Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
(For why? her face wore sorrow's livery ;)
But durst not ask of her audaciously

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy
Of those fair suns, set in her mistress' sky,

Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling:
One justly weeps; the other takes in hand
No cause, but company, of her drops spilling:
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing;

Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts, And then they drown their eyes, or break their hearts.

For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they form'd as marble will;
The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Then call them not the authors of their ill,

No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep;
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep:

Through crystal walls each little mote will peep:
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern

looks,

Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.

No man inveigh against the wither'd flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath

kill'd!

Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O let it not be hild 53
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd

With men's abuses! those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Assail'd by night with circumstances strong
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death, to do her husband wrong:
Such danger to resistance did belong,

That dying fear through all her body spread;
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

53 hild] i. e. held-so spelt for the sake of the rhyme

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak To the poor counterfeit of her complaining: "My girl," quoth she, "on what occasion break "Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?

"If thou doest weep for grief of my sustaining, "Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood: "If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

But tell me, girl, when went "—(and there she

stay'd

Till after a deep groan) "Tarquin from hence?" "Madam, ere I was up," replied the maid, "The more to blame my sluggard negligence: "Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense; "Myself was stirring ere the break of day, 'And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

66

"But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, "She would request to know your heaviness." "O peace!" quoth Lucrece; "if it should be told, "The repetition cannot make it less;

For more it is than I can well express:

"And that deep torture may be call'd a hell, "When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

"Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen— "Yet save that labour, for I have them here. "What should I say?-One of my husband's men

"Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear "A letter to my lord, my love, my dear; "Bid him with speed prepare to carry it: "The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.”

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill:
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;
What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:
Much like a press of people at a door,

Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: "Thou worthy lord "Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, "Health to thy person! next vouchsafe to afford "(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see,) "Some present speed to come and visit me:

"So I commend me from our house in grief; "My woes are tedious, though my words are brief."

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality ;
She dares not thereof make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd

excuse.

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her;
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the

fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her [her. From that suspicion which the world might bear

To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow

fords,

[words.

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ,
At Ardea to my lord with more than haste:
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems;

Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villein

court'sies to her low;

And blushing on her, with a steadfast eye

87 villein] i. e. slave.