A LOVERÕS COMPLAINT

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistÕring vale,
My spirits tÕattend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tunÕd tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrowÕs wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of a beauty spent and done;
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit, but spite of heavenÕs fell rage
Some beauty peeped through lattice of searÕd age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
LaundÕring the silken figures in the brine
That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguishÕd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her levellÕd eyes their carriage ride,
As they did battÕry to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To thÕorbed earth; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and nowhere fixÕd,
The mind and sight distractedly commixÕd.
Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,
ProclaimÕd in her a careless hand of pride;
For some untuckÕd descended her sheavÕd hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And, true to bondage, would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.
A thousand favours from a maund she drew,
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,
Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set,
Like usury applying wet to wet,
Or monarchsÕ hands, that lets not bounty fall
Where want cries Ôsome,Õ but where excess begs ÔallÕ.
Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perusÕd, sighÕd, tore and gave the flood;
CrackÕd many a ring of posied gold and bone,
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;
Found yet mo letters sadly pennÕd in blood,
With sleided silk, feat and affectedly
EnswathÕd, and sealÕd to curious secrecy.
These often bathÕd she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kissÕd, and often gave to tear;
Cried, ÔO false blood, thou register of lies,
What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
Ink would have seemÕd more black and damned here!Õ
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.
A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh,
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
Of court, of city, and had let go by
The swiftest hours observed as they flew,
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;
And, privilegÕd by age, desires to know
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.
So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely distant sits he by her side,
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
ÕTis promised in the charity of age.
ÔFather,Õ she says, Ôthough in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgement I am old,
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power.
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside.
ÔBut woe is me! Too early I attended
A youthful suit; it was to gain my grace;
O one by natureÕs outwards so commended,
That maidenÕs eyes stuck over all his face,
Love lackÕd a dwelling and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodgÕd and newly deified.
ÔHis browny locks did hang in crooked curls,
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls,
WhatÕs sweet to do, to do will aptly find,
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind:
For on his visage was in little drawn,
What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.
ÔSmall show of man was yet upon his chin;
His phoenix down began but to appear,
Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
Whose bare out-braggÕd the web it seemed to wear.
Yet showÕd his visage by that cost more dear,
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt
If best were as it was, or best without.
ÔHis qualities were beauteous as his form,
For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;
Yet if men movÕd him, was he such a storm
As oft Õtwixt May and April is to see,
When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.
His rudeness so with his authorizÕd youth
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.
ÔWell could he ride, and often men would say
That horse his mettle from his rider takes,
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!
And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by thÕ well-doing steed.
ÔBut quickly on this side the verdict went,
His real habitude gave life and grace
To appertainings and to ornament,
AccomplishÕd in himself, not in his case;
All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Came for additions; yet their purposÕd trim
PiecÕd not his grace, but were all gracÕd by him.
ÔSo on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kind of arguments and question deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep:
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will.
ÔThat he did in the general bosom reign
Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted,
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
In personal duty, following where he haunted,
ConsentÕs bewitchÕd, ere he desire, have granted,
And dialogued for him what he would say,
AskÕd their own wills, and made their wills obey.
ÔMany there were that did his picture get
To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind,
Like fools that in thÕ imagination set
The goodly objects which abroad they find
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assignÕd,
And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them,
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.
ÔSo many have, that never touchÕd his hand,
Sweetly supposÕd them mistress of his heart.
My woeful self that did in freedom stand,
And was my own fee-simple (not in part)
What with his art in youth, and youth in art,
Threw my affections in his charmed power,
ReservÕd the stalk and gave him all my flower.
ÔYet did I not, as some my equals did,
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded,
Finding myself in honour so forbid,
With safest distance I mine honour shielded.
Experience for me many bulwarks builded
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remainÕd the foil
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.
ÔBut ah! Who ever shunnÕd by precedent
The destinÕd ill she must herself assay,
Or forceÕd examples Õgainst her own content,
To put the by-passÕd perils in her way?
Counsel may stop a while what will not stay:
For when we rage, advice is often seen
By blunting us to make our wills more keen.
ÔNor gives it satisfaction to our blood,
That we must curb it upon othersÕ proof,
To be forbode the sweets that seems so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgement stand aloof!
The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
Though reason weep and cry, ÒIt is thy last.Ó
ÔFor further I could say, ÒThis manÕs untrueÓ,
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
Heard where his plants in othersÕ orchards grew,
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
Thought characters and words merely but art,
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.
ÔAnd long upon these terms I held my city,
Till thus he Õgan besiege me: ÒGentle maid,
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
And be not of my holy vows afraid:
ThatÕs to ye sworn, to none was ever said,
For feasts of love I have been callÕd unto,
Till now did neÕer invite, nor never woo.
ÔÒAll my offences that abroad you see
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind:
Love made them not; with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor true nor kind,
They sought their shame that so their shame did find,
And so much less of shame in me remains,
By how much of me their reproach contains.
ÔÒAmong the many that mine eyes have seen,
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed,
Or my affection put to thÕ smallest teen,
Or any of my leisures ever charmed:
Harm have I done to them, but neÕer was harmed;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
And reignÕd commanding in his monarchy.
ÔÒLook here what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood,
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
In bloodless white and the encrimsonÕd mood;
Effects of terror and dear modesty,
EncampÕd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.
ÔÒAnd, lo! behold these talents of their hair,
With twisted metal amorously empleachÕd,
I have receivÕd from many a several fair,
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseechÕd,
With thÕ annexions of fair gems enrichÕd,
And deep-brainÕd sonnets that did amplify
Each stoneÕs dear nature, worth and quality.
ÔÒThe diamond, why Õtwas beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invisÕd properties did tend,
The deep green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
With objects manifold; each several stone,
With wit well blazonÕd smilÕd, or made some moan.
ÔÒLo, all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensivÕd and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath chargÕd me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender:
For these of force must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you empatron me.
ÔÒO then advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise:
What me, your minister for you, obeys,
Works under you; and to your audit comes
Their distract parcels in combined sums.
ÔÒLo, this device was sent me from a nun,
Or sister sanctified of holiest note,
Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove
To spend her living in eternal love.
ÔÒBut O, my sweet, what labour isÕt to leave
The thing we have not, mastÕring what not strives,
Planing the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves,
She that her fame so to herself contrives,
The scars of battle Õscapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.
ÔÒO pardon me, in that my boast is true,
The accident which brought me to her eye,
Upon the moment did her force subdue,
And now she would the caged cloister fly:
Religious love put out religionÕs eye:
Not to be tempted would she be immurÕd,
And now to tempt all, liberty procurÕd.
ÔÒHow mighty then you are, O hear me tell!
The broken bosoms that to me belong
Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
And mine I pour your ocean all among:
I strong oÕer them, and you oÕer me being strong,
Must for your victory us all congest,
As compound love to physic your cold breast.
ÔÒMy parts had powÕr to charm a sacred nun,
Who, disciplinÕd and dieted in grace,
BelievÕd her eyes when they tÕassail begun,
All vows and consecrations giving place.
O most potential love! Vow, bond, nor space,
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,
For thou art all and all things else are thine.
ÔÒWhen thou impressest, what are precepts worth
Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,
How coldly those impediments stand forth,
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!
LoveÕs arms are peace, Õgainst rule, Õgainst sense, Õgainst shame,
And sweetens, in the suffÕring pangs it bears,
The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears.
ÔÒNow all these hearts that do on mine depend,
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine,
And supplicant their sighs to your extend,
To leave the battÕry that you make Õgainst mine,
Lending soft audience to my sweet design,
And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath,
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.Ó
ÔThis said, his watÕry eyes he did dismount,
Whose sights till then were levellÕd on my face;
Each cheek a river running from a fount
With brinish current downward flowed apace.
O how the channel to the stream gave grace!
Who, glazÕd with crystal gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses.
ÔO father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear!
But with the inundation of the eyes
What rocky heart to water will not wear?
What breast so cold that is not warmed here?
O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath,
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.
ÔFor lo, his passion, but an art of craft,
Even there resolvÕd my reason into tears;
There my white stole of chastity I daffÕd,
Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears,
Appear to him as he to me appears,
All melting, though our drops this diffÕrence bore:
His poisonÕd me, and mine did him restore.
ÔIn him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
In eitherÕs aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.
ÔThat not a heart which in his level came
Could Õscape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;
And veilÕd in them, did win whom he would maim.
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;
When he most burned in heart-wishÕd luxury,
He preachÕd pure maid, and praisÕd cold chastity.
ÔThus merely with the garment of a grace,
The naked and concealed fiend he coverÕd,
That thÕunexperient gave the tempter place,
Which, like a cherubin, above them hoverÕd.
Who, young and simple, would not be so loverÕd?
Ay me! I fell, and yet do question make
What I should do again for such a sake.
ÔO, that infected moisture of his eye,
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glowÕd!
O, that forcÕd thunder from his heart did fly,
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestowÕd,
O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed,
Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed,
And new pervert a reconciled maid.Õ
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
I
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutorÕd youth,
Unskilful in the worldÕs false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with loveÕs ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, loveÕs best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
ÊÊÊÊTherefore, IÕll lie with love, and love with me,
ÊÊÊÊSince that our faults in love thus smotherÕd be.
