Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy, That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud; It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures: It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear; And most deceiving, when it seems most just; It shall be cause of war, and dire events, Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, By this the boy, that by her side lay kill'd, She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell, And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy father's guise, And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower. Thus weary of the world, away she hies, Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen FINIS. "Lvcrece. London. Printed by Richard Field, for Iohn Harrison, and are to be sold at the signe of the white Greyhound in Paules Churh-yard. 1594." 4to. 47 leaves. "Lvcrece At London, Printed by P. S. for Iohn Harrison. 1598." 8vo. 36 leaves. "Lvcrece London. Printed by I. H. for Iohn Harrison. 1600." 8vo. 36 leaves. "Lvcrece. At London, Printed be N. O. for Iohn Harison. 1607." 8vo. 32 leaves. |