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Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, “ Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds; To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds.
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise !
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds, For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds;
And one man's last these many lives confounds: His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds :
Had doting Priam check'd his son's desire, Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity,
Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire." Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.
Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes : “ Such devils steal effects from lightless Hell;
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,

For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes;

And in that cold, hot-burning fire doth dwell; Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:

These contraries such unity do hold,
So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell

Only to flatter fools, and make them bold :
To pencil'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow; [row. So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter,
She lends them words, and she their looks doth bor- That he finds means to burn his Troy with water."
She throws her eyes about the painting, round, Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails,
And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament:

That patience is quite beaten from her breast.
At last she sees a wretched image bound,

She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lept; Comparing him to that unhappy guest
His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content: Whose deed hath made herself herself detest :
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, At last she smilingly with this gives o'er; (sore."
So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn bis woes. “ Fool! fool !” quoth she, “ his wounds will not be
In him the painter labour'd with his skill

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show

And time doth weary time with her complaining. An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe; And both she thinks too long with her remaining : Cheeks, neither red nor pale, but mingled so Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining. That blushing red no guilty instance gave,

Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps. But, like a constant and confirmed devil,

Which all this time hath overslipp'd ber thought, He entertain'd a show so seeming just,

That she with painted images hath spent ; And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil,

Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
That jealousy itself could not mistrust

By deep surmise of others' detriment;
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
Iuto so bright a day such black-fac'd storms, It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. To think their dolour others have endured.
The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew But now the mindful messenger, come back,
For perjur'd Sinon, whose' enchanting story Brings home his lord and other company;
The credulous old Priam after slew;

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black;
Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the shining glory And round about her tear-distained eye
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, Blue circles stream'd, like rain-hows in the sky.
And little stars shot from their fixed places, These water-galls in her dim element
When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces. Foretell new storms to those already spent.
This picture she advisedly perus’d,

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,'
And chid the painter for his woudrous skill; Amazedly in her sad face he stares :
Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd,

Her eyes, though sad in tears, look'd red and raw, So fair a form lodg'd not a mind so ill;

Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. And still on him she gaz'd, and gazing still, He hath no power to ask her how she fares, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spy'd, But stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, That she concludes the picture was belyd. Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. “ It cannot be," quoth she, “ that so much guile At last he takes her by the blood less hand, (She would have said) “ can lurk in such a look ;" And thus begins : “ What uncouth ill event But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand? And from her tongue, can lurk from cannot took ; Sweet love, what spite bath thy fair colour spent? It cannot be she in that sense forsook,

Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent?
And turn'd it thus: “ It cannot be, I find,

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,
But such a face should bear a wicked mind: Ard tell thy grief, that we may give redress."
“ Por ev'n as subtle Sinon here is painted, Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire,
So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,

Ere once she can discharge oue word of woe :
(As if with grief or travail he had fainted) At length address'd to answer his desire,
To me came Tarquin armed ; so beguil'd She modestly prepares to let them know
With outward honesty, but yet defild

Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish, While Collatine and his consorted lords
So did I 'Tarquin; so my Troy did perish. With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her watery nest Which speechless woe of his, poor she attendeth,
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending: [best And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh:
• Few words," quoth she, “shall fit the trespass “ Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Where no excuse can give the fault amending : Another power ; no flood by raining slaketh.
In me more woes than words are now depending ; My woe too sensible thy passion maketh
And my laments would be drawn out too long, More feeling painful: let it then suffice
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes.
" Then be this all the task it hath to say:- “ And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed

Por she that was thy Lucrece-now attend me; A stranger came, and on that pillow lay

Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me And what wrong else may be imagined

From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me By foul enforcement might be done to me, Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die; From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.

For sparing justice feeds iniquity. “ For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, “But ere I name bim, you, fair lords,” quoth she, With sbining falchion in my chamber came (Speaking to those that came with Collatine) A creeping creature, with a flaming light,

« Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, And softly cry'd, • Awake, thou Roman dame, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ; And entertain my love ; else lasting shame For 't is a meritorious fair design, On thee and thine this night I will inflict,

To chase injustice with revengeful arms : [harms." If thou my love's desire do contradict.

Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' ** For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth At this request, with noble disposition • Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, [he, Each present lord began to promise aid, I'll murder straight, and then I 'll slaughter thee, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, And swear I found you where you did fulfill Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd. The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, The lechers in their deed: tbis act will be

The protestation stops. “O speak," quoth she, My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.'

“ How may this forced stain be wip'd froin me? a With this I did begin to start and cry,

“ What is the quality of mine offence, And then against my heart he set his sword, Being constraind with dreadful circumstance? Swearing, nnless I took all patiently,

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, I should not live to speak another word :

My low-declined honour to advance?
So should my shame still rest upon record, May any terms acquit me from this chance?
And never be forgot in mighty Rome

The poison'd fountain clears itself again;
The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. And why not I from this coinpelled stain?”
“ Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, With this, they all at once began to say,
And far the weaker with so strong a fear :

Her body's stain her mind untainted clears; My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; While with a joyless smile she turns away * No rightful plea might plead for justice there: The face, that map which deep impression bears His scarlet Just came evidence to swear

Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears. That my poor beauty bad purloin'd his eyes, “ No, no,” quoth she, “ no dame, hereafter living, And when the judge is robb’d, the prisoner dies. By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving." " O teach me how to make mine own excuse ! Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, [says, Or, at the least this refuge let me find;

She throws forth Tarquin's name: He, he," she Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, But more than ke ber poor tongue could not speak; Immaculate and spotless is my mind;

Till after many accents and delays,
That was not forc'd ; that never was inclin'd Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,
To accessary yieldings, but still pure

She utters this: “He, he, fair lords, 't is he, Doth in her poison's closet yet endure.”

That guides this hand to give this wound to me." Lo here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, Ev'n here she sheathed in her harmless breast With head declin'd, and voice dam'd up with woe, A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed: With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across, That blow did bail it from the deep unrest From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow

Of that polluted prison where it breathed : The grief away, that stops his answer so:

Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed But wretched as he is, be strives in vain ;

Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again. Life's lasting date from cancel'd destiny. As throngh an arch the violent roaring tide Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Outruns the eye that doth behold bis haste; Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew; Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride

Till Lucrece' father that beholds her bleed, Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast; Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw; In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past : And from the purple fountain Brutus drew Even so his sighs, bis sorrows, make a saw, The murderous knife, and as it left the place, To pash grief on, and back the same grief draw. Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide 0," quoth Lucretius, “ I did give that life, In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood

Which she too early and too late hath spilld.” Circles her body in on every side,

“ Woe, woe,” quoth Coliatine, " she was my wise, Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood

I owed her, and 't is mine that she hath kill'd.” Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful food.

My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, The dispers'd air, who holding Lucrece' life, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wise. About the mourning and congealed face

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece side, Of that black blood, a watery rigol goes,

Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place: Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,

Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.
Corrupted blood some watery token shows; He with the Romans was esteemed so
And blood untainted still doth red abide,

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
Blushing at that which is so putrify'd.

For sporting words, and uttering foolish things :

“ Daughter, dear daughter,” old Lucretius cries, But now he throws that shallow habit by,
“ That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd. Wherein deep policy did him disguise;
If in the child the father's image lies,

And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd ? To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd. “ Thou wronged lord of Rome," quoth he, “arise;
If children pre-decease progenitors,

Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. “ Poor broken glass, I often did behold

“ Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grierous deeds? But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Is it revenge to give thyself a blow, Shows me a bare-bon'd death, by time outworo; For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds? O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn! Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds; And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, That I no more can see what once I was.

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

“O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, “ Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart If they surcease to be, that should survive.

In such relenting dew of lamentations, Shalf rotten death make conquest of the stronger, But kneel with me, and belp to bear thy part, And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, The old bees die, the young possess their hive; That they will suffer these abominations, Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced, Thy father die, and not thy father thee !"