II
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman colourÕd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turnÕd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in anotherÕs hell:
ÊÊÊÊThe truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
ÊÊÊÊTill my bad angel fire my good one out.
III
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
ÕGainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace being gainÕd cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;
Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,
Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is;
If broken then, it is no fault of mine.
ÊÊÊÊIf by me broke, what fool is not so wise
ÊÊÊÊTo break an oath, to win a paradise?
IV
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beautyÕs queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;
She showÕd him favours to allure his eye;
To win his heart, she touchÕd him here and there;
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refusÕd to take her figurÕd proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer.
ÊÊÊÊThen fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
ÊÊÊÊHe rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!
V
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed.
Though to myself forsworn, to thee IÕll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire.
Thine eye JoveÕs lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
ÊÊÊÊCelestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
ÊÊÊÊTo sing heavenÕs praise with such an earthly tongue.
VI
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brookÕs green brim:
The sun lookÕd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
ÊÊÊÊHe, spying her, bouncÕd in, whereas he stood,
ÊÊÊÊÒO Jove,Ó quoth she, Òwhy was not I a flood?Ó
VII
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle,
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:
ÊÊÊÊA lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
ÊÊÊÊNone fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!
ÊÊÊÊYet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
ÊÊÊÊHer faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.
She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burnt out love, as soon as straw out-burneth;
She framÕd the love, and yet she foilÕd the framing;
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.
ÊÊÊÊWas this a lover, or a lecher whether?
ÊÊÊÊBad in the best, though excellent in neither.
VIII
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great Õtwixt thee and me,
Because thou lovÕst the one and I the other.
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such
As passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lovÕst to hear the sweet melodious sound
That PhÏbusÕ lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drownÕd
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.
ÊÊÊÊOne god is god of both, as poets feign;
ÊÊÊÊOne knight loves both, and both in thee remain.
IX
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,
ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ*
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For AdonÕs sake, a youngster proud and wild;
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill;
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;
She, silly queen, with more than loveÕs good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.
ÒOnce,Ó quoth she, Òdid I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!
See in my thigh,Ó quoth she, Òhere was the sore.Ó
ÊÊÊÊShe showed hers: he saw more wounds than one,
ÊÊÊÊAnd blushing fled, and left her all alone.
X
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluckÕd, soon vaded,
PluckÕd in the bud and vaded in the spring!
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded!
Fair creature, killÕd too soon by deathÕs sharp sting!
ÊÊÊÊLike a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
ÊÊÊÊAnd falls, through wind, before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have;
For why thou leftÕst me nothing in thy will;
And yet thou leftÕst me more than I did crave;
For why I craved nothing of thee still.
ÊÊÊÊO yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee,
ÊÊÊÊThy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
XI
Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her
Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him;
She told the youngling how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, she fell to him.
ÒEven thus,Ó quoth she, Òthe warlike god embracÕd me,Ó
And then she clippÕd Adonis in her arms;
ÒEven thus,Ó quoth she, Òthe warlike god unlaced me;Ó
As if the boy should use like loving charms;
ÒEven thus,Ó quoth she, Òhe seized on my lips,Ó
And with her lips on his did act the seizure;
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure.
ÊÊÊÊAh, that I had my lady at this bay,
ÊÊÊÊTo kiss and clip me till I run away!
XII
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, ageÕs breath is short;
ÊÊÊÊYouth is nimble, age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold;
ÊÊÊÊYouth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee;
ÊÊÊÊO, my love, my love is young!
Age, I do defy thee. O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stayÕst too long.
XIII
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly;
A flower that dies when first it Õgins to bud;
A brittle glass thatÕs broken presently:
ÊÊÊÊA doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
ÊÊÊÊLost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie witherÕd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
ÊÊÊÊSo beauty blemishÕd once, for everÕs lost,
ÊÊÊÊIn spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.
XIV
Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share:
She bade good night that kept my rest away;
And daffÕd me to a cabin hangÕd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
ÊÊÊÊÒFarewell,Ó quoth she, Òand come again tomorrow:Ó
ÊÊÊÊFare well I could not, for I suppÕd with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether:
ÕT may be, she joyÕd to jest at my exile,
ÕT may be, again to make me wander thither:
ÊÊÊÊÒWander,Ó a word for shadows like myself,
ÊÊÊÊAs take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
ÊÊÊÊWhile Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
ÊÊÊÊAnd wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dreaming night.
The night so packÕd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight;
ÊÊÊÊSorrow changÕd to solace, solace mixÕd with sorrow;
ÊÊÊÊFor why, she sighÕd, and bade me come tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon;
But now are minutes added to the hours;
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
ÊÊÊÊPack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:
ÊÊÊÊShort, night, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.
XV
It was a lordingÕs daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see,
ÊÊÊÊHer fancy fell a-turning.
Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight,
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight;
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
ÊÊÊÊUnto the silly damsel!
But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain,
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain,
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain:
ÊÊÊÊAlas she could not help it!
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away:
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
ÊÊÊÊFor now my song is ended.
XVI
On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen Õgan passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
WishÕd himself the heavenÕs breath:
ÒAir,Ó quoth he, Òthy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas, my hand hath sworn
NeÕer to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet!
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.Ó
XVII
My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not, all is amis:
Love is dying, faithÕs defying,
HeartÕs denying, causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my ladyÕs love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmely fixÕd in love,
There a nay is placÕd without remove.
One silly cross wrought all my loss;
O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!
For now I see inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I, all fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall.
Heart is bleeding, all help needing,
O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall.
My shepherdÕs pipe can sound no deal.
My weatherÕs bell rings doleful knell;
My curtal dog that wont to have playÕd,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid.
With sighs so deep procures to weep,
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquishÕd men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye;
Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs black peeping fearfully.
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewel, sweet love, thy like neÕer was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe!
Poor Corydon must live alone;
Other help for him I see that there is none.
XVIII
Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,
And stallÕd the deer that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy, partial might;
ÊÊÊÊTake counsel of some wiser head,
ÊÊÊÊNeither too young nor yet unwed.

And when thou comÕst thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Least she some subtle practice smell,Ñ
A cripple soon can find a halt,Ñ
ÊÊÊÊBut plainly say thou lovÕst her well,
ÊÊÊÊAnd set her person forth to sale.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night,
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight;
ÊÊÊÊAnd twice desire, ere it be day,
ÊÊÊÊThat which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
ÊÊÊÊÒHad women been so strong as men,
ÊÊÊÊIn faith, you had not had it then.Ó

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy ladyÕs ear:
ÊÊÊÊThe strongest castle, tower and town,
ÊÊÊÊThe golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,
And in thy suit be humble true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose a new:
ÊÊÊÊWhen time shall serve, be thou not slack,
ÊÊÊÊTo proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know,
ÊÊÊÊHave you not heard it said full oft,
ÊÊÊÊA womanÕs nay doth stand for nought.

Think women still to strive with men,
To sin and never for to saint:
There is no heaven, by holy then,
When time with age shall them attaint,
ÊÊÊÊWere kisses all the joys in bed,
ÊÊÊÊOne woman would another wed.

But soft, enough,Ñtoo much,ÑI fear
Lest that my mistress hear my song:
She will not stick to round me on thÕ ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long.
ÊÊÊÊYet will she blush, here be it said,
ÊÊÊÊTo hear her secrets so bewrayÕd.
XIX
Live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.
LoveÕs Answer.
If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherdÕs tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
XX
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
LeanÕd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullÕst ditty,
That to hear it was great pitty.
ÒFie, fie, fie,Ó now would she cry,
ÒTereu, Tereu,Ó by and by;

That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain,
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mournÕst in vain!
None takes pitty on thy pain.
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lappÕd in lead,
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.

Whilst as fickle fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call,
And with such-like flattering,
ÒPity but he were a king.Ó

If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement.
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown.
They that fawnÕd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattÕring foe.
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the feverÕs end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, featherÕd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender makÕst
With the breath thou givÕst and takÕst,
ÕMongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they lovÕd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance and no space was seen
ÕTwixt this turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenixÕ sight;
Either was the otherÕs mine.
Property was thus appalled,
That the self was not the same;
Single natureÕs double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded.
That it cried, How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊTHRENOS
Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosÕd in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenixÕ nest;
And the turtleÕs loyal breast
To eternity doth rest.
Leaving no posterity:Ñ
ÕTwas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but Õtis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON,
and Baron of Titchfield.
The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness.
ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊYour LordshipÕs in all duty,
ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE ARGUMENT.
Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus), after he had caused his own father-in-law, Servius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the peopleÕs suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the kingÕs son, in their discourses after supper, everyone commended the virtues of his own wife; among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which everyone had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with LucreceÕs beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily 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, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatched messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king; wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls.

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
ÊÊÊÊAnd girdle with embracing flames the waist
ÊÊÊÊOf CollatineÕs fair love, Lucrece the chaste.
