Iulia

Harke newes, ô envy, thou shalt heare descry'dMy Iulia; who as yet was ne'r envy'd.To vomit gall in slander, swell her vainesWith calumny, that hell it selfe disdaines,Is her continuall practice; does her best,To teare opinion even out of the brestOf dearest friends, and (which is worse than vilde)Sticks jealousie in wedlock; her owne childeScapes not the showres of envie, To repeateThe monstrous fashions, how, were, alive, to eateDeare reputation. Would to God she wereBut halfe so loath to act vice, as to heareMy milde reproofe. Liv'd Mantuan now againe,That fœmall Mastix, to limme with his penneThis she Chymera, that hath eyes of fire,Burning with anger, anger feeds desire,Tongued like the night-crow, whose ill boding criesGive out for nothing but new injuries,Her breath like to the juice in TenarusThat blasts the springs, though ne'r so prosperous,Her hands, I know not how, us'd more to spillThe food of others, then her selfe to fill.But oh her minde, that Orcus, which includesLegions of mischiefs, countlesse multitudesOf formlesse curses, projects unmade up,Abuses yet unfashion'd, thoughts corrupt,Mishapen Cavils, palpable untroths,Inevitable errours, self-accusing oaths:These, like those Atoms swarming in the Sunne,Throng in her bosome for creation.I blush to give her halfe her due; yet say,No poyson's halfe so bad as Iulia.