By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. By this starts Collatine as from a dream,

“ Now by the Capitol that we adore, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream

By Heaven's fair Sun, that breeds the fat Earth's He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,

store, And counterfeits to die with her a space;

By all our country rights in Rome maintained, Till manly shame bids him possess bis breath, And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complained And live to be revenged on her death.

Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
The deep rexation of his inward soul

We will revenge the death of this true wife.”
Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
Who mad that sorrow should bis use control,

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,

And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow;

And to his protestation urg'd the rest, Begins to talk: but through his lips do throng Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid, Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow;

Who wondering at him, did him words allow: That no man could distinguish what he said.

And that deep vow which Brutus made before, Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,

He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more;

They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence; At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er:

To show the bleeding body thorough Rome, Then son and father weep with equal strife,

And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence: Who should weep most for daughter or for wife.

Which being done with speedy diligence,

The Romans plausibly did give consent
The one doth call her his, the other his,

To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
The father says, "She 's mine:” “O mine she is,"
Replies her husband : “Do not take away
My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Collatine."



MR. W. H.


T. T.

UNTHRIFTY loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Natures bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give ?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?
Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, us'd, lives thy executor to be.

Frou fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory :
But thou, eontracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender charl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

Those howers, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excell;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideons winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd, and bareness every where :
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distillid, though they with winter meet,
Leese but theirshow; their substance still livessweet.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz d on now,
will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
Hos much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou could'st answer—“ This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse-
Proving bis beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new-made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan ;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then, what could death do if thou should'st depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity ?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir.


SONNET VII. Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest, Lo, in the orient when the gracious light Now is the time that face should form another; Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Serving with looks his sacred majesty; For where is she so fair, whose un-eard womb And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?

Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Of who is he so foud, will be the tomb

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Of bis self-love, to stop posterity?

Attending on his golden pilgrimage; Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Calls back the lovely April of her prime:

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, Su thou through windows of thine age shalt see, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

From his low tract, and look another way: But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Die single, and thine image dies with thee. Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.


SONNET XII. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? When I do count the clock that tells the time, Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not glad. When I behold the violet past prime, Or else receir'st with pleasure thine annoy? [ly? And sable curls, all silver'd o'er with white; If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, By unions married, do offend thine ear,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds And summer's green all girded sheaves, In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear. Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Then of thy beauty do I question make, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;

That thou among the wastes of time must go, Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Since sweets and beauties do themseives forsake, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:

And die as fast as they see others grow; Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Sings this to thee, “ thou single wilt prove none." Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thyself in single life?
Ab ! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wise;
The world will be thy widow and still weep,
That thou no form of thee bast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep,
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.

O That you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer your's, than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease,
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which busbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
0! none but unthrifts:- Dear my love, you know,
You had a father; let your son say so.


For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,

And yet methinks I have astronomy, But that thou none lor'st, is most evident;

But not to tell of good, or evil luck, For thou art so possess'd with murderous bate,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality : That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind ; Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

Or say, with princes if it shall go well, Ochange thy thought, that I may change iny mind! By oft predict that I in Heaven find : Sball hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

And (constant stars) in them I read such art, Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove:

As truth and beauty shall together thrive, Make thee another self, for love of me,

If from thyself to store thou would'st convert : That beauty still may live in thine or thee,

Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,

In one of thine, from that which thou departest; WHEN I consider every thing that grows
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Holds in perfection but a little moment,
Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth con- That this huge state presenteth nought but shows
Herein lives wisdom, beauty,and increase; (vertest. Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay:

When I perceive that men as plants increase, If all were minded so, the times should cease, Cheered and check'd ev'n by the self-same sky; And threescore years would make the world away. Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, And wear their brave state out of memory; Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more; Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty che- Where wasteful time debateth with decay, rish:

To change your day of youth to sullied night; She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, And, all in war with time, for love of you, Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die. As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

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