Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/217

 Depended both of life and death and of his royall state. And joying in hir wicked prey, she beares it with hir so As if it were some lawfull spoyle acquired of the fo. And passing through a posterne gate she marched through the mid Of all hir enmies (such a trust she had in that she did) Untill she came before the King, whom troubled with the sight She thus bespake: Enforst, O King, by love against all right I Scylla, Nisus daughter, doe present unto thee heere My native soyle, my household Gods, and all that else is deere For this my gift none other thing in recompence I crave Than of thy person which I love, fruition for to have. And in assurance of my love receyve thou here of mee My fathers Purple haire: and thinke I give not unto thee A haire but even my fathers head. And as these words she spake, The cursed gift with wicked hand she profered him to take. But Minos did abhorre hir gift: and troubled in his minde With straungenesse of the heynous act so sore against hir kinde, He aunswerde: O thou slaunder of our age, the Gods expell Thee out of all this world of theirs and let thee no where dwell. Let rest on neither Sea nor Land be graunted unto thee. Assure thy selfe that as for me I never will agree That Candie, Joves owne foster place (as long as I there raigne), Shall unto such a monstruous Wight a Harbrow place remaine. This said, he like a righteous Judge among his vanquisht foes Set order under paine of death. Which done he willed those That served him to go aboorde and Anchors up to wey. When Scylla saw the Candian fleete aflote to go away, And that the Captaine yeelded not so good reward as shee Had for hir lewdnesse looked for: and when in fine she see That no entreatance could prevaile, then bursting out in ire With stretched hands and scattred haire, as furious as the fire She shraming cryed out aloud: And whither doste thou flie Rejecting me, the only meanes that thou hast conquerde by? O cankerde Churle preferde before my native soyle, preferd Before my father, whither flyste, O Carle of heart most hard? Whose conquest as it is my sinne, so doth it well deserve Reward of thee, for that my fault so well thy turne did serve.