Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/355

 His lyfe and kingdoome he forwent toogither: and this stead He sees not thee, his daughter, slaine. But peradventure thou Shall like the daughter of a king have sumptuous buryall now, And with thy noble auncetors thy bodye layd shall bee. Our linage hath not so good lucke. The most that shall to thee Bee yeelded are thy moothers teares, and in this forreine land To hyde thy murthered corce withall a little heape of sand. For all is lost. Nay yit remaynes (for whome I well can fynd In hart to live a little whyle) an imp unto my mynd Most deere, now only left alone, sumtyme of many mo The yoongest, little Polydore, delivered late ago To Polemnestor, king of Thrace, whoo dwelles within theis bounds. But wherefore doo I stay so long in wasshing of her wounds, And face berayd with gory blood? In saying thus, shee went To seaward with an aged pace and hory heare beerent. And (wretched woman) as shee calld for pitchers for to drawe Up water, shee of Polydore on shore the carkesse sawe, And eeke the myghty wounds at which the Tyrants swoord went thurrow. The Trojane Ladyes shreeked out. But shee was dumb for sorrow. The anguish of her hart forclosde as well her speech as eeke Her teares devowring them within. Shee stood astonyed leeke As if shee had beene stone. One whyle the ground shee staard uppon. Another whyle a gastly looke shee kest to heaven. Anon Shee looked on the face of him that lay before her killd. Sumtymes his woundes, (his woundes I say) shee specially behilld. And therwithall shee armd her selfe and furnisht her with ire: Wherethrough as soone as that her hart was fully set on fyre, As though shee still had beene a Queene, to vengeance shee her bent Enforcing all her witts to fynd some kynd of ponnishment. And as a Lyon robbed of her whelpes becommeth wood, And taking on the footing of her emnye where hee stood, Purseweth him though out of syght: even so Queene Hecubee (Now having meynt her teares with wrath) forgetting quyght that shee Was old, but not her princely hart, to Polemnestor went The cursed murtherer, and desyrde his presence to th'entent To shew to him a masse of gold (so made shee her pretence) Which for her lyttle Polydore was hid not farre from thence.