Haply that name of ÒchasteÓ unhappÕly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite,
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumphed in that sky of his delight;
ÊÊÊÊWhere mortal stars as bright as heavenÕs beauties,
ÊÊÊÊWith pure aspects did him peculiar duties.
For he the night before, in TarquinÕs tent
Unlocked the treasure of his happy state,
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
ReckÕning his fortune at such high proud rate
ÊÊÊÊThat kings might be espoused to more fame,
ÊÊÊÊBut king nor peer to such a peerless dame.
O happiness enjoyed but of a few,
And, if possessed, as soon decayed and done
As is the morningÕs silver melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expired date, cancelled ere well begun.
ÊÊÊÊHonour and beauty in the ownerÕs arms,
ÊÊÊÊAre weakly fortressed from a world of harms.
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
ÊÊÊÊOf that rich jewel he should keep unknown
ÊÊÊÊFrom thievish ears, because it is his own?
Perchance his boast of LucreceÕ sovÕreignty
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
ÊÊÊÊHis high-pitched thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
ÊÊÊÊThat golden hap which their superiors want.
But some untimely thought did instigate
His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those;
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.
ÊÊÊÊO rash false heat, wrapped in repentant cold,
ÊÊÊÊThy hasty spring still blasts and neÕer grows old!
When at Collatium this false lord arrived,
Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived
Which of them both should underprop her fame.
When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame;
ÊÊÊÊWhen beauty boasted blushes, in despite
ÊÊÊÊVirtue would stain that oÕer with silver white.
But beauty, in that white intituled
From VenusÕ doves, doth challenge that fair field.
Then virtue claims from beauty beautyÕs red,
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild
Their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield;
ÊÊÊÊTeaching them thus to use it in the fight,
ÊÊÊÊWhen shame assailed, the red should fence the white.
This heraldry in LucreceÕ face was seen,
Argued by beautyÕs red and virtueÕs white.
Of eitherÕs colour was the other queen,
Proving from worldÕs minority their right.
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;
ÊÊÊÊThe sovereignty of either being so great,
ÊÊÊÊThat oft they interchange each otherÕs seat.
Their silent war of lilies and of roses,
Which Tarquin viewed in her fair faceÕs field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;
Where, lest between them both it should be killed,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
ÊÊÊÊTo those two armies that would let him go
ÊÊÊÊRather than triumph in so false a foe.
Now thinks he that her husbandÕs shallow tongue,
The niggard prodigal that praised 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
ÊÊÊÊEnchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
ÊÊÊÊIn silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.
This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth the false worshipper;
For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil;
Birds never limed no secret bushes fear.
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
ÊÊÊÊAnd reverend welcome to her princely guest,
ÊÊÊÊWhose inward ill no outward harm expressed.
For that he coloured with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty,
That nothing in him seemed inordinate,
Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,
Which, having all, all could not satisfy;
ÊÊÊÊBut, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store
ÊÊÊÊThat, cloyed with much, he pineth still for more.
But she, that never coped with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books;
She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no hooks,
ÊÊÊÊNor could she moralize his wanton sight,
ÊÊÊÊMore than his eyes were opened to the light.
He stories to her ears her husbandÕs fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praises CollatineÕs high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory.
ÊÊÊÊHer joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,
ÊÊÊÊAnd, 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 blustÕring weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear,
Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear,
ÊÊÊÊUpon the world dim darkness doth display,
ÊÊÊÊAnd in her vaulty prison stows the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy sprite;
For after supper long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.
Now leaden slumber with lifeÕs strength doth fight,
ÊÊÊÊAnd every one to rest themselves betake,
ÊÊÊÊSave thieves and cares and troubled minds that wake.
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his willÕs obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining.
Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining,
ÊÊÊÊAnd when great treasure is the meed proposed,
ÊÊÊÊThough death be adjunct, thereÕs no death supposed.
Those that much covet are with gain so fond
For 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
ÊÊÊÊIs but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
ÊÊÊÊThat they prove bankrout in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning 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 battleÕs rage,
ÊÊÊÊHonour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
ÊÊÊÊThe death of all, and all together lost.
So that in ventÕring 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
ÊÊÊÊThe thing we have, and, all for want of wit,
ÊÊÊÊMake 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 he think to find a stranger just,
ÊÊÊÊWhen he himself himself confounds, betrays
ÊÊÊÊTo slandÕrous tongues and wretched hateful days?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes.
No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owlsÕ and wolvesÕ death-boding cries;
Now serves the season that they may surprise
ÊÊÊÊThe silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still,
ÊÊÊÊWhile lust and murder wake to stain and kill.
And now this lustful lord leaped from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely oÕer his arm;
Is madly tossed between desire and dread;
ThÕ one sweetly flatters, thÕ other feareth harm.
But honest fear, bewitched with lustÕs foul charm,
ÊÊÊÊDoth too too oft betake him to retire,
ÊÊÊÊBeaten 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 lodestar to his lustful eye,
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:
ÊÊÊÊÒAs from this cold flint I enforced this fire,
ÊÊÊÊSo Lucrece must I force to my desire.Ó
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
ÊÊÊÊHis naked armour of still-slaughtered lust,
ÊÊÊÊAnd justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:
ÒFair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine.
And die, unhallowed thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine.
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine.
ÊÊÊÊLet fair humanity abhor the deed
ÊÊÊÊThat spots and stains loveÕs modest snow-white weed.
ÒO shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my householdÕs grave!
O impious act including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancyÕs slave!
True valour still a true respect should have.
ÊÊÊÊThen my digression is so vile, so base,
ÊÊÊÊThat it will live engraven in my face.
ÒYea, 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, shamed with the note,
ÊÊÊÊShall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
ÊÊÊÊTo wish that I their father had not been.
ÒWhat win I if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minuteÕs mirth to wail a week,
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
ÊÊÊÊOr what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
ÊÊÊÊWould with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
ÒIf Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a despÕrate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?Ñ
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
ÊÊÊÊThis dying virtue, this surviving shame,
ÊÊÊÊWhose crime will bear an ever-during blame?
ÒO, what excuse can my invention make
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,
Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
ÊÊÊÊAnd extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
ÊÊÊÊBut coward-like with trembling terror die.
ÒHad Collatinus killed my son or sire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life,
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife,
As in revenge or quittal of such strife;
ÊÊÊÊBut as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
ÊÊÊÊThe shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.
ÒShameful it is; ay, if the fact be known.
Hateful it is, there is no hate in loving.
IÕll beg her love. But she is not her own.
The worst is but denial and reproving.
My will is strong, past reasonÕs weak removing.
ÊÊÊÊWho fears a sentence or an old manÕs saw
ÊÊÊÊShall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.Ó
Thus, graceless, holds he disputation
ÕTween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,
And with good thoughts makes dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill
ÊÊÊÊAll pure effects, and doth so far proceed
ÊÊÊÊThat what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.
Quoth he, ÒShe took me kindly by the hand,
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.
O how her fear did make her colour rise!
ÊÊÊÊFirst red as roses that on lawn we lay,
ÊÊÊÊThen white as lawn, the roses took away.
ÒAnd how her hand, in my hand being locked,
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear,
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked,
Until her husbandÕs welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer
ÊÊÊÊThat had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
ÊÊÊÊSelf-love had never drowned him in the flood.
ÒWhy hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth.
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;
ÊÊÊÊAnd when his gaudy banner is displayed,
ÊÊÊÊThe coward fights and will not be dismayed.
ÒThen, childish fear, avaunt! Debating, die!
Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand mine eye.
Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage;
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.
ÊÊÊÊDesire my pilot is, beauty my prize;
ÊÊÊÊThen who fears sinking where such treasure lies?Ó
As corn oÕergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost choked by unresisted lust.
Away he steals with opening, listÕning ear,
Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust;
Both which, as servitors to the unjust,
ÊÊÊÊSo cross him with their opposite persuasion
ÊÊÊÊThat now he vows a league, and now invasion.
Within his thought her heavenly image sits,
And in the self-same seat sits Collatine.
That eye which looks on her confounds his wits;
That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view so false will not incline,
ÊÊÊÊBut with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
ÊÊÊÊWhich once corrupted takes the worser part;
And therein heartens up his servile powers,
Who, flattered by their leaderÕs jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
ÊÊÊÊBy reprobate desire thus madly led,
ÊÊÊÊThe Roman lord marcheth to LucreceÕ bed.
The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforced, retires his ward;
But, as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard.
The threshold grates the door to have him heard;
ÊÊÊÊNight-wandÕring weasels shriek to see him there;
ÊÊÊÊThey fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.
As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place
The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
ÊÊÊÊBut his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
ÊÊÊÊPuffs forth another wind that fires the torch.
And being lighted, by the light he spies
LucretiaÕs glove, wherein her needle sticks;
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks,
As who should say, ÒThis glove to wanton tricks
ÊÊÊÊIs not inured. Return again in haste;
ÊÊÊÊThou seest our mistressÕ ornaments are chaste.Ó
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;
He in the worst sense construes their denial.
