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She prays


To thee, to thee, my heav'd-up hands appeal, So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Not to seducing lusi, thy rash relier ;

Who this accomplishment so hotly chas'd;
I sue for exi'd majesty's repeal;

For now against himself he sounds this doom,Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire : That through the length of times he stands disgrac'd. His irue respect will prison false desire,

Besides, his soul's fair temple is defacd; And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,

To whose weak ruins ruster troops of cares, That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine. To ask the spoiled princess how she fares. Have done, quoth he ; my uncontrolled tide She says, her subjects with foul insurrection Turns not, but swells the bigher by this let. Have batier'd down her consecrated wall, Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, And by their mortal fault brought in subjection And with the wind in greater fury fret :

Her immortality, and made her thrall
The petty streams that pay a daily debt

To living death, and pain perpetual:
To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls' haste, which in her prescience she controlled still,
Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.

But her foresight could not forestall their will.
Thou art, quoth she, a sea, a sovereign king!

Even in this thought, through the dark night he And lo, there falls into thy boundless flood A captive victor, that hath lost in gain; (stealeth, Black last, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,

Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.

The scar that will, despite of cure, remain; If all these petty ills shall change thy good,

Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain. Thy sea wiihin a puddle's womb is hears'd,

She bears the load of lust he left behind,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispers’d.

And he the burthen of a guilty mind.
So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave ; He, like a thievish dog, creeps sadly thence,
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ;

She like a weary'd lamb lies panting there;
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave:

He scowls, and hates himself for his offence, Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride : She desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear; The lesser thing should not the greater hide ; He faintly flies, sweating with guilty sear; The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's fooi, She stays, exclaiming on the direful night'; But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loath'd delight. So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state- He thence departs a heavy convertite, No more, quoth he, by heaven, I will not hear thee; She there remains a hopeless cast-away: Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,

He in his speed looks for the morning light, Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee;

she never may behold the day: That done, despitefully I mean to bear ihee For day, quoth she, night's seapes doth open lay; Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,

And my true eyes have never practis'd how
To be thy partner in this shameful doom. To cloak offences with a cunning brow.
This said, he sets his foot upon the light,

They think not but that every eye can see
For light and lust are deadly enemies :

The same disgrace which they ihemselves behold; Shame folded up in blind concealing night, And therefore would they still in darkness be, When most unseen, then most doth tyrannise. To have their unseen sin remain untold; The wolf hath seiz'd his prey, the poor lamb cries; For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, Till with her own white Reece her voice controllid And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold: Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel. For with the nightly linen that she wears,

Here she exclaims against repose and rest, He pens her piteous clamours in her head; And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. And bids it leap from thence, where it may find O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed ! Some purer chest, to close so pure a mind. The spots whereof could weeping purify,

Frantic with grief'thus breathes she forth her spite
Her tears should drop on them perpetually. Against the unseen secrecy of night.
But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,

0, comfort-killing night, image of hell !
And he hath won what he would lose again; Dim register and notary of shame!
This forced league doth force a further strife; Black stage for tragedies and murders fell!
This momentary joy breeds months of pain ; Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!
This hot desire converts to cold disdain :

Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for defame! Pure chastity is rifled of her store,

Grim cave of death, whispering conspirator
And lust, the thief, far poorer than before. With close-tongu'd treason and the ravisher!
Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, 0, hateful, vaporous, and foggy night,
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,

Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk

Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, The prey wherein by nature they delight;

Make war against proportion'd course of time ! So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares ihis night:

Or, if thou wilt permit the sun to climb His taste delicious, in digestion souring,

His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, Devours his will, that liv?d by foul devouring. Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. 0, deeper sin than bottomless conceit

With rotten damps ravish the morning air ; Can comprehend in still imagination !

Let their exhal’d'unwholesome breaths make sick Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt,

The life of purity, the supreme fair, Ere he can see his own abomination.

Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick; While lust is in his pride, no exclamation

And let thy misty vapours march so thick, Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,

That in their smoky ranks his smother'd light Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tiré. May set at noon, and make perpetual night. And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheek, Were Tarquin night, (as he is but night's child, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace, The silver-shining queen he would distain; Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, Her twinkling handmaids, too, by him defil'd, Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case : Through night's black bosom should not peep again : The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with grace, So should I have copartners in my pain : For there it revels; and when that decays, And fellowship in wo doth wo assuage, The guilty rebel for remission prays,

As palmers' chat make short their pilgrimaga.

Where now I have no one to blush with me, Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
To cross their arms, and hang their heads with mine, Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers;
To mask their brows, and hide their infamy; The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ;
But I alone, alone must sit and pine,

What virtue breeds, iniquity devours :
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine; We have no good that we can say is ours,
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, But ill annexed opportunity,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

Or kills his life, or else his quality.
O night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, 0, Opportunity! thy guilt is great:
Let not the jealous day behold that face

"Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason; Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace!

Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season ; Keep still possession of thy gloomy place, 'Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason ; That all the faults which in thy reign are made, And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade! Sits Sin, io seize the souls that wander by him. Make me not object to the tell-tale day!

Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath : The light will show, character'd in my brow, Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd ;" The story of sweet chastity's decay,

Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth; The impíous breach of holy wedlock vow:

Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd ! Yea, the illiterate that know not how

Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud : To 'cipher what is writ in iearned books,

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!
The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name;

Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,

Thy private feasting to a public fast; The orator, to deck his oratory,

Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name; Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame:

Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wornwood taste: Feast-finding minstrels,' tuning my defame,

Thy violent vanities can never last. Will tie the hearers to attend each line,

How comes it, ther., vile Opportunity,
How Tarquin wronged me, I, Collatine.

Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ?
Let my good name, that senseless reputation,
For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted:

When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, If that be made a theme for disputation,

And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd ? The branches of another root are rotted d;

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end ?. And undeserv'd reproach to him allotted,

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd? That is as clear from this attaint of mine,

Give physic lo the sick, ease to the pain'd ? As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;

But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. 0, unseen shame! invisible disgrace! 0, unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar! The patient dies while the physician sleeps ; Reproach is stamp'd on Collatinus' face,

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds; And Tarquin's eyo may read the mot afar, Justice is feasting while the widow weeps; How he in peace is wounded, not in war.

Advice is sporting, while infection breeds; Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, [knows! Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds : Which not themselves, but he that gives them, Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's ragos, If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. From me by strong assault it is bereft.

When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, My honey fost, and I, a drone-like bee,

A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid; Have no perfection of my summer left,

They bay thy help: bu Sin be'er gives a fee, But robb'd and ransack'd by injarious theft : He gratis comes; and thou art well appay'd, In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept, As well to hear as grant what he hath said. And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept. My Collatine would else have come to me Yet am I guiltless of thy honour's wreck;

When Tarquin did, but he was stay'd by thee. Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;

Guilty thou art of murder and of theft ; Coming from thee, I could not put him back,

Guilty of perjury and subornation; For it had been dishonour to disdain him :

Guilty of treason, forgery, and shifi; Besides of weariness he did complain him,

Guiliy of incest, that abomination : And talk'd of virtue:-0, unlook'd for evil,

An accessary by thine inclination
When virtue is profan'd in such a devil !

To all sins past, and all that are to come,
Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud ? From the creation to the general doom.
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?

Misshapen Time, copesmate of ugly night,
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care ;

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, (snare ; Or kings be breakers of their own behests ?

Base watch of wocs, sin's pack-horse, virtue's But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are.

O, hear me then, injurious, sbifting Time!
The aged man that coffers up his gold,

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.
Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits;
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,
But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,

Betray'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose ? And useless barns the harvest of his wits;

Cancel'd my fortunes, and evchained me Having no other pleasure of his gain,

To endless date of never-ending woes? But torment that it canno: cure his pain.

Time's office is, to fine the hate of foes.; So then he hath it, when he cannot use it,

To eat up errors by opinion bred, And leaves it to be master'd by his young ;

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed, Who in their pride do presently abuse it :

Time's glory is to calm contending kings, Their father was too weak, and they too strong, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long,

To stamp the seal of time in aged things, The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours, To wake the morn, and sentinel the night, Even in the moment that we call them ours.

