The Seventh Satyre

How now fond Tereus, whither rid'st so fast,
To Progne or to Itis? O, it's true,
Thou goest vnto thy sister, made vnchast,
By thy enforced rape, for she nere knew
What lusts-embraces meant, till thou hadst taught her,
Which gaue her cause of sorrowing euer after.

Come backe againe, go to thy chast wiues bed,
Wrong not the honour of a spotlesse wife,
What fruite yeelds lust when thou hast surfeted,
But wretched death, drawne from a wicked life?
Returne fond lustfull man, do not dishonour
Poore Phylomele, for heauens eyes looke on her.

It may be thou alledg'st, rusticity
Appeareth in the fashions of thy Deare;
Is this a cloake to liue licentiously?
No, if her breeding more vnciuill were,
These should not be occasions of thy shame,
For in discretion thou shouldst couer them.

Thou art that Rusticke, she the modest flower,
Not seeking for to grow with other plants
Then with thy selfe, though thou for euery boore,
Suites thy affection, yet affection wants:
She loues, thou lusts, thine is a borrowed name,
For shame-fast loue need neuer blush for shame.

How now Prince Phineus, where's thy childrens eyes,
Are they put out, who mou'd thee to offend?
Was it Idaea, whom the gods defies?
Whom neither heauen nor earth can well commend.
It was Idaea, she the Step-dame cries,
Haste Phineus haste, pull out thy childrens eyes.

He'le do it for thee, there's no question why,
To faire Idaea, chast Queene to his bed,
He should the murdring of his soule deny,
Much lesse to cause his childrens bloud be shed;
See step-dames see, how hatefull is your guilt
When to raise yours, anothers bloud is spilt!

Murder thy children, put out Orphans eyes,
God cannot salue their extreame heauinesse:
He cannot heare them when they make their cries,
Nor can he comfort them in their distresse.
Yes, he can heare and see, and though he come
With a slow pace, he will at last strik home.

Then grieue, but let not griefe driue to despaire;
Trust, but let Trust breed no securitie,
For crying sinnes when they presuming are,
Oft wound so deepe they find no remedie.
Farewell Idaea, may my Satyre heare,
For each bloud-drop th'ast shed, thou shedst a teare.