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- bafkreignwgadeooxxls3zrqkr45476yd5jdnnpmdm4vymnech5gwjmoary
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- pdf-page-1769806914038-g2jjl5n9c57
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- text
- THE
RAPE
OF
L
V
C
R E
C
E.
Now
dole
\
ppon
the
time
the
dead
of
night,
V
V
hen
hcauie
fleecp
had
clofd
vp
niortall
eyes,
No
comfortable
ftarre
did lend
his
light,
No
noife
but
O
wles,
&
wolues
death-boding
cries:
Now
ferucs
the
feafon
that
they
may
furprifc
The
fillic
Lambes,
pure
thoughts
are
dead
&:
ftill,
While
Luft
and
Murder
wakes
to ftaine
and
kill.
And
now
this luflfull
Lord
leapt
from
his
bed.
Throwing
his
mantle rudely
ore
his
arnic,
Is
madly
toft
betweene
defire
and
drcd^
Tb'one
fwectely
flatters,
th'otherfearethharmc,
But
honeftfcare5bewicht
with
luftesfoulecharme,
Doth
too too
oft
betake him
to
retire,
Beaten
away
by
braincfickc rude
defire.
His
Faulchon
on a
flint
he
foftly fmiteili,
That
from
the
could
ftone
fparkes
of
fire
doe
flic,
Whereat
a
waxen
torch
forthwith
he li^hteth.
Which
muft
be lodeftarre
to
his
luftfull
eye.
And
to
the
flame
thus
fpcakes aduifedliej
As from
this
cold
flmt
I
enforft
this fire.
So L
V c R-E c
E
muft
Iforce
to
my
defire.
C
11. 162—182
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