He (noble Lord) fearelesse of hidden treason, Sweetely salutes this weeping Crocodile: Excusing euery cause with instant reason That kept him from her sight so long a while: She, faintly pardons him; smiling by Art: (For life was in her lookes, death in her hart.) For pledge that I am pleas'd receiue (quoth shee) This rich wrought robe, thy _Clytemnestras_ toile: Her ten yeeres worke this day shall honour thee, For ten yeeres war, and one daies glorious spoile: Whil'st thou contendedst there, I heere did this: Weare it my loue, my life, my ioy, my blisse. Scarce had the Syren said what I haue write, But he (kind Prince) by her milde words misled, Receiu'd the robe, to trie if it were fit; (The robe) that had no issue for his head; Which, whilst he vainly hoped to haue found, _Ægistus_ pierst him with a mortal wound. Oh how the _Troyan_ Damzell was amazed To see so fell and bloudy a Tragedie, Performed in one Act; she naught but gazed, Vpon the picture; whom shee dead did see, Before her face: whose body she emballms, With brennish teares, and sudden deadly qualms. Faine would she haue fled backe on her swift horse But _Clytemnestra_ bad her be content, Her time was com'n: now bootelesse vsd she force, Against so many; whom this Tygresse sent To apprehend her: who (within one hower Brought backe againe) was lockt within a Tower. Now is she ioylesse, friendlesse, and (in fine) Without all hope of further libertie: Insteed of cates, cold water was her wine, And _Agamemnons_ corps her meate must be, Or els she must for hunger starue (poore sole) What could she do but make great mone and dole. So darke the dungeon was, wherein she was, That neither Sunne (by day) nor Mone (by night) Did shew themselues: and thus it came to passe. The Sunne denide to lend his glorious light To such a periur'd wight, or to be scene; (What neede she light, that ouer-light had bin?) Now silent night drew on; when all things sleepe, Saue theeves, and cares; and now stil mid-night came: When sad _Cassandra_ did naught els but weepe; Oft calling on her _Agamemnons_ name. But seeing that the dead did not replie, Thus she begins to mourne, lament, and crie. Oh cruell Fortune (mother of despaire,) Well art thou christen'd with a cruell name: Since thou regardest not the wise, or faire, But do'st bestow thy riches (to thy shame) On fooles and lowly swaines, that care not for thee: And yet I weepe, and yet thou do'st abhorre me. Fie on ambition, fie on filthy pride, The roote of ill, the cause of all my woe: On whose fraile yce my youth first slipt aside: And falling downe, receiu'd a fatall blow. Ah who hath liu'd to see such miserie As I haue done, and yet I cannot die?