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Their smoothness, like a goodly champain plain, Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, Lays open all the little worms that creep.
Ere sbe with blood had stain'd her stain'd exIn men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils, that obscurely sleep: Besides, the life and feeling of her passion, Through crystal walls each little mote will peep. She hoards to spend, when he is by' to hear her; Though men can cover crimes with bold stern When síghs, and groans, and tears may grace the looks,
fashion Poor women's faces are their own faults books. Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her No man inveigh against the wither'd flower, From that suspicion which the world might bear Bat chide rough winter, that the flower has
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour, With words, till action might become them better. Is worthy blame: O let it not be hild
To see sad sights, moves more than hear them told; Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd
For then the eye interprets to the ear With men's abuses; those proud lords to blame, The heavy motion that it doth behold:
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. When every part a part of woe doth bear, The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, 'Tis put a part of sorrow that we hear. Assail'd by night with circumstances strong
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste;
Charging the sonr-faced groom to hie as fast,
deems; Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are Extremity still urgeth such extremes. : raining?
The homely villain court’sies to her low, If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, And blushing on her with a stedfast eye,
Know, gentle weneh, it small avails my mood; Receives the scroll without or yea, or no,
If tears could help, mine own would do me good. And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. "But tell me, girl, when went (and there she staid, But they, whose guilt within their bosoms lie, Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?' Imagine every eye beholds their blame; *Madam, ere I was up,' reply'd the maid,
For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame: "The more to blame, my sluggard negligence:
When, silly groom, God wot, it was defect
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
heaviness? Even so this pattern of the worn-out age 'O peace,' quoth Luerece, 'if it should be told, Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage. The repetition cannot make it less;
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, For more it is than I can well express :
That two red fires in both their faces blazed. And that deep torture may be call'd a hell, She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's lust
When more is felt than one hath power to tell. And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed, "Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen ; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed : Yet save that labour, for I have them here. The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish (What should I say?) One of my husband's men The more she thought he spy'd in her some bleBid thou be ready by and by, to bear
mish. A letter to my lord, my love, my dear! Bid him with speed prepare to carry it,,
But long she thinks till he return again, The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.' And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone:
The weary time she cannot entertain, Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan. First hov'ring o'er the paper with her quill, So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay, What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will;
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. This is too curious good, this blunt and ill : Much like a press of people at a door,
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Through her inventions, which shall go before. Of skilful painting made for Priam's Troy; At last she thus begins : ‘Thou worthy lord
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, Of that unworthy wife, that greeteth thee,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy, Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t'afford
Threatening cloud-kissing Mion with annoy ;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud, (If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)
As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd, Some present speed to come and visit me!
So I commend me from our house in grief, A thousand lamentable objeets there,
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief. In scorn of naure, art gave lifeless life; Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,
Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping tear, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly:
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife. By this short schedule Collatine may know The red blood reek'd to shew the painter's strife; Her grief, but not her grief's true quality: And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights, She dares not thereof make discovery,
Like dying coals burat out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring pioneer But done where all distress and dolour dwell’d,
In her the painter had anatomized
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disIn great commanders grace and majesty
guised; You might behold triumphing in their faces : of hat she was, no semblance did remain; In youth quick-bearing and dexterity:
Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, And here and there the painter interlaces
Wanting the spring, that those shrunk pipes had Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces:
fed, Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead. That one would swear he saw them quake and on this sad shadow Lacroce spends her eyes, tremble.
And shapes her sorrow to the beldame's woes; In Ajax and Ulysses, 0! what art
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, of physiognomy might one behold!
And bitter words, to ban her cruel foes. The face of either cypher'd either's heart; The painter was no god to lend her those ; Their face, their manners most expressly told.
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour rollid; To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Poor instrument,' quoth she, 'without a sound!
Show'd deep regard and smiling government. I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue, There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
And rail on Pyrrhus, that hath done him wrong, Making such sober action with his hand,
And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long; That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight:
And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes In speech it seem'd, his beard, all silver white,
Of all the Greeks, that are thine enemies. Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly 'Show me the strumpet, that began this stir, Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky. That with my nails her beauty I may tear:
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur About him were a press of gaping faces,
This load of wrath, that burning Troy did bear; Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice;
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here: All jointly listning, but with several graces,
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, As if some mermaid did their ears entice;
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. Some high, some low, the painter was so nice, The scalps of many almost hid behind,
Why should the private pleasure of some one, To jump up higher seem'd to mock the mind.
Become the public plagae of many mo?
Let sin alone committed, light alone Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head, Upon his head, that hath transgressed so. His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear; Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe. Here one being throng'd, bears back all boll'n For one's offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general ? Another smother'd, seems to pelt and swear, And in their rage, (such signs of rage they bear) Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sounds!
'Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies ! As but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seems they would debate with angry swords.
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies !
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds! For much imaginary work was there;
And one man's lust these many lives confounds! Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
Had doating Priam check'd his son's desire, That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.' Griped in an armed hand: himself behind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind :
Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes : A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
For sorrow, like a heavy hanging bell, Stood for the whole to be imagined.
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell. And from the walls of strong besieged Troy, So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to To pencill'd pensiveness, and colour'd sorrow; field,
She lends them words, and she their looks doth Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
borrow. To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; she throws her eyes about the painting round, And to their hope they such odd action yield, That through their light joy seemed to appear, At last she sees a wretched image bound,
And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament: (Like bright things stain’d) a kind of heavy fear. That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; And from the strand of Dardan where they fought, His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content. To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran;
Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes, Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn his woes. With swelling ridges; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than
In him the painter labour'd with his skill Retire again, till meeting greater ranks
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show, They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe; To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but miogled so, To find a face where all distress is stell’d; That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Many she sees, where cares have carved some, Nor ashy pale, the fair that false hearts have.
But, like a constant and confirmed devil, Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured, And therein so insconced his secret evil,
To think their dolour others have endured. That jealousy itself could not mistrust,
But now the mindful messenger comes back, False creeping craft and perjury should thrust, Brings home his lord, and other company;,
Into so bright a day sach black-faced storms, Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black,
Or blot with hell-börn sin such saint-like forms. And round about her tear-distained eye The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky. For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story These watergalls, in her dim element, The credulous old Priam after slew;
Foretel new storms to those already spent. Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the shining glory which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Of rich-built Ilion; that the skies were sorry, Amazedly in her sad face he stares : And little stars shot from their fixed places,
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look red and raw, When their glass fell wherein they view'd their Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. faces.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares, This picture she advisedly perused,
But stood like old acquaintance in a trance, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill : Met far from hence, wond'ring each other's Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused,
chance. So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill:
At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And still on him she gazed, and gazing still, And thus begios: ‘What uncouth ill event
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand ?
That she concludes, the picture was belied. Sweet love! what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? 'It cannot be,' quoth she, “that so much guile, Why art thou thus attired in discontent? She would have said, cau lurk in such a look; Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.' And from her tongue, can lurk from cannot, took: Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, It cannot be, she in that sense forsook,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe: And turn'd it thus; ‘it cannot be, I find, At length address'd, to answer his desire, But such a face should bear a wicked mind.
She modestly prepares, to let them know 'For e'en as subtle Sinon here is painted, Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe: So sober sad, so weary, and so mild,
While Collatine, and his consorted lords (As if with grief or travail he had fainted)
With sad attention long to hear her words. To me came Tarquin armed, so beguiled And now this pale swan in her watery nest, With outward honesty, but yet defiled
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish, Few words,' quoth she, “shall fit the trespass best,
So did I Tarquin, as my Troy did perish. Where no excuse can give the fault amending ; 'Look, look, how list'ning Priam wets his eyes, In me more woes than words are now depending: To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds ! And my laments would be drawn out too long, Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise? To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds: "Then be this all the task it hath to say, His eyes drop fire, no water thence proceeds. Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy A stranger came, and on that pillow lay, pity,
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. And what wrong else may be imagined Such devils steal effects from lightless hell, By foul enforcement might be done to me, For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,
From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free. And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell; * For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, These contraries such unity do hold,
With shining falchion, in my chamber came Only to flatter fools, and make them bold :
A creeping creature with a flaming light, so Priam's trust false Sioon's tears doth flatter, And softly cried, Awake, thou Roman dame!
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water. And entertain my love ; else lasting shame Here all enraged such passion her assails,
On thee and thine this night I will inflict, That patience is quite beaten from her breast;
If thou my love's desire do contradict. She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, 'For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth hie, Comparing him to that unhappy guest,
'Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, Whose deed hath made herself herself detest. I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
At last she smilingly with this gives o'er, And swear I found you, where you did fulfil 'Fool! fool!' quoth she, his wounds will not The loathsome act of lust; and so did kill be sore.'
The lechers in their deed: this act will be Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, So should my shame still rest upon record,
Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak,
No rightful plea might plead for justice there : Here with a sigh, as if her heart wonld break, His scarlet last came evidence to swear,
She throws forth Tarquin's name. 'He, he, she That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes :
says: And when the judge is robb’d, the prisoner dies. But more, than he, her poor tongue could not "Oh! teach me how to make mine own excuse,
speak, Qr, at the least, this refuge let me find;
Till after many accents and delays,
She utters this, “He, he, fair lord, 'tis he, That was not forced, that never was inclined
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.' To accessary yieldings; but still pure
E'en here she sheathed in her harmless breast Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.' A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed; Lo! here the hopeless merchant of this loss,
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest With head declined, and voice damm'd up with of that polluted prison where it breathed :
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed woe, With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across,
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth From lips new waxen pale begins to blow
fly The grief away, that stops his answer so.
