When I am lost upon a journey’s end
And all uprear’d is letters of my doom;
Take the time to pardon faults and mend
Decrepit lies, your sister, tells your womb.
Upon a painted banquet held her zeal,
Which fooled me thinking her good thoughts espous’d;
I labour’d endless for your heart to peel,
She took me hard, imprisoned, to her house.
My son, dear sweet: though brave I was at sea!
Poseidon tormented my requests;
My son, dear sweet: though never chance to meet!
The bark that split my soul is now at rest.
That bump within your sister’s but a worm
The seed was mine, in shame, I do confirm.