"For where love reigns, disturbing Jealousy Doth call himself affection's centinel; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill! Distemp'ring gentle love with his desire, As air and water doth abate the fire.
"This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissensious Jealousy, [bring,
That sometimes true news, sometimes false doth
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
" And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the
head.
"What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That trembling at th' imagination,
"I am," quoth he, "expected of my friends, And now 't is dark, and going I shall fall"— "In night," quoth she, " desire sees best of all. "But if thou fall, O then imagine this,
The Earth in love with thee thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make rich men thieves; so do thy Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.
"Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason: Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed? Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
And fear doth teach it divination:
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to morrow.
"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty,
Or at a roe, which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.
"And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch to overshut his troubles,
How he out-runs the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles :
The many musits through the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
"Sometime he runs among the flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
"For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies,
"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore-sick, that hears the passing bell. "Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way; Fach envious briar his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmurstay: For misery is trodden on by many, And, being low, never reliev'd by any.
For stealing moulds from Heaven that were divine, Wherein she fram'd thee in high Heaven's despite, To shame the Sun by day, and her by night.
"And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies,
To cross the curious workmanship of Nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defcature;
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of sad mischances and much misery;
"As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood: Surfeits, impostumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear Nature's death for framing thee so fair.
"And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's sight brings beauty under: Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
Whereat th' imperial gazer late did wonder, Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done, As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day Sun.
"Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns, That on the Earth would breed a scarcity,
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night, Dries up his oil, to lend the world his light. "What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in their obscurity? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. "So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or their's, whose desperate hands themselves do Or butcher-sire, that reaves his son of life. [slay, Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that 's put to use, more gold begets.
"Nay then," quoth Adon, "you will fall again Into your idle over-handled theme; The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream; For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
"If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown ; For know, my heart stands armed in my ear, And will not let a false sound enter there;
Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
"What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth unto danger; I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase: O strange excuse! When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse.
"Call it not love, for Love to Heaven is fled, Since sweating Lust on Earth usurps his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
"Love comforteth, like sun-shine after rain,
But lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done.
Love surfeits not; lust like a glutton dies:
Love is all truth; lust full of forged lies.
"More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen; Mine ears that to your wanton talk attended, Do burn themselves for having so offended."
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, And homeward through the dark lawns runs apace; Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd. Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus' eye;
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend;
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood, Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour-caves,as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: [woe!" "Ah, me!" she cries, and twenty times, " woe, And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She, marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemp'rally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall, and old men
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty: [dote;
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answers so.
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short: If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport: Their copious stories, oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds, resembling parasites,
Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters, answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
She said, "'t is so:" they answer all, " 't is so:"
And would say after her, if she said no.
Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The Sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:
"O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth bor-
The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other."
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn: Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, Some twine about her thigh to make her stay;
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder Wreath'd up in fatal folds, just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudEven so the timorous yelping of the hounds [der: Appals her senses, and her spright confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud: Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain court'sy who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart, Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold pale weakness numbs each feeling part: Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses sore-dismay'd,
She tells them, 't is a causeless fantasy,
And childish errour that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more ;-
And with that word she spy'd the hunted boar;
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Lake milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly burries her she knows not whither;
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murder.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; She treads the paths that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain; Full of respect, yet nought at all respecting, In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master;
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster; And here she meets another, sadly scowling, To whom she speaks; and he replies with howling.
When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin vollies out his voice;
Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears bleeding as they go.
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed,
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
"Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love," thus chides she Death; "Grim-grinning ghost, Earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath, Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ?
"If he be dead-O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou should'st strike at it-
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.
"Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower.
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.
"Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such
What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour."
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She veil'd her eye-lids, who, like sluices, stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.
O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving which should best become her grief; All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best; then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla;
A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expell;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes,
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
With likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him all to nanght;
Now she adds honour to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
Imperial supreme of all mortal things.
"No, no," quoth she, "sweet Death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear, When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow, (truth I must confess) I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.
"Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander; 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he 's author of thy slander; Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both, without ten women's wit."
vily withdrew himself, and was (according to
his estate) royally entertained and lodged by
Lucrece at Collatium. The same night, he
treacherously stealeth into her chamber, vio-
lently ravished her, and early in the morning
speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable
plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to
Rome for her father, another to the camp for
Collatine. They came, the one accompanied But some untimely thought did instigate
with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Va- His all too-timeless speed, if none of those:
lerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
first taking an oath of them for her revenge, re- To quench the coal which in his liver glows.
vealed the actor, and whole manner of his deal-O rash-false heat, wrapt in repentant cold,
ing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!
done, with one consent they all vowed to root
out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; When at Collatium this false lord arriv'd,
and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus ac- Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame,
quainted the people with the doer and manner Within whose face beauty and virtue striv'd
of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against Which of them both should underprop her fame:
the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;
were so moved, that with one consent and a ge- When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
neral acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, Virtue would stain that or with silver white.
and the state government changed from kings
to consuls.
Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting [vaunt
His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should
The golden hap which their superiors want.
FROM the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,
And girdle with embracing flames the waist
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.
Haply that name of chaste unhapp❜ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
Where mortal stars, as bright as Heaven's beauties,
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.
For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the Heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.
O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the Sun!
An expir'd date, cancel'd ere well begun:
Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apology be made
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own?
But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field;
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,
Which virtue gave the golden age, to gild
Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield;
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,-
When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.
This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,
Argued by beauty's red, and virtue's white.
Of either's colour was the other queen,
Proving from world's minority their right:
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;
The sovereignty of either being so great,
That oft they interchange each other's seat.
This silent war of lilies and of roses
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;
Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
To those two armies that would let him go,
Rather than triumph in so false a foe.
Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue
(The niggard prodigal that prais'd her so)
In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,
Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe,
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.
This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth the false worshipper;
For thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream on evil;
Birds never limb'd no secret bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
And reverend welcome to her princely guest,
Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:
For that he colour'd with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,
Which, having all, all could not satisfy;
But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,
That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she that never cop'd with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle-shining secresies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books;
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,
More than his eyes were open'd to the light.
He stories to her ears her husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praises Collatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory :
Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,
And, wordless, so greets Heaven for his success.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there.
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy spright;
For, after supper, long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:
Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;
And every one to rest himself betakes, [wakes.
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:
Despair to gain, doth traffic oft for gaining;
And when great treasure is the meed proposed,
Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.
Those that much covet, are with gain so fond,
That what they have not (that which they possess)
They scatter and unloose it from their bond,
And so, by hoping more, they have but less;
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess
Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth, and ease, in waining age;
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,
That one for all, or all for one we gage;
As life for honour, in fell battles' rage;
Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
The death of all, and all together lost.
So that in vent'ring ill, we leave to be
The things we are, for that which we expect ;
And this ambitious foul infirmity,
In having much, torments us with defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
The thing we have, and, all for want of wit,
Make something nothing, by augmenting it.
Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his lust;
And for himself, himself he must forsake:
Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?
When shall be think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays
To slanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had clos'd up mortal eyes; No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries :
Now serves the season that they may surprise
The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,
While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.
And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
The one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm;
But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.
His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:
"As from this cold flint I enforc'd this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire."
Here, pale with fear, he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust.
"Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine!
And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine!
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:
Let fair humanity abhor the deed
That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.
"O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial map to be soft fancy's slave!
True valour still a true respect should have;
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.
"Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat;
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me, how fondly I did dote;
That my posterity, sham'd with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
To wish that I their father had not been.
"What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy:
Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or sells eternity, to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
"If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will be not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?
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