What shall I doe to shewe my self a man?
It will not be for ought that beawtie can. 128
I kisse, I clap, I feele, I view at will,
Yett dead he lyes, not thinking good or ill.
"Unhappie me," quoth shee, "and wilt' not stand?
Com, lett me rubb and chafe it with my hand! 132
Perhaps the sillie worme is labour'd sore,
And wearied that it can doe noe more;
If it be so, as I am greate a-dread,
I wish tenne thousand times that I were dead. 136
How ere it is, no meanes shall want in me,
That maie auaile to his recouerie."
Which saide, she tooke and rould it on hir thigh,
And when she look't on't, she would weepe and sighe; 140
She dandled it, and dancet it up and doune,
Not ceasing till she rais'd it from his swoune.
And then he flue on hir as he were wood,
And on hir breeche did hack and foyne a-good; 144
He rub'd, and prickt, and pierst her to the bones,
Digging as farre as eath he might for stones;
Now high, now lowe, now stryking shorte and thicke;
Now dyuing deepe, he toucht hir to the quicke; 148
Now with a gird he would his course rebate,
Straite would he take him to a statlie gate;
Plaie while him list, and thrust he neare so hard,
Poore pacient Grissill lyeth at hir warde, 152
And giue's, and takes, as blythe and free as Maye,
And ere-more meete's him in the midle waye.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32