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To IDEA.
THe chastest Child will oft for mercie cry,
And bid the striker stay and hold his hand:
Yea though he weepe, his teares he will vpdry
And kisse (suppose against his will) the wand.
With chiuering chin, but sturring will he stand,
And patiently suppres his present paine:
Poore Babe he dare not but obey command,
And hold his peace, least he be lasht againe.
Such is my state, I saikles soule am slaine,
Nor can I get the smallest graunt of grace,
Nor dare I now, though I haue cause, complaine:
And though I durst, my plaints wold haue no place
Thus am I faine for feare of further wrong,
Euen with the Babe to burst, and hold my tong.
Non tame•• audebam tacit••s operire dol••res,Ingenium metuens casta puella tuam.