To wrong the wronger till he render right; I 'Feast-finding minstrels.' Our ancient minstre!s To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, were the constant attendants on fea-03.-Steevens. And smear with dust their glittering golden towors:

To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, | Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools !
To feed oblivion with decay of things,

Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!
To blot old books, and alter their contents, Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ;
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings; Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;
To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs; To trembling clients be you mediators:
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,

For me, I force not argument a straw, And iurn the giddy round of fortune's wheel : Since that my case is past the help of law. To show the beldame daughters of her daughter,

In vain I rail at opportunity, To make the child a man, the man a child,

At time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful night;

In vain 1 cavil with mine infamy,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild;

In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite :
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguild,

This helpless smoke of words doth ine no right, To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,

The remedy indeed to do me good, And waste huge stones with little water-drops.

Is to let forth my foul, defiled blood.

Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree ? Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,

Honour thyself to rid me of this shame; Unless thou could'st return to make amends?

For if I die, my honour lives in thee, One peor retiring minute in an age

But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame; Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, Since thou could'st not defend thy loyal dame, Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends : [back, And wast afear'd to scratch her wicked foe, o, this dread night, would'st thou one hour come Kill both thyself and her for yielding so. I could prevent this storm, and shun thy wrack!

This said, from her betumbled couch she starteth, Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,

To find some desperate instrument of death: With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight:

But this no slaughter-house no tool imparteth, Devise extremes heyond extremity,

To make more vent for passage of her breath; To make him curse this cursed crimeful night :

Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisbeth, Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright; As smoke from Ætna, that in air consumes, And the dire thought of his committed evil

Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.

In vain, quoth she, I live, and seek in vain
Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, Some happy mean to end a hapless life.
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans;

I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain,
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances, Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife :
To make him moan; but pity not his moans; But when I fear’d, I was a loyal wife;
Stone him with harden'd hearis, harder than stones ; | So am I now :-O no, that cannot be
And let mild women to him Inse their mildness, Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

O! that is gone, for which I sought to live,
Let him have time to tear his curled hair,

And therefore now I need not fear to die.
Let him have time against himself to rave, To clear this spot by death, at least I give
Let him have time of Time's help to despair, A badge of fame to slander's livery;
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,

A dying life to living infamy:
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave; Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away,
And time to see one that by alms doth live, To burn the guiltless casket where it lay!
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.

Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know Let him have time to see his friends his foes, The stained taste of violated troth; And merry fools to mock at him resort :

I will not wrong thy true affection so, Let him have time to mark how slow time goes To flatter thee with an infringed oath; In time of sorrow, and how swift and short This bastard graff shall never come to growth: His time of folly, and his time of sport:

He shall not boast, who did thy stock pollute, And ever let his unrecalling crime

That thou art douing father of his fruit. Have time to wail the abusing of his time.

Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,

Nor laugh with his companions at thy stale; Teach me to curse him that thou taught'st this ill! But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought, At his own shadow let the thief run mad,

Basely with gold, but siol'n from forth thy gate. Himself, himself seek every hour to kill! [spill : For me, I am the mistress of my fate; Such wretched hands such wretched blood should And with my trespass never will dispense, For who so base would such an office have, Till life to death acquit my forc'd offence. As slanderous death's-man to so base a slave ?

I will not poison thee with my attaint, The baser is he, coming from a king,'

Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses; To shame his hope with deeds degenerate. My sable ground of sin I will not paint, The mightier man, the mightier is the thing To hide the truth of this false night's abuses : That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate; My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices, For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.

As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
The moon being clouded, presently is miss'd, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.
But little stars may hide them when they list.

By this lamenting Philomel had ended
The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, The well-tun'd warble of her nightly sorrow,
And unperceiv'd fly with the filth away;

And solemn night with slow-sad gaii descended But if the like the snow-white swan desire, To ugly hell; when lo, the blushing morrow The stain upon his silver down will stay,

Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow; Poor grooms are sightless night, kinys glorious day; But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, Gnats are unnoted wheresoe er they fly,

And therefore still in night would cloister'd be. But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.

