plashing freshly to meet her,
Lifting raiment fine her thighs which softly did open;
Last, when sorrow had end, these words thus spake she lamenting, 130
While from a mouth tear-stain'd chill sobs gushed dolorous ever.

'Look, is it here, false heart, that rapt from country, from altar,
Household altar ashore, I wander, falsely deserted?
Ah! is it hence, Theseus, that against high heaven a traitor
Homeward thou thy vileness, alas thy perjury bearest? 135

Might not a thought, one thought, thy cruel counsel abating
Sway thee tender? at heart rose no compassion or any
Mercy, to bend thy soul, or me for pity deliver?

Yet not this thy promise of old, thy dearly remembered
Voice, not these the delights thou bad'st thy poor one inherit; 140
Nay, but wedlock happy, but envied joy hymeneal;
All now melted in air, with a light wind emptily fleeting.

Let not a woman trust, since that first treason, a lover's
Desperate oath, none hope true lover's promise is earnest.
They, while fondly to win their amorous humour essayeth, 145
Fear no covetous oath, all false free promises heed not;
They if once lewd pleasure attain unruly possession,
Lo they fear not promise, of oath or perjury reck not.

Yet indeed, yet I, when floods of death were around thee,
Set thee on high, did rather a brother choose to defend not, 150
Ere I, in hate's last hour, false heart, fail'd thee to deliver.

Now, for a goodly reward, to the beasts they give me, the flying
Fowls; no handful of earth shall bury me, pass'd to the shadows.

What grim lioness yeaned thee, aneath what rock's desolation?
What wild sea did bear, what billows foamy regorged thee? 155
Seething sand, or Scylla the snare, or lonely Charybdis?
If for a life's dear joy comes back such only requital?

Hadst not a will with spousal an honour'd wife to receive me?
Awed thee a father stern, cross age's churlish avising?
Yet to your household thou, your kindred palaces olden, 160
Might'st have led me, to wait, joy-filled, a retainer upon thee,
Now in waters clear thy feet like ivory laving,
Clothing now thy bed with crimson's gorgeous apparel.

Yet to the brutish winds why moan I longer unheeded,
Crazy with an ill wrong? They senseless, voiceless, inhuman 16