Her eyes were dim, her cheeks bloodless, her breath smelled earthy,
her countenance was　ghastly. Up she rose after she was deflowered,
but loath she arose, as a reprobate soul　rising to the day of judgement.
Looking on the tone side as she rose, she spied her　husband's body
lying under her head; ah, then she bewailed, as Cephalus when he had
killed Procris unwittingly, or Oedipus when ignorantly he had slain his
father, and known　his mother incestuously. This was her subdued
reason’s discourse.
　　Have I lived to make my husband’s body the bier to carry me to hell?
Had filthy pleasure　no other pillow to lean upon but his spreaded limbs?
On thy flesh my fault shall be　imprinted at the day of resurrection. O
beauty, the bait ordained to ensnare the　irreligious; rich men are robbed
for their wealth, women are dishonested for being too　fair. No blessing
is beauty, but a curse; cursed be the time that my mother brought me
forth to tempt.