Revealing day through every cranny spies, 1 'To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel. '-An allu. To whom she sobbing speaks : 0, eye of eyes,

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping; sion to the costly monuments of our ancient kings and Why pry'st thou through my window ? leave thy nobles, which were frequently made of iron or copper, wrought with great nicety, many of which even in Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleep


fing: Shakspeare's time, had berun to decay. There are some of these monuments still to be seen in Westmin. Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, ber-abbey, and other old cathedrals.-Malone. For day hath nought to do what's done by night.

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Thus cavils she with every thing she sees ; Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted,
True grief is fond and testy as a child,

Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;
Who wayward once, his mood with nouglit agrees. Her sacred table spotted, spoild, corrupted,
Qld woes, not infani sorrows, bear themi mild; Grossly engirt with daring infamy :
Continuance tames the one ; the other wild, Then let it not be call'd impiety,
Like an unpractis'd swimmer plunging still, If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill. Through which I may convey this troubled soul
So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,

Yet die I will not, till my Collatine
Holds disputation with each thing she views,

Have heard the cause of my untimely death;
And to herself all sorrow doth compare ;

That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,
No object but her passions strength renews;

Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.
And as one shifts, another straight ensues :

My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath,
Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words;

Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent,
Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.

And as his due, writ in my testament.
The little birds that tune their morning's joy,

My honour I'll bequeath unto the knifo
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody:

That wounds my body so dishonoured.
For mirth doth search the bottom of

annoy ;

'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life ;
Sad souls are slain in merry company;

The one will live, the other being dead :
Grief best is pleas'd with grief's society:

So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred;
True sorrow then is feelingly suffic'd,

For in my death I murder shameful scorn:
When with like semblance it is sympathiz'd.

My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. "Tis double death to drown in ken of shore ;

Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,
He ten times pines, that pines beholding food;

What legacy shall I bequeath to thee;
To see the salve dóth make the wound ake more; My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good : H. Tarquin must be us’d, read it in me:

By whose example thou revengd may'st be.
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks o’erflows; Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. And, for my sake, serve thoa false Tarquin so,
You mocking birds, quoth she, your tunes entomb This brief abridgment of my will I make :
Within your hollow-swelling feather'd breasts! My soul and body to the skies and ground;
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb ! My resolution, husband, do thou take;
(My restless discord knows no stops nor rests;

Mine honour be the knife's, that makes my wound; woful hostess brooks not merry guests :)

My shame be his that did


fame confound; Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ;

And all my fame that lives, disbursed be Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears. To those that live, and think no shame of me. Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,

Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this Will;'

How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!
Make thy sad grove in my dishevel'd hair,
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,

My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it. And with deep groans the diapason bear :

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, so be it. For burthen-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,

Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee; While thou on Tereus descant'st, better skill.

Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be, And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,

This plot of death when sadly she had laid,

And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart

With untun'd tongue she hoarsely call'd her maid,

Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;
Will fix a sharp knife, to affright my eye:
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.

For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies.

Poor Lucrece cheeks unto her maid seem so
These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.

As winter meads, when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow; And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day,

With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty ;
As shaming any eye should thee behold,

And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
Some dark deep desert, seated from the way,

(For why? her face wore sorrow's livery :)
That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold,

But durst not ask of her audaciously
Will we find out; and there we will unfold
To creatures storn sad tunes, to change their kinds : Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with’wo.

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds,
As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Wildly determining which way to fly ;

Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
Or one incompass'd with a winding maze,

Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
That cannot tread the way out readily;

Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy
So with herself is she in mutiny,

or those fair suns, set in her mistress' sky,
To live or die which of the twain were better,

Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light, When life is sham'd, and death reproaches debtor. Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night To kill myself, quoth sho, alack! what were it,

A pretty while these pretty creaturos stand,
But with my body my poor soul's pollution ?

Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling :
They that lose half, with greater patience bear it,

One justly weeps; the other takes in hand
Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion. No cause, but company, of her drops spilling :
That mother tries a merciless conclusion,

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing ;
Who having two sweet babes, when death takes one, And then they drown their eyes,or break their hearts ;

Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts ;
Will slay the other, and be nurse to none.
My body or my soul, which was the dearer ?

