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 | Octavia (1581) |  |
From
out of spousal bower dismayd with feare,
Whither go you? what secrets daughter deare
Unknowen, makes you to looke so drousely?
Why spungelike lokes your face wt tears frō eye
That fell? of truth the tyme desyred long,
And wished for by prayers, and vowes among
Hath shyned bright. Cæsars wedlock are you:
Your golden grace, wherof he tooke the view.
Him prisoner caught, and did him surely bynde,
So much the more, how much Senec his mynd
Did seeke to chaunge, and wild from loue to weeld.
And Venus chiefe in loue hath made him yeeld.
Whither go you? what secrets daughter deare
Unknowen, makes you to looke so drousely?
Why spungelike lokes your face wt tears frō eye
That fell? of truth the tyme desyred long,
And wished for by prayers, and vowes among
Hath shyned bright. Cæsars wedlock are you:
Your golden grace, wherof he tooke the view.
Him prisoner caught, and did him surely bynde,
So much the more, how much Senec his mynd
Did seeke to chaunge, and wild from loue to weeld.
And Venus chiefe in loue hath made him yeeld.
| Octavia (1581) | |