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny. But wretched as he is, he strives in vain; Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,
What he breathes ont, his breath drinks up again. Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew, As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed, Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw : Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew Back to the strait, that forced him on so fast;
The murd'rous knife, and as it left the place, In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past :
Her blood, in pure revenge, held it in chase ; Even so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw, And bubbling from her breast it doth divide
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Who like a late sack'd island vastly stood ‘Dear lord! thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Another power, no flood by raining slaketh;
Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, My woe too sensible thy passion maketh
And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin More feeling painful; let it then suffice
stain'd. To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. About the mourning and congealed face 'And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
of that black blood, a wat’ry rigol goes, For she, that was thy Lucrece-now attend me,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place; Be suddenly revenged on my foe;
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Thine, mine, his own; suppose thon dost defend Corrupted blood some watery token shows :
And blood untainted still doth red abide, From what is past, the help, that thou shalt lend me
Blushing at that which is so patrified. Comes all too late: yet let the traitor die; ‘Daughter! dear daughter:' old Lucretius cries, For sparing justice feeds iniquity.'
"That life was mine, which thou hast here deprived; But ere I name him, you fair lords,' quoth she, If in the child the father's image lies, (Speaking to those that came with Collatine)
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unlived ? Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,
Thou wast not to this end from me derived. With swift pursuit to 'venge this wrong of mine:
If children predecease progenitors, For 'tis a meritorious fair design,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours. To chase injustice with revengeful arms, ‘Poor broken glass, I often did behold Knights by their oaths should right poor ladies In thy sweet semblance, my old age new born; harms.'
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, At this request, with noble disposition,
Shows me a bare-boned death by time out-worn ; Each present lord began to promiso aid,
0! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, As bound in knighthood to her imposition,
And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd:
That I no more can see what once I was. But she that yet her sad task hath not said, "0! Time, cease thou thy course, and lastno The protestation stops. 'O speak!' quoth she,
longer, "How may this forced stain be wiped from me?' If they surcease to be, that should survive: "What is the quality of mine offence,
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance? And leave the falt'ring feeble souls alive? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
The old bees die, the young possess their hive; My low declined honour to advance ?
Thea live sweet Lucrece, live again and see May any terms acquit me from this chance? Thy father die, and not thy father thee.'
The poison'd fountain clears itself again, By this starts Collatine as from a dream,
And why not I from this compelled stain? And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place; With this they all at once began to say,
And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream Her body's stain the mind untainted clears,
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, While with a joyless smile she turns away
And counterfeits to die with her a space; The face, that map, which deep impression bears
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, Of hard misfortune carved in with tears.
And live to be revenged on her death. "No, no,' quoth she, ‘no dame hereafter living, The deep vexation of his inward soul Ry my excuse shall claim excuses giving.' Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue ;
Who mad, that sorrow should his use controul, Why, Collatine, is woe the care for woe?
For his foul act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds? That no man could distinguish what he said. Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds : Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, But through his teeth, as if the name he tore:
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow's tide to make it more.
Conrageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such lamenting dew of lamentations ; At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er :
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, Then son and father weep with equal strife, Who should weep most for daughter, or for wife. To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will suffer these abominations The one doth call her his, the other his;
(Since Rome herself doth stand in them disYet neither may possess the claim they lay.
graced) The father says, "she's mine!'-'0 mine she is,'
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets Replies her husband; 'do not take away
chased. My sorrow's interest, let no mourner say, He weeps for her, for she was only mine, "Now by the capitol that we adore,
And only must be wail'd by Collatine.' And by this chastę blood so unjustly stain'd, "O!' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life, By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's Which she too early and too late hath spill'a.'
store, Woe! woe!' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife, By all our country's rights in Rome maintain'd! I own'd her, and 'uis mine that she hath kill'd. And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife! The dispersed air, who holding Lucrece' life, We will revenge the death of this true wife!
Answerd their cries, my daughter, and my wife.' This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lacrece' side, and kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow: Seeing such emulation in their woe,
And to his protestation urged the rest, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow : Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show; Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow, He with the Romans was esteemed so,
And that deep vow which Brutus made beforo, As silly jeering ideots are with kings,
He doch again repeat, and that they swore. For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. Bat now he throws that shallow habit by,
When they had sworn to this advised doom, Wherein deep policy did him disguise,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence, And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To shew the bleeding body throughout Rome, To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence. 'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, "arise: Which being done, with speedy diligence, Let' my unsounded self, supposed a fool,
The Romans plausibly did give consent, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.
SON NET s.
Bat thou, contracted 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 TOTAL ONLY BEGETTER OF THESE EXSUING SONNETS
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 churl, makest waste in niggarding, Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and theo.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, But as the riper should by time decease,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep- sanken eyes,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, * i. e. Thomas Thorpe , in whose name the Son- If thou coaldst answer-'This fair child of mine nets were first entered in Stationers' Hall. Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse