To Pontius Washing His Blood-Stained Hands

Is murther no sin? or a sin so cheape,
That thou need'st heape
A Rape upon't? till thy Adult'rous touch
Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face,
She was a Nimph, the meadowes knew none such,
Of honest Parentage, of unstain'd Race,
The Daughter of a faire and well-fam'd Fountaine,
As ever Silver-tipt, the side of shady mountaine.

See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appeares
Nothing but Teares;
Each drop's a Teare that weeps for her own wast;
Harke how at every Touch she does complaine her:
Harke how she bids her frighted Drops make hast,
And with sad murmurs, chides the Hands that stain her.
Leave, leave, for shame, or else (Good judge) decree,
What water shal wash this, when this hath washed thee.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.