STORY OF APOLLONJUS OF TYRE. 183
For shame couth unethes speke. And netheles mercy she praide With weping eye and thus she saide : Helas, my suster, wailoway, That ever I sigh this ilke day. Thing, which my body first begate Into this worlde, only that My worldes worship hath berefte. With that she swouneth now and efte And ever wisheth after death, So that welnigh her lacketh breth.
That other, which her wordes herde, In comforting of her answerde, To let her faders foul desire, She wiste no recoverire, Whan thing is do, there is no bote. So suffren they that sufifren mote. There was none other, which it wist Thus hath this king all that him list Of his liking and his plesaunce, And last in such a continuaunce, And such delite he toke there in, Him thoughte that it was no sin. And she durst him no thing withsay. But fame, which goth every way, To sondry regnes all aboute The great beaute telleth oute Of such a maide of high parage. So that for love of mariage The worthy princes come and sende, As they, the which all honour wende And knew no thing, how that it stode. The fader whan he understode, That they his doughter thus besought, With all his wit he cast and sought, How that he mighte finde a lette, And such a statue than he sette