The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
ÊÊÊÊWho with a lingÕring stay his course doth let,
ÊÊÊÊTill every minute pays the hour his debt.
ÒSo, so,Ó quoth he, Òthese lets attend the time,
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing:
ÊÊÊÊHuge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands
ÊÊÊÊThe merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.Ó
Now is he come unto the chamber door
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,
Hath barred him from the blessed thing he sought.
So from himself impiety hath wrought,
ÊÊÊÊThat for his prey to pray he doth begin,
ÊÊÊÊAs if the heavens should countenance his sin.
But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,
Having solicited thÕ eternal power
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts. Quoth he, ÒI must deflower.
ÊÊÊÊThe powers to whom I pray abhor this fact,
ÊÊÊÊHow can they then assist me in the act?
ÒThen Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide!
My will is backed with resolution.
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;
The blackest sin is cleared with absolution.
Against loveÕs fire fearÕs frost hath dissolution.
ÊÊÊÊThe eye of heaven is out, and misty night
ÊÊÊÊCovers the shame that follows sweet delight.Ó
This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide.
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch;
Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside;
ÊÊÊÊBut she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
ÊÊÊÊLies at the mercy of his mortal sting.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed.
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head.
By their high treason is his heart misled,
ÊÊÊÊWhich gives the watch-word to his hand full soon
ÊÊÊÊTo draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.
Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight;
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light.
Whether it is that she reflects so bright,
ÊÊÊÊThat dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;
ÊÊÊÊBut blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.
O, had they in that darksome prison died,
Then had they seen the period of their ill!
Then Collatine again by LucreceÕ side
In his clear bed might have reposed still.
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill;
ÊÊÊÊAnd holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
ÊÊÊÊMust sell her joy, her life, her worldÕs delight.
Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
CozÕning the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss;
Between whose hills her head entombed is,
ÊÊÊÊWhere like a virtuous monument she lies,
ÊÊÊÊTo be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet; whose perfect white
Showed like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light,
ÊÊÊÊAnd canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
ÊÊÊÊTill they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair, like golden threads, played with her breath:
O modest wantons, wanton modesty!
Showing lifeÕs triumph in the map of death,
And deathÕs dim look in lifeÕs mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,
ÊÊÊÊAs if between them twain there were no strife,
ÊÊÊÊBut that life lived in death and death in life.
Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured.
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred;
ÊÊÊÊWho, like a foul usurper, went about
ÊÊÊÊFrom this fair throne to heave the owner out.
What could he see but mightily he noted?
What did he note but strongly he desired?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
ÊÊÊÊHer azure veins, her alabaster skin,
ÊÊÊÊHer coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim lion fawneth oÕer his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So oÕer this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by grazing qualifiedÑ
Slaked, not suppressed; for standing by her side,
ÊÊÊÊHis eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
ÊÊÊÊUnto a greater uproar tempts his veins.
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting,
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor childrenÕs tears nor mothersÕ groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.
ÊÊÊÊAnon his beating heart, alarum striking,
ÊÊÊÊGives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land;
ÊÊÊÊWhose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
ÊÊÊÊLeft their round turrets destitute and pale.
They, mustÕring to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,
And fright her with confusion of their cries.
She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes,
ÊÊÊÊWho, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
ÊÊÊÊAre by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.
Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking.
What terror Õtis! but she, in worser taking,
ÊÊÊÊFrom sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
ÊÊÊÊThe sight which makes supposed terror true.
Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies.
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes.
Such shadows are the weak brainÕs forgeries;
ÊÊÊÊWho, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
ÊÊÊÊIn darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.
His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,
Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!
May feel her heart, poor citizen, distressed,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
ÊÊÊÊThis moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,
ÊÊÊÊTo make the breach and enter this sweet city.
First, like a trumpet doth his tongue begin
To sound a parley to his heartless foe,
Who oÕer the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show;
ÊÊÊÊBut she with vehement prayers urgeth still
ÊÊÊÊUnder what colour he commits this ill.
Thus he replies: ÒThe colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale.
Under that colour am I come to scale
ÊÊÊÊThy never-conquered fort; the fault is thine,
ÊÊÊÊFor those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.
ÒThus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide,
My will that marks thee for my earthÕs delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might.
ÊÊÊÊBut as reproof and reason beat it dead,
ÊÊÊÊBy thy bright beauty was it newly bred.
ÒI see what crosses my attempt will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rose defends;
I think the honey guarded with a sting;
All this beforehand counsel comprehends.
But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends;
ÊÊÊÊOnly he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
ÊÊÊÊAnd dotes on what he looks, Õgainst law or duty.
ÒI have debated, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;
But nothing can affectionÕs course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
ÊÊÊÊReproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;
ÊÊÊÊYet strike I to embrace mine infamy.Ó
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon towÕring in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wingsÕ shade,
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies.
So under his insulting falchion lies
ÊÊÊÊHarmless Lucretia, marking what he tells
ÊÊÊÊWith trembling fear, as fowl hear falconÕs bells.
ÒLucrece,Ó quoth he, Òthis night I must enjoy thee.
If thou deny, then force must work my way,
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee;
That done, some worthless slave of thine IÕll slay.
To kill thine honour with thy lifeÕs decay;
ÊÊÊÊAnd in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
ÊÊÊÊSwearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.
ÒSo thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye;
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurred with nameless bastardy.
And thou, the author of their obloquy,
ÊÊÊÊShalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes
ÊÊÊÊÊAnd sung by children in succeeding times.
ÒBut if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend.
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted;
A little harm done to a great good end
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted
ÊÊÊÊIn a pure compound; being so applied,
ÊÊÊÊHis venom in effect is purified.
ÒThen, for thy husband and thy childrenÕs sake,
Tender my suit. Bequeath not to their lot
The shame that from them no device can take,
The blemish that will never be forgot,
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hourÕs blot:
ÊÊÊÊFor marks descried in menÕs nativity
ÊÊÊÊAre natureÕs faults, not their own infamy.Ó
Here with a cockatriceÕ dead-killing eye
He rouseth up himself and makes a pause;
While she, the picture of pure piety,
Like a white hind under the gripeÕs sharp claws,
Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws,
ÊÊÊÊTo the rough beast that knows no gentle right,
ÊÊÊÊNor aught obeys but his foul appetite.
But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat,
In his dim mist thÕ aspiring mountains hiding,
From earthÕs dark womb some gentle gust doth get,
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,
HindÕring their present fall by this dividing;
ÊÊÊÊSo his unhallowed haste her words delays,
ÊÊÊÊAnd moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.
Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth.
Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly,
A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth.
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
ÊÊÊÊNo penetrable entrance to her plaining;
ÊÊÊÊTears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face.
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place,
ÊÊÊÊAnd midst the sentence so her accent breaks
ÊÊÊÊThat twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.
She conjures him by high almighty Jove,
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendshipÕs oath,
By her untimely tears, her husbandÕs love,
By holy human law, and common troth,
By heaven and earth, and all the power of both,
ÊÊÊÊThat to his borrowed bed he make retire,
ÊÊÊÊAnd stoop to honour, not to foul desire.
Quoth she, ÒReward not hospitality
With such black payment as thou hast pretended;
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee,
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended.
End thy ill aim before the shoot be ended;
ÊÊÊÊHe is no woodman that doth bend his bow
ÊÊÊÊTo strike a poor unseasonable doe.
ÒMy husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me.
Thyself art mighty; for thine own sake leave me.
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me;
Thou lookÕst not like deceit; do not deceive me.
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee.
ÊÊÊÊIf ever man were moved with womanÕs moans,
ÊÊÊÊBe moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans.
ÒAll which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threatÕning heart,
To soften it with their continual motion;
For stones dissolved to water do convert.
O, if no harder than a stone thou art,
ÊÊÊÊMelt at my tears and be compassionate!
ÊÊÊÊSoft pity enters at an iron gate.
ÒIn TarquinÕs likeness I did entertain thee.
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?
To all the host of heaven I complain me,
Thou wrongÕst his honour, woundÕst his princely name.
Thou art not what thou seemÕst; and if the same,
ÊÊÊÊThou seemÕst not what thou art, a god, a king;
ÊÊÊÊFor kings like gods should govern everything.
ÒHow will thy shame be seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring?
If in thy hope thou darÕst do such outrage,
What darÕst thou not when once thou art a king?
O, be remembered, no outrageous thing
ÊÊÊÊFrom vassal actors can be wiped away;
ÊÊÊÊThen kingsÕ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.
ÒThis deed will make thee only loved for fear,
But happy monarchs still are feared for love.
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like offences prove.
If but for fear of this, thy will remove,
ÊÊÊÊFor princes are the glass, the school, the book,
ÊÊÊÊWhere subjectsÕ eyes do learn, do read, do look.
ÒAnd wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn?
Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?
Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern
Authority for sin, warrant for blame,
To privilege dishonour in thy name?
ÊÊÊÊThou backÕst reproach against long-living laud,
ÊÊÊÊAnd makÕst fair reputation but a bawd.
ÒHast thou command? By him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command thy rebel will.
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfill,
ÊÊÊÊWhen, patterned by thy fault, foul Sin may say
ÊÊÊÊHe learned to sin, and thou didst teach the way?
ÒThink but how vile a spectacle it were
To view thy present trespass in another.
MenÕs faults do seldom to themselves appear;
Their own transgressions partially they smother.
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.
ÊÊÊÊO how are they wrapped in with infamies
ÊÊÊÊThat from their own misdeeds askance their eyes!
ÒTo thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal,
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier.
I sue for exiled majestyÕs repeal;
Let him return, and flattÕring thoughts retire.
His true respect will prison false desire,
ÊÊÊÊAnd wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,
ÊÊÊÊThat thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.Ó
ÒHave done,Ó quoth he. ÒMy uncontrolled tide
Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide,
And with the wind in greater fury fret.
The petty streams that pay a daily debt
ÊÊÊÊTo their salt sovereign, with their fresh fallsÕ haste
ÊÊÊÊAdd to his flow, but alter not his taste.Ó
ÒThou art,Ó quoth she, Òa sea, a sovereign king,
And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills shall change thy good,
ÊÊÊÊThy sea within a puddleÕs womb is hearsed,
ÊÊÊÊAnd not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.
ÒSo shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave;
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave;
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride.
The lesser thing should not the greater hide;
ÊÊÊÊThe cedar stoops not to the base shrubÕs foot,
ÊÊÊÊBut low shrubs wither at the cedarÕs root.
ÒSo let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy stateÓÑ
ÒNo more,Ó quoth he, Òby heaven, I will not hear thee.
Yield to my love. If not, enforced hate,
Instead of loveÕs coy touch, shall rudely tear thee.
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee
ÊÊÊÊUnto the base bed of some rascal groom,
ÊÊÊÊTo be thy partner in this shameful doom.Ó
This said, he sets his foot upon the light,
For light and lust are deadly enemies.
Shame folded up in blind concealing night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries,
ÊÊÊÊTill with her own white fleece her voice controlled
ÊÊÊÊEntombs her outcry in her lipsÕ sweet fold.
For with the nightly linen that she wears
He pens her piteous clamours in her head,
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.
O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
ÊÊÊÊThe spots whereof could weeping purify,
ÊÊÊÊHer tears should drop on them perpetually.
But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose again.
This forced league doth force a further strife;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain;
This hot desire converts to cold disdain.
ÊÊÊÊPure Chastity is rifled of her store,
ÊÊÊÊAnd Lust, the thief, far poorer than before.
Look as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk
The prey wherein by nature they delight;
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night.
ÊÊÊÊHis taste delicious, in digestion souring,
ÊÊÊÊDevours his will, that lived by foul devouring.
O deeper sin than bottomless conceit
Can comprehend in still imagination!
Drunken desire must vomit his receipt,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While lust is in his pride no exclamation
ÊÊÊÊCan curb his heat or rein his rash desire,
ÊÊÊÊTill, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire.
And then with lank and lean discoloured cheek,
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble desire, all recreant, poor, and meek,
Like to a bankrout beggar wails his case.
The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with Grace,
ÊÊÊÊFor there it revels; and when that decays,
ÊÊÊÊThe guilty rebel for remission prays.
So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of times he stands disgraced.
Besides, his soulÕs fair temple is defaced,
ÊÊÊÊTo whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,
ÊÊÊÊTo ask the spotted princess how she fares.
She says her subjects with foul insurrection
Have battered down her consecrated wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death and pain perpetual,
ÊÊÊÊWhich in her prescience she controlled still,
ÊÊÊÊBut her foresight could not forestall their will.
EÕen in this thought through the dark night he stealeth,
A captive victor that hath lost in gain,
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will, despite of cure, remain;
Leaving his spoil perplexed in greater pain.
ÊÊÊÊShe bears the load of lust he left behind,
ÊÊÊÊAnd he the burden of a guilty mind.
He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence;
She like a wearied lamb lies panting there;
He scowls, and hates himself for his offence;
She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear.
He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear;
ÊÊÊÊShe stays, exclaiming on the direful night;
ÊÊÊÊHe runs, and chides his vanished, loathed delight.
He thence departs a heavy convertite;
She there remains a hopeless castaway.
He in his speed looks for the morning light;
She prays she never may behold the day.
ÒFor day,Ó quoth she, ÒnightÕs scapes doth open lay,
ÊÊÊÊAnd my true eyes have never practised how
ÊÊÊÊTo cloak offences with a cunning brow.
ÒThey think not but that every eye can see
The same disgrace which they themselves behold;
And therefore would they still in darkness be,
To have their unseen sin remain untold.
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,
ÊÊÊÊAnd grave, like water that doth eat in steel,
ÊÊÊÊUpon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.Ó
Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.
She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find
Some purer chest, to close so pure a mind.
ÊÊÊÊFrantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite
ÊÊÊÊAgainst the unseen secrecy of night.
ÒO comfort-killing night, image of hell,
Dim register and notary of shame,
Black stage for tragedies and murders fell,
Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame,
Blind muffled bawd, dark harbour for defame,
ÊÊÊÊGrim cave of death, whispÕring conspirator
ÊÊÊÊWith close-tongued treason and the ravisher!
ÒO hateful, vaporous, and foggy night,
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportioned course of time;
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb
ÊÊÊÊHis wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
ÊÊÊÊKnit poisonous clouds about his golden head.
ÒWith rotten damps ravish the morning air;
Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrive his weary noontide prick.
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,
ÊÊÊÊThat in their smoky ranks his smothered light
ÊÊÊÊMay set at noon and make perpetual night.
ÒWere Tarquin night, as he is but nightÕs child,
The silver-shining queen he would distain;
Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled,
Through NightÕs black bosom should not peep again.
So should I have co-partners in my pain;
ÊÊÊÊAnd fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,
ÊÊÊÊAs palmersÕ chat makes short their pilgrimage.
ÒWhere now I have no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,
To mask their brows, and hide their infamy;
But I alone alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,
ÊÊÊÊMingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
ÊÊÊÊPoor wasting monuments of lasting moans.
ÒO night, thou furnace of foul reeking smoke,
Let not the jealous day behold that face
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak
Immodesty lies martyred with disgrace!
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
ÊÊÊÊThat all the faults which in thy reign are made
ÊÊÊÊMay likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.
ÒMake me not object to the tell-tale day.
The light will show charactered in my brow
The story of sweet chastityÕs decay,
The impious breach of holy wedlock vow.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
ÊÊÊÊTo cipher what is writ in learned books,
ÊÊÊÊWill quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.
ÒThe nurse, to still her child, will tell my story
And fright her crying babe with TarquinÕs name.
The orator, to deck his oratory,
Will couple my reproach to TarquinÕs shame.
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,
ÊÊÊÊWill tie the hearers to attend each line,
ÊÊÊÊHow Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.
ÒLet my good name, that senseless reputation,
For CollatineÕs dear love be kept unspotted.
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserved reproach to him allotted
ÊÊÊÊThat is as clear from this attaint of mine
ÊÊÊÊAs I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.
ÒO unseen shame, invisible disgrace!
O unfelt sore, crest-wounding, private scar!
Reproach is stamped in CollatinusÕ face,
And TarquinÕs eye may read the mot afar,
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
ÊÊÊÊAlas, how many bear such shameful blows,
ÊÊÊÊWhich not themselves, but he that gives them knows!
ÒIf, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,
From me by strong assault it is bereft.
My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,
Have no perfection of my summer left,
But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft.
ÊÊÊÊIn thy weak hive a wandÕring wasp hath crept,
ÊÊÊÊAnd sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept.
ÒYet am I guilty of thy honourÕs wrack;
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him.
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him.
Besides, of weariness he did complain him,
ÊÊÊÊAnd talked of virtue. O unlooked-for evil,
ÊÊÊÊWhen virtue is profaned in such a devil!
ÒWhy should the worm intrude the maiden bud?
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrowsÕ nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
ÊÊÊÊBut no perfection is so absolute
ÊÊÊÊThat some impurity doth not pollute.
ÒThe aged man that coffers up his gold
Is plagued with cramps, and gouts and painful fits,
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,
But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless barns the harvest of his wits,
ÊÊÊÊHaving no other pleasure of his gain
ÊÊÊÊBut torment that it cannot cure his pain.
ÒSo then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be mastered by his young,
Who in their pride do presently abuse it.
Their father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long.
ÊÊÊÊThe sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours
ÊÊÊÊEven in the moment that we call them ours.
ÒUnruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers;
The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing;
What virtue breeds iniquity devours.
We have no good that we can say is ours,
ÊÊÊÊBut ill-annexed Opportunity
ÊÊÊÊOr kills his life or else his quality.
ÒO Opportunity, thy guilt is great!
ÕTis thou that executÕst the traitorÕs treason;
Thou sets the wolf where he the lamb may get;
Whoever plots the sin, thou ÕpointÕst the season.
