The Grecian Story Being an Historical Poem, in Five Books. To which is Annex'd The Grove: Consisting of Divers Shorter Poems upon several Subjects. By J. H. [i.e. John Harington] |
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 | The Grecian Story |  |
Forth strait she ran; My dear
Orsamnes; cryes:
Four Villains when did grasp her there, Surprize,
With sturdy Arms bruis'd Fairest Innocence
Clermanthe tho scarce Frighted seem'd from thence;
Since those conceiv'd the Butchers of her Lord,
Whose Hands might Death to her own self afford,
Cure bleeding Heart; strange Griefs extream that Hour
Nature's Grand Fears did stifle much, orepow'r.
Life's Joy discharg'd: yet struck to th' Soul, confounded,
They stop'd her Loving Course, these words she sounded
(Sad voice) from mournful Brest. Come, welcome You,
My Lord's joyn'd Murtherers, since I shall sue
For that Death's stroke, to which constrain'd of late,
Enforc'd himself; tho, worse than Savage Hate,
Kill me not here: Spare th' ancient Man i'th' Cell,
Next, let me breath o'th' Corps my last farewell,
Then wound my Heart; I shall confess y'are Men;
Beasts, Furies else, broke from th' Infernal Den,
Three of that Rout leap'd in at first for Prize,
Timondes grasp, whose Sword before their Eyes
Took then in hand; fast bound he prov'd howe're
Her Jewel-box, much Gold they seized there
The Fourth in sport Clermanthe rudely led
To th' Sable Curtain'd Walk, whose Fatal Bed
Black Couch appear'd of all disastrous Ill;
That Stygian Wood where Ghosts inhabit still.
Four Villains when did grasp her there, Surprize,
With sturdy Arms bruis'd Fairest Innocence
Clermanthe tho scarce Frighted seem'd from thence;
136
Whose Hands might Death to her own self afford,
Cure bleeding Heart; strange Griefs extream that Hour
Nature's Grand Fears did stifle much, orepow'r.
Life's Joy discharg'd: yet struck to th' Soul, confounded,
They stop'd her Loving Course, these words she sounded
(Sad voice) from mournful Brest. Come, welcome You,
My Lord's joyn'd Murtherers, since I shall sue
For that Death's stroke, to which constrain'd of late,
Enforc'd himself; tho, worse than Savage Hate,
Kill me not here: Spare th' ancient Man i'th' Cell,
Next, let me breath o'th' Corps my last farewell,
Then wound my Heart; I shall confess y'are Men;
Beasts, Furies else, broke from th' Infernal Den,
Three of that Rout leap'd in at first for Prize,
Timondes grasp, whose Sword before their Eyes
Took then in hand; fast bound he prov'd howe're
Her Jewel-box, much Gold they seized there
The Fourth in sport Clermanthe rudely led
To th' Sable Curtain'd Walk, whose Fatal Bed
Black Couch appear'd of all disastrous Ill;
That Stygian Wood where Ghosts inhabit still.
| The Grecian Story | |