For men have marble, women waxen, minds,
When the one pure, the other made livine,

And therefore are they formed as marble will; Whose love of either to myself nearer?

1 - Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will.'-The When both were kept for heaven and Collatine. Ah me! the bark peeld from the lofty pine,

overseer of a will was designed as a check upon the

erecutors. Our author appoints John Hall and his wife His leaves will wither, and his sap decay; for his executors, and Thomas Russel and Francis Cal So must my soul, her bark being peeld away. lins as his overseers.-Steevens.

Even so,

The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds When sighs and groans and tears may grace the Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill : Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her (fashion Then call them not the authors of their ill, From that suspicion which the world might bear her, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. With words, till action might become them better. Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, To see sad sights moves more than hear them told; Lays open all the little worms that creep;

For then the eye interprets to the ear In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain The heavy motion thai it doth behold, Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep:

When every part a part of wo doth bear,
Through crystal walls each little more will peep: 'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
Poor women's faces are their own faults' books. And sorrow obbs, being blown with wind of words.
No man inveigh against the wither'd flower,

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd! At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste :'
Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour, The post attends, and she delivers it,
Is worthy blame.' 0, let it not be hild

Charging the sour-fac'd groom to bie as fast
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd As lagging fowls before the northern blast.
With men's abuses : those proud lords, to blame, Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems :
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,

The homely villein courtsies to her low; Assail'd by night, with circumstances strong

And blushing on her, with a steadfast eye, Of present death, and shame that might ensue

Receives the scroll, without or yea or no, By that her death, to do her husband wrong ;

And forth with bashful innocence doth hié.
Such danger to resistance did belong,

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,
That dying fear through all her body spread ; Imagine every eye beholds their blame;
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame.

When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. To the poor counterfeit of her complaining;

Such harmless creatures have a true respect
My girl, quoth she, on what occasion break

To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, (raining?

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely :

this pattern of the worn-out age Know, gentle wench, it small'avails my mood :

Pawn'd honesi looks, but lay'd no words to gage.
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.
But tell me, girl, when went—(and there she stay'd That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd;,

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence ?
Madam, ere I was up, reply'd the maid,

She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust, The more to blame my sluggard negligence :

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd; Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense ;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd: Myself was stirring ere the break of day,

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

The more she thought he spy'd in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again, But lady, if your maid may be so bold,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone. She would request to know your heaviness.

The weary time she cannot entertain, O peace ! quoth Lucrece ; if it should be told,

For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan: The repetition cannot make it less;

So wo hath wearied wo, moan tired moan, For more it is than I can well express :

That she her plaints a little while doth stay, And that deep torture may be callid a hell,

Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen

of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy; Yet save that labour, for I have them here. Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, What should I say?-One of my husband's men For Helen's rape the city to destroy, Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear

Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud, Bid him with speed prepare to carry it:

As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd. The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.

A thousand lamentable objects there, Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life: First hovering o'er the paper with her quill: Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear, Conceit and grief an eager combat fight ;

Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife : What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will; The red blood reek’d, to show the painter's strise ; This is too curious good, this blunt and ill : And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights, Much like a press of people at a door,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nighis.
Throng her inventions, which shall


There might you see the labouring pioneer
At last she thus begins: “Thou worthy lord Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust;
Of that unworthy wife that greeleth thee,

And from the towers of Troy there would appear Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t'afford, The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, (If ever, love, thy Lucroce thou wilt see,) Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust : Some present speed, to come and visit mo: Such sweet observance in this work was had, So I commend me from our house in grief; That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. My woes aro tedious, though my words are brief.” In great commanders grace and majesty Here folds she up the tenor of her wo,

You might behold, triumphing in their faces; Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; By this short schedule Collatine may know

And here and there the painter interlaces Her grief, but not her grief's true quality :

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces ; She dares not thereof make discovery,

Wauch heartless peasants did so well resemble, Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

That one would swear he sawthem quake and tremble Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse. At Ardea, to my lord, with more than haste. Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

About a century and a half ago, all our letters that reShe hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her ;

quired speed were superscribed, With post post haste.

dit alone.


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