ÕTis thou that spurnÕst at right, at law, at reason;
ÊÊÊÊAnd in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
ÊÊÊÊSits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.
ÒThou makÕst the vestal violate her oath;
Thou blowÕst the fire when temperance is thawed;
Thou smotherÕst honesty, thou murderÕst troth,
Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud.
ÊÊÊÊThou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
ÊÊÊÊThy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief.
ÒThy secret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,
Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood taste.
Thy violent vanities can never last.
ÊÊÊÊHow comes it then, vile Opportunity,
ÊÊÊÊBeing so bad, such numbers seek for thee?
ÒWhen wilt thou be the humble suppliantÕs friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtained?
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end,
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained?
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained?
ÊÊÊÊThe poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
ÊÊÊÊBut they neÕer meet with Opportunity.
ÒThe patient dies while the physician sleeps;
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;
Advice is sporting while infection breeds.
Thou grantÕst no time for charitable deeds.
ÊÊÊÊWrath, envy, treason, rape, and murderÕs rages,
ÊÊÊÊThy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.
ÒWhen truth and virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid;
They buy thy help; but Sin neÕer gives a fee;
He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
ÊÊÊÊMy Collatine would else have come to me
ÊÊÊÊWhen Tarquin did, but he was stayed by thee.
ÒGuilty thou art of murder and of theft,
Guilty of perjury and subornation,
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift,
Guilty of incest, that abomination:
An accessory by thine inclination
ÊÊÊÊTo all sins past and all that are to come,
ÊÊÊÊFrom the creation to the general doom.
ÒMisshapen Time, copesmate of ugly night,
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,
Base watch of woes, sinÕs pack-horse, virtueÕs snare!
Thou nursest all and murdÕrest all that are.
ÊÊÊÊO hear me then, injurious, shifting Time!
ÊÊÊÊBe guilty of my death, since of my crime.
ÒWhy hath thy servant, Opportunity
Betrayed the hours thou gavÕst me to repose,
Cancelled my fortunes, and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
TimeÕs office is to fine the hate of foes,
ÊÊÊÊTo eat up errors by opinion bred,
ÊÊÊÊNot spend the dowry of a lawful bed.
ÒTimeÕs glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn and sentinel the night,
To wrong the wronger till he render right,
ÊÊÊÊTo ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
ÊÊÊÊAnd smear with dust their glittÕring golden towers;
ÒTo fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books and alter their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravensÕ wings,
To dry the old oakÕs sap and cherish springs,
ÊÊÊÊTo spoil antiquities of hammered steel,
ÊÊÊÊAnd turn the giddy round of FortuneÕs wheel;
ÒTo show the beldam daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild,
To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled,
ÊÊÊÊTo cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
ÊÊÊÊAnd waste huge stones with little water-drops.
ÒWhy workÕst thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,
Unless thou couldst return to make amends?
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends.
ÊÊÊÊO, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back,
ÊÊÊÊI could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack!
ÒThou ceaseless lackey to eternity,
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight.
Devise extremes beyond extremity,
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night.
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright,
ÊÊÊÊAnd the dire thought of his committed evil
ÊÊÊÊShape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.
ÒDisturb his hours of rest with restless trances,
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans;
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
To make him moan, but pity not his moans.
Stone him with hardÕned hearts harder than stones,
ÊÊÊÊAnd let mild women to him lose their mildness,
ÊÊÊÊWilder to him than tigers in their wildness.
ÒLet him have time to tear his curled hair,
Let him have time against himself to rave,
Let him have time of TimeÕs help to despair,
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,
Let him have time a beggarÕs orts to crave,
ÊÊÊÊAnd time to see one that by alms doth live
ÊÊÊÊDisdain to him disdained scraps to give.
ÒLet him have time to see his friends his foes,
And merry fools to mock at him resort;
Let him have time to mark how slow time goes
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short
His time of folly and his time of sport;
ÊÊÊÊAnd ever let his unrecalling crime
ÊÊÊÊHave time to wail thÕ abusing of his time.
ÒO Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,
Teach me to curse him that thou taughtÕst this ill!
At his own shadow let the thief run mad,
Himself himself seek every hour to kill.
Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill,
ÊÊÊÊFor who so base would such an office have
ÊÊÊÊAs slandÕrous deathsman to so base a slave?
ÒThe baser is he, coming from a king,
To shame his hope with deeds degenerate.
The mightier man, the mightier is the thing
That makes him honoured or begets him hate;
For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
ÊÊÊÊThe moon being clouded presently is missed,
ÊÊÊÊBut little stars may hide them when they list.
ÒThe crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,
And unperceived fly with the filth away;
But if the like the snow-white swan desire,
The stain upon his silver down will stay.
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day.
ÊÊÊÊGnats are unnoted wheresoeÕer they fly,
ÊÊÊÊBut eagles gazed upon with every eye.
ÒOut, idle words, servants to shallow fools,
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;
To trembling clients be you mediators.
ÊÊÊÊFor me, I force not argument a straw,
ÊÊÊÊSince that my case is past the help of law.
ÒIn vain I rail at Opportunity,
At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful night;
In vain I cavil with mine infamy,
In vain I spurn at my confirmed despite.
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.
ÊÊÊÊThe remedy indeed to do me good
ÊÊÊÊIs to let forth my foul defiled blood.
ÒPoor hand, why quiverÕst thou at this decree?
Honour thyself to rid me of this shame,
For if I die, my honour lives in thee,
But if I live, thou livÕst in my defame.
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame,
ÊÊÊÊAnd wast afeared to scratch her wicked foe,
ÊÊÊÊKill both thyself and her for yielding so.Ó
This said, from her betumbled couch she starteth,
To find some despÕrate instrument of death;
But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth
To make more vent for passage of her breath,
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
ÊÊÊÊAs smoke from ®tna, that in air consumes,
ÊÊÊÊOr that which from discharged cannon fumes.
ÒIn vain,Ó quoth she, ÒI live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life.
I feared by TarquinÕs falchion to be slain,
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife.
But when I feared I was a loyal wife;
ÊÊÊÊSo am I now.ÑO no, that cannot be!
ÊÊÊÊOf that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.
ÒO that is gone for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die.
To clear this spot by death, at least I give
A badge of fame to slanderÕs livery,
A dying life to living infamy.
ÊÊÊÊPoor helpless help, the treasure stolÕn away,
ÊÊÊÊTo burn the guiltless casket where it lay!
ÒWell, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know
The stained taste of violated troth;
I will not wrong thy true affection so,
To flatter thee with an infringed oath.
This bastard graff shall never come to growth;
ÊÊÊÊHe shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
ÊÊÊÊThat thou art doting father of his fruit.
ÒNor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;
But thou shalt know thy intÕrest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stolÕn from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
ÊÊÊÊAnd with my trespass never will dispense,
ÊÊÊÊTill life to death acquit my forced offence.
ÒI will not poison thee with my attaint,
Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coined excuses;
My sable ground of sin I will not paint,
To hide the truth of this false nightÕs abuses.
My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices,
ÊÊÊÊAs from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
ÊÊÊÊShall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.Ó
By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow sad gait descended
To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow.
ÊÊÊÊBut cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
ÊÊÊÊAnd therefore still in night would cloistered be.
Revealing day through every cranny spies,
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping,
To whom she sobbing speaks: ÒO eye of eyes,
Why pryÕst thou through my window? Leave thy peeping,
Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping.
ÊÊÊÊBrand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
ÊÊÊÊFor day hath naught to do whatÕs done by night.Ó
Thus cavils she with everything she sees.
True grief is fond and testy as a child,
Who wayward once, his mood with naught agrees.
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild.
Continuance tames the one; the other wild,
ÊÊÊÊLike an unpractised swimmer plunging still
ÊÊÊÊWith too much labour drowns for want of skill.
So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare;
No object but her passionÕs strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues.
ÊÊÊÊSometime her grief is dumb and hath no words;
ÊÊÊÊSometime Õtis mad and too much talk affords.
The little birds that tune their morningÕs joy
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody.
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;
Sad souls are slain in merry company.
Grief best is pleased with griefÕs society;
ÊÊÊÊTrue sorrow then is feelingly sufficed
ÊÊÊÊWhen with like semblance it is sympathized.
ÕTis double death to drown in ken of shore;
He ten times pines that pines beholding food;
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
ÊÊÊÊWho, being stopped, the bounding banks oÕerflows;
ÊÊÊÊGrief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.
ÒYou mocking birds,Ó quoth she, Òyour tunes entomb
Within your hollow-swelling feathered breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb;
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests.
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests.
ÊÊÊÊRelish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;
ÊÊÊÊDistress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.
ÒCome, Philomel, that singÕst of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my disheveled hair.
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear
And with deep groans the diapason bear;
ÊÊÊÊFor burden-wise IÕll hum on Tarquin still,
ÊÊÊÊWhile thou on Tereus descants better skill.
ÒAnd whiles against a thorn thou bearÕst thy part
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart
Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye,
Who if it wink shall thereon fall and die.
