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And now, at nearer view, no other certain
My wife, my traitress! let her not come near me.
Yet on she moves, now stands and eyes thee fixed, About to have spoke, but now, with head declined Like a fair flower surcharged with dew, she weeps, And words addressed seem into tears dissolved, Wetting the borders of her silken veil: But now again she makes address to speak.
With doubtful feet and wavering resolution I came, still dreading thy displeasure, Samson, Which to have merited, without excuse, I cannot but acknowledge; yet if tears May expiate (though the fact more evil drew In the perverse event than I foresaw), My penance hath not slackened, though my pardon No way assured. But conjugal affection, Prevailing over fear and timorous doubt, Hath led me on, desirous to behold Once more thy face, and know of thy estate, If aught in my ability may serve To lighten what thou sufferest, and appease Thy mind with what amends is in my power, Though late, yet in some part to recompense My rash but more unfortunate misdeed.
Out, out, hyena! these are thy wonted arts,