if the same,
Thou seemst not what thou art, a God, a King,
For kings like Gods should gourme euery thing.
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- title
- II. 561—581