ÊÊÊÊThese means, as frets upon an instrument,
ÊÊÊÊShall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.
ÒAnd for, poor bird, thou singÕst not in the day,
As shaming any eye should thee behold,
Some dark deep desert seated from the way,
That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold,
Will we find out; and there we will unfold
ÊÊÊÊTo creatures stern sad tunes to change their kinds.
ÊÊÊÊSince men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.Ó
As the poor frighted deer that stands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly,
Or one encompassed with a winding maze,
That cannot tread the way out readily;
So with herself is she in mutiny,
ÊÊÊÊTo live or die which of the twain were better,
ÊÊÊÊWhen life is shamed and Death reproachÕs debtor.
ÒTo kill myself,Ó quoth she, Òalack, what were it,
But with my body my poor soulÕs pollution?
They that lose half with greater patience bear it
Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion.
That mother tries a merciless conclusion
ÊÊÊÊWho, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,
ÊÊÊÊWill slay the other, and be nurse to none.
ÒMy body or my soul, which was the dearer,
When the one pure, the other made divine?
Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?
Ay me, the bark pilled from the lofty pine,
ÊÊÊÊHis leaves will wither and his sap decay;
ÊÊÊÊSo must my soul, her bark being pilled away.
ÒHer house is sacked, her quiet interrupted,
Her mansion battered by the enemy,
Her sacred temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted,
Grossly engirt with daring infamy.
Then let it not be called impiety,
ÊÊÊÊIf in this blemished fort I make some hole
ÊÊÊÊThrough which I may convey this troubled soul.
ÒYet die I will not till my Collatine
Have heard the cause of my untimely death,
That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,
Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.
My stained blood to Tarquin IÕll bequeath,
ÊÊÊÊWhich by him tainted shall for him be spent,
ÊÊÊÊAnd as his due writ in my testament.
ÒMy honour IÕll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonoured.
ÕTis honour to deprive dishonoured life;
The one will live, the other being dead.
So of shameÕs ashes shall my fame be bred,
ÊÊÊÊFor in my death I murder shameful scorn;
ÊÊÊÊMy shame so dead, mine honour is new born.
ÒDear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou revenged mayst be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me;
ÊÊÊÊMyself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
ÊÊÊÊAnd for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
ÒThis brief abridgement of my will I make:
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution, husband, do thou take;
Mine honour be the knifeÕs that makes my wound;
My shame be his that did my fame confound;
ÊÊÊÊAnd all my fame that lives disbursed be
ÊÊÊÊTo those that live and think no shame of me.
ÒThou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will;
How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
My lifeÕs foul deed my lifeÕs fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, ÔSo be it.Õ
ÊÊÊÊYield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee.
ÊÊÊÊThou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.Ó
This plot of death when sadly she had laid,
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
With untuned tongue she hoarsely called her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;
For fleet-winged duty with thoughtÕs feathers flies.
ÊÊÊÊPoor LucreceÕ cheeks unto her maid seem so
ÊÊÊÊAs winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.
Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her ladyÕs sorrow,
For why her face wore sorrowÕs livery,
But durst not ask of her audaciously
ÊÊÊÊWhy her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
ÊÊÊÊNor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moistened like a melting eye,
Even so the maid with swelling drops Õgan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistressÕ sky,
ÊÊÊÊWho in a salt-waved ocean quench their light,
ÊÊÊÊWhich 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,
ÊÊÊÊGrieving themselves to guess at othersÕ smarts,
ÊÊÊÊAnd then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen, minds,
And therefore are they formed as marble will;
The weak oppressed, thÕ impression of strange kinds
Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
ÊÊÊÊNo more than wax shall be accounted evil,
ÊÊÊÊWherein is stamped 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.
ÊÊÊÊThough men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
ÊÊÊÊPoor womenÕs faces are their own faultsÕ books.
No man inveigh against the withered flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed;
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild
Poor womenÕs faults, that they are so fulfilled
ÊÊÊÊWith menÕs abuses! Those proud lords, to blame,
ÊÊÊÊMake weak-made women tenants to their shame.
The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Assailed 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,
ÊÊÊÊThe dying fear through all her body spread;
ÊÊÊÊAnd who cannot abuse a body dead?
By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:
ÒMy girl,Ó quoth she, Òon what occasion break
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
ÊÊÊÊKnow, gentle wench, it small avails my mood.
ÊÊÊÊIf tears could help, mine own would do me good.
ÒBut tell me, girl, when wentÓÑand there she stayed
Till after a deep groanÑÒTarquin from hence?Ó
ÒMadam, ere I was up,Ó replied the maid,
ÒThe more to blame my sluggard negligence.
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense:
ÊÊÊÊMyself was stirring ere the break of day,
ÊÊÊÊAnd, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.
ÒBut, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.Ó
ÒO peace!Ó quoth Lucrece. ÒIf it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is than I can well express,
ÊÊÊÊAnd that deep torture may be called a hell,
ÊÊÊÊWhen more is felt than one hath power to tell.
ÒGo, get me hither paper, ink, and pen.
Yet save that labour, for I have them here.
What should I say?ÑOne of my husbandÕs men
Bid thou be ready by and by to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear.
ÊÊÊÊBid him with speed prepare to carry it;
ÊÊÊÊThe cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.Ó
Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering oÕer 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.
ÊÊÊÊMuch like a press of people at a door,
ÊÊÊÊThrong her inventions, which shall go before.
At last she thus begins: ÒThou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person! Next vouchsafe tÕ afford,
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see,
Some present speed to come and visit me.
ÊÊÊÊSo I commend me from our house in grief.
ÊÊÊÊMy woes are tedious, though my words are brief.Ó
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 griefÕs true quality;
She dares not thereof make discovery,
ÊÊÊÊLest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
ÊÊÊÊEre she with blood had stained her stained 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
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
ÊÊÊÊTo shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
ÊÊÊÊWith 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.
ÕTis but a part of sorrow that we hear.
ÊÊÊÊDeep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
ÊÊÊÊAnd sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
Her letter now is sealed, and on it writ
ÒAt Ardea to my lord with more than haste.Ó
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast.
ÊÊÊÊSpeed more than speed but dull and slow she deems;
ÊÊÊÊExtremely still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain curtsies to her low,
And, blushing on her with a steadfast eye,
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
ÊÊÊÊImagine every eye beholds their blame,
ÊÊÊÊFor Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame,
When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.
ÊÊÊÊEven so this pattern of the worn-out age
ÊÊÊÊPawned honest looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
She thought he blushed, as knowing TarquinÕs lust,
And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.
ÊÊÊÊThe more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
ÊÊÊÊThe more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now Õtis stale to sigh, to weep, to groan;
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
ÊÊÊÊThat she her plaints a little while doth stay,
ÊÊÊÊPausing for means to mourn some newer way.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for PriamÕs Troy,
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For HelenÕs rape the city to destroy,
ThreatÕning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
ÊÊÊÊWhich the conceited painter drew so proud,
ÊÊÊÊAs heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life.
Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear,
Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.
The red blood reeked to show the painterÕs strife,
ÊÊÊÊThe dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights,
ÊÊÊÊLike dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.
ÊÊÊÊSuch sweet observance in this work was had,
ÊÊÊÊThat one might see those far-off eyes look sad.
In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triumphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,
ÊÊÊÊWhich heartless peasants did so well resemble,
ÊÊÊÊThat one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art
Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either ciphered eitherÕs heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told.
In AjaxÕ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled,
ÊÊÊÊBut the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
ÊÊÊÊShowed deep regard and smiling government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As Õtwere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober action with his hand
That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight.
In speech, it seemed, his beard, all silver white,
ÊÊÊÊWagged up and down, and from his lips did fly
ÊÊÊÊThin winding breath, which purled up to the sky.
About him were a press of gaping faces,
Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice,
All jointly listÕning, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice;
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.
ÊÊÊÊThe scalps of many, almost hid behind,
ÊÊÊÊTo jump up higher seemed to mock the mind.
Here one manÕs hand leaned on anotherÕs head,
His nose being shadowed by his neighbourÕs ear;
Here one being thronged bears back, all bollÕn and red;
Another smothered seems to pelt and swear;
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
ÊÊÊÊAs, but for loss of NestorÕs golden words,
ÊÊÊÊIt seemed they would debate with angry swords.
For much imaginary work was there,
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for AchillesÕ image stood his spear
Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind,
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.
ÊÊÊÊA hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
ÊÊÊÊStood for the whole to be imagined.
And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy,
When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field,
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield
ÊÊÊÊThat through their light joy seemed to appear,
ÊÊÊÊLike bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought,
To SimoisÕ reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges, and their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and then
ÊÊÊÊRetire again till, meeting greater ranks,
ÊÊÊÊThey join, and shoot their foam at SimoisÕ banks.
To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is stelled.
Many she sees where cares have carved some,
But none where all distress and dolour dwelled,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
ÊÊÊÊStaring on PriamÕs wounds with her old eyes,
ÊÊÊÊWhich bleeding under PyrrhusÕ proud foot lies.
