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“ Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, “ Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
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 Sipon with her nails, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; 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 his 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 her 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 sarmise of others' detriment ;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black;
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, And chid the painter for his wondrous 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 rar, 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 bely’d. 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 bloodless 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 hath 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.” “ For 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 one word of woe :
Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;
And now this pale swan in her watery nest Which speechless woe of his, poor she attendeth,
For 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 fool 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 him, yon, fair lords," quoth she, With shining falcbion 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: this act will be The protestation stops. “O speak," quoth she, My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.'
“ How may this forced stain be wip'd from 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 constrain'd with dreadful circumstance? Swearing, unless 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 ?
The poison'd fountain clears itself again ;
Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears. That my poor beauty had 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 he ber poor tongue could not speak; Immaculate and spotless is my mind;
Till after many accents and delays,
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, Evin here she sheathed in her harmless breast With bead 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, he 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, recallid in rage, being past : And from the purple fountain Brutas drew Esen so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, The murderous knife, and as it left the place, To pusb 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 spill'd." Circles her body in on every side,
Woe, woe,” quoth Collatine, “ she was my wife, 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 flood.
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,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.
As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
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 grievous 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 outworn; 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, Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, But kneel with me, and help 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 bive; 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 sbame bids him possess his 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,
We will revenge the death of this true wife."
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow;
And to his protestation urg'd the rest;
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
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
MR. W. H.
BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET
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 bis middle age, Or who is he so fond, 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, So 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 receiv'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 up in 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 themselves 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.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy, But that thou none lov'st, is most evident;
But not to tell of good, or evil luck, For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality : 'That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
But from tbine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And (constant stars) in them I read such art, Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove:
As truth and beauty sball together thrive, Make thee another self, for love of me,
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert :
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
When I perceive that men as plants increase, If all were minded so, the times should cease, Cheered and check'd er'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,