But nowe behold what wounded most my mind: The empresses two sonnes, of savage kind, 50 My daughter ravished without remorse, And took away her honour, quite perforce. When they had tasted of soe sweete a flowre, Fearing this sweete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell 55 How that dishonoure unto her befell. Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write, Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe. 60 My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes: Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. But when I sawe her in that woefull case, 65 With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face: For my Lavinia I lamented more Then for my two-and-twenty sonnes before. When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake; 70 We spred an heape of sand upon the ground, Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found. For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand, She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand: "The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse 75 Are doers of this hateful wickednesse." I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head, I curst the houre wherein I first was bred; I wisht this hand, that fought for countries fame, In cradle rockt, had first been stroken lame. 80 The Moore, delighting still in villainy, Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free, I should unto the king my right hand give, And then my three imprisoned sonnes should live. The Moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede, 85 Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed, But for my sonnes would willingly impart, And for their ransome send my bleeding heart. But as my life did linger thus in paine, They sent to me my bootlesse hand againe, 90 And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes, Which filled my dying heart with fresher moanes. Then past reliefe, I upp and downe did goe, And with my teares writ in the dust my woe: I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie, 95 And for revenge to hell often did crye. The empresse then, thinking that I was mad, Like Furies she and both her sonnes were clad, (She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they) To undermine and heare what I would say. 100 I fed their foolish veines a certaine space,[L101] Untill my friendes did find a secret place, Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound, And just revenge in cruell sort was found.