20.10.2011, 17:11
Anne Cecil de Vere
1556 - 1588
Had with the moorning the Gods left their willes undone
They had not so soone herited such a soule:
Or if the mouth, tyme did not glotton up all.
Nor I, nor the world, were depriv'd of my Sonne,
Whose brest Venus, with a face dolefull and milde,
Doth washe with golden teares, inveying the skies
And when the water of the Goddesses eyes,
Makes almost, alive, the Marble, of my Childe:
One byds her leave styll, her dollor so extreme,
Telling her it is not, her young sonne Papheme,
To which she makes aunswer with a voice inflamed
(Feeling therewith her venime, to be more bitter)
As I was of Cupid, even so of it mother
"And a womans last chylde, is the most beloved"
1556 - 1588
Had with the moorning the Gods left their willes undone
They had not so soone herited such a soule:
Or if the mouth, tyme did not glotton up all.
Nor I, nor the world, were depriv'd of my Sonne,
Whose brest Venus, with a face dolefull and milde,
Doth washe with golden teares, inveying the skies
And when the water of the Goddesses eyes,
Makes almost, alive, the Marble, of my Childe:
One byds her leave styll, her dollor so extreme,
Telling her it is not, her young sonne Papheme,
To which she makes aunswer with a voice inflamed
(Feeling therewith her venime, to be more bitter)
As I was of Cupid, even so of it mother
"And a womans last chylde, is the most beloved"