Classic Poem

Lo heere the fatall end of murther done,
Such blooddie factes deserue no better hyre:
Behold the threede that of such wooll is spon,
Marke well their lot that mischiefe doe conspire,
It lightlie doth vpon their heads retire:
And those that are the workers of the deed,
Though long forborne, at last no better speed

See, to reuenge when Rosmond once began,
Incenst thereto by wrath and deepe disdaine
She could not stint by murther of a man,
Nor leaue, although she saw her husbande slaine,
But thought she woulde attempt the like againe:
Her vile conceite was blinded all with blood,
She could not turne about to see the good

Sewst once in sinne, and washt in waues of ill
She banisht ruth, and pitie flung aside,
Yelding her selfe to spoyle the slaughter still,
Whom she mislikte, should streight haue surelie dide.
Such flames of wreake withyn her bowels fride:
And being cald to hie and princelie state,
In foule attempts, she could not want a mate.

Worth whyle to note how such as beare the sway,
And sit in seat of royall dignitie,
The righteous Gods without respect, doe pay,
And plague them for their hellish crueltie,
With losse of honour, liues, and iolitio:
And such as are their ministers in ill,
Either gallowes eates, or fatall sworde doth kill.

Crude'lta sta spesso in donna bella