Ad pacandam amicam, quam verberaverat

Bind fast my hands, they have deserved chains,
While rage is absent, take some friend the pains;
For rage against my wench moved my rash arm,
My mistress weeps whom my mad hand did harm.
I might have then my parents dear misused,
Or holy gods with cruel strokes abused.
Why, Ajax, master of the seven-fold shield,
Butchered the flocks he found in spacious field,
And he who on his mother venged his sire
Against the Destinies durst sharp darts require.
Could I therefore her comely tresses tear?
Yet was she graced with her ruffled hair.
So fair she was, Atalanta she resembled,
Before whose bow th' Arcadian wild beasts trembled;
Such Ariadne was, when she bewails
Her perjured Theseus' flying vows and sails;
So, chaste Minerva, did Cassandra fall,
Deflowered except, within thy temple wall.
That I was mad and barbarous all men cried,
She nothing said, pale fear her tongue had tied;
But secretly her looks with checks did trounce me,
Her tears, she silent, guilty did pronounce me.
Would of mine arms my shoulders had been scanted,
Better I could part of myself have wanted.
To mine own self have I had strength so furious,
And to myself could I be so injurious?
Slaughter and mischief's instruments, no better,
Deserved chains these cursed hands shall fetter.
Punished I am, if I a Roman beat;
Over my mistress is my right more great?
Tydides left worst signs of villainy,
He first a goddess struck; another I.
Yet he harmed less; whom I professed to love
I harmed; a foe did Diomedes' anger move.
Go now, thou conqueror, glorious triumphs raise,
Pay vows to Jove, engirt thy hairs with bays,
And let the troops which shall thy chariot follow
" Io , a strong man conquered this wench," hollow.
Let the sad captive foremost with locks spread,
On her white neck but for hurt cheeks be led;
Meeter it were her lips were blue with kissing,
And on her neck a wanton's mark not missing.
But though I like a swelling flood was driven,
And like a prey unto blind anger given,
Was 't not enough the fearful wench to chide,
Nor thunder in rough threatings' haughty pride,
Nor shamefully her coat pull o'er her crown,
Which to her waist her girdle still kept down?
But cruelly her tresses having rent,
My nails to scratch her lovely cheeks I bent.
Sighing she stood, her bloodless white looks showed
Like marble from the Parian mountains hewed;
Her half-dead joints and trembling limbs I saw,
Like poplar leaves blown with a stormy flaw,
Or slender ears with gentle Zephyr shaken,
Or waters' tops with the warm south wind taken.
And down her cheeks the trickling tears did flow
Like water gushing from consuming snow.
Then first I did perceive I had offended,
My blood the tears were that from her descended.
Before her feet thrice prostrate down I fell,
My feared hands thrice back she did repel.
But doubt thou not (revenge doth grief appease)
With thy sharp nails upon my face to seize;
Bescratch mine eyes, spare not my locks to break
(Anger will help thy hands though ne'er so weak),
And lest the sad signs of my crime remain,
Put in their place thy kembed hairs again.