To tell thee whence thou camst, of whom derivd, Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars mounted run their horse to death. T is beauty that doth oft make women proud; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. T is virtue that doth make them most admird; The contrary doth make thee wondred at. T is government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the Septentrion. O tigers heart wrappd in a womans hide! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a womans face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bidst thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish: Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutlands obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death, Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman. ”
Posted on: Wed, 12 Mar 2014 09:15:16 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015