In her the painter had anatomized
TimeÕs ruin, beautyÕs wrack, and grim careÕs reign.
Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguised;
Of what she was no semblance did remain.
Her blue blood, changed to black in every vein,
ÊÊÊÊWanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,
ÊÊÊÊShowed life imprisoned in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the beldamÕs woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes.
The painter was no god to lend her those,
ÊÊÊÊAnd therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
ÊÊÊÊTo give her so much grief, and not a tongue.
ÒPoor instrument,Ó quoth she, Òwithout a sound,
IÕll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
And drop sweet balm in PriamÕs painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,
ÊÊÊÊAnd with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
ÊÊÊÊOf all the Greeks that are thine enemies.
ÒShow me the strumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear;
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,
ÊÊÊÊAnd here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
ÊÊÊÊThe sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die.
ÒWhy should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many moe?
Let sin, alone committed, light alone
Upon his head that hath transgressed so;
Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe.
ÊÊÊÊFor oneÕs offence why should so many fall,
ÊÊÊÊTo plague a private sin in general?
ÒLo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds;
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,
And one manÕs lust these many lives confounds.
ÊÊÊÊHad doting Priam checked his sonÕs desire,
ÊÊÊÊTroy had been bright with fame and not with fire.Ó
Here feelingly she weeps TroyÕs painted woes,
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell.
So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell
ÊÊÊÊTo pencilled pensiveness and coloured sorrow;
ÊÊÊÊShe lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.
She throws her eyes about the painting round,
And who she finds forlorn she doth lament.
At last she sees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent.
His face, though full of cares, yet showed content;
ÊÊÊÊOnward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,
ÊÊÊÊSo mild, that patience seemed to scorn his woes.
In him the painter laboured with his skill
To hide deceit and give the harmless show
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent that seemed to welcome woe,
Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so
ÊÊÊÊThat blushing red no guilty instance gave,
ÊÊÊÊNor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.
But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertained a show so seeming just,
And therein so ensconced his secret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
ÊÊÊÊInto so bright a day such black-faced storms,
ÊÊÊÊOr blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.
The well-skilled workman this mild image drew
For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous Old Priam after slew;
Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,
ÊÊÊÊAnd little stars shot from their fixed places,
ÊÊÊÊWhen their glass fell wherein they viewed their faces.
This picture she advisedly perused,
And chid the painter for his wondrous skill,
Saying some shape in SinonÕs was abused;
So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill.
And still on him she gazed, and gazing still,
ÊÊÊÊSuch signs of truth in his plain face she spied,
ÊÊÊÊThat she concludes the picture was belied.
ÒIt cannot be,Ó quoth she, Òthat so much guileÓÑ
She would have said Òcan lurk in such a look.Ó
But TarquinÕs shape came in her mind the while,
And from her tongue Òcan lurkÓ from ÒcannotÓ took.
ÒIt cannot beÓ she in that sense forsook,
ÊÊÊÊAnd turned it thus: ÒIt cannot be, I find,
ÊÊÊÊBut such a face should bear a wicked mind.
ÒFor even as subtle Sinon here is painted,
So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,
As if with grief or travail he had fainted,
To me came Tarquin armed too, beguiled
With outward honesty, but yet defiled
ÊÊÊÊWith inward vice. As Priam him did cherish,
ÊÊÊÊSo did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.
ÒLook, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise?
For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds.
His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds;
ÊÊÊÊThose round clear pearls of his that move thy pity,
ÊÊÊÊAre balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.
ÒSuch devils steal effects from lightless hell,
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,
And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell.
These contraries such unity do hold,
Only to flatter fools and make them bold;
ÊÊÊÊSo PriamÕs trust false SinonÕs tears doth flatter,
ÊÊÊÊThat he finds means to burn his Troy with water.Ó
Here, all enraged, such passion her assails,
That patience is quite beaten from her breast.
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Comparing him to that unhappy guest
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest.
ÊÊÊÊAt last she smilingly with this gives oÕer;
ÊÊÊÊÒFool, fool!Ó quoth she, Òhis wounds will not be sore.Ó
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And time doth weary time with her complaining.
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow,
And both she thinks too long with her remaining.
Short time seems long in sorrowÕs sharp sustaining.
ÊÊÊÊThough woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps,
ÊÊÊÊAnd they that watch see time how slow it creeps.
Which all this time hath overslipped her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent,
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
By deep surmise of othersÕ detriment,
Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
ÊÊÊÊIt easeth some, though none it ever cured,
ÊÊÊÊTo think their dolour others have endured.
But now the mindful messenger, come back,
Brings home his lord and other company;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black,
And round about her tear-distained eye
Blue circles streamed, like rainbows in the sky.
ÊÊÊÊThese water-galls in her dim element
ÊÊÊÊForetell new storms to those already spent.
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,
Amazedly in her sad face he stares.
Her eyes, though sod in tears, looked red and raw,
Her lively colour killed with deadly cares.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares;
ÊÊÊÊBoth stood like old acquaintance in a trance,
ÊÊÊÊMet far from home, wondÕring each otherÕs chance.
At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,
And thus begins: ÒWhat uncouth ill event
Hath thee befallÕn, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?
Why art thou thus attired in discontent?
ÊÊÊÊUnmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,
ÊÊÊÊAnd tell thy grief, that we may give redress.Ó
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe.
At length addressed to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her honour is taÕen prisoner by the foe;
ÊÊÊÊWhile Collatine and his consorted lords
ÊÊÊÊWith sad attention long to hear her words.
And now this pale swan in her watÕry nest
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending:
ÒFew words,Ó quoth she, Òshall fit the trespass best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending.
In me more woes than words are now depending;
ÊÊÊÊAnd my laments would be drawn out too long,
ÊÊÊÊTo tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
ÒThen be this all the task it hath to say:
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head;
And what wrong else may be imagined
ÊÊÊÊBy foul enforcement might be done to me,
ÊÊÊÊFrom that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free.
ÒFor in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
With shining falchion in my chamber came
A creeping creature with a flaming light,
And softly cried ÔAwake, thou Roman dame,
And entertain my love; else lasting shame
ÊÊÊÊOn thee and thine this night I will inflict,
ÊÊÊÊIf thou my loveÕs desire do contradict.
ÒÔFor some hard-favoured groom of thine,Õ quoth he,
ÔUnless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
IÕll murder straight, and then IÕll slaughter thee
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill
ÊÊÊÊThe lechers in their deed. This act will be
ÊÊÊÊMy fame and thy perpetual infamy.Õ
ÒWith this, I did begin to start and cry,
And then against my heart he sets his sword,
Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
I should not live to speak another word;
So should my shame still rest upon record,
ÊÊÊÊAnd never be forgot in mighty Rome
ÊÊÊÊThe adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.
ÒMine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
And far the weaker with so strong a fear.
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak;
No rightful plea might plead for justice there.
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear
ÊÊÊÊThat my poor beauty had purloined his eyes;
ÊÊÊÊAnd when the judge is robbed, the prisoner dies.
ÒO, teach me how to make mine own excuse,
Or at the least, this refuge let me find:
Though my gross blood be stained with this abuse,
Immaculate and spotless is my mind;
That was not forced; that never was inclined
ÊÊÊÊTo accessary yieldings, but still pure
ÊÊÊÊDoth in her poisoned closet yet endure.Ó
Lo, here the hopeless merchant of this loss,
With head declined and voice dammed up with woe,
With sad set eyes and wretched arms across,
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
The grief away that stops his answer so.
ÊÊÊÊBut wretched as he is, he strives in vain;
ÊÊÊÊWhat he breathes out his breath drinks up again.
As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,
Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Back to the strait that forced him on so fast,
In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past:
ÊÊÊÊEven so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw,
ÊÊÊÊTo push grief on, and back the same grief draw.
Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh:
ÒDear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Another power; no flood by raining slaketh.
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh
ÊÊÊÊMore feeling-painful. Let it then suffice
ÊÊÊÊTo drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes.
ÒAnd for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me:
Be suddenly revenged on my foe,
Thine, mine, his own. Suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me
ÊÊÊÊComes all too late, yet let the traitor die,
ÊÊÊÊFor sparing justice feeds iniquity.
ÒBut ere I name him, you fair lords,Ó quoth she,
Speaking to those that came with Collatine,
ÒShall plight your honourable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine;
For Õtis a meritorious fair design
ÊÊÊÊTo chase injustice with revengeful arms.
ÊÊÊÊKnights, by their oaths, should right poor ladiesÕ harms.Ó
At this request, with noble disposition
Each present lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed.
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,
ÊÊÊÊThe protestation stops. ÒO, speak,Ó quoth she,
ÊÊÊÊÒHow may this forced stain be wiped from me?
ÒWhat is the quality of my offence,
Being constrained with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
My low-declined honour to advance?
May any terms acquit me from this chance?
ÊÊÊÊThe poisoned fountain clears itself again,
ÊÊÊÊAnd why not I from this compelled stain?
With this, they all at once began to say,
Her bodyÕs stain her mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.
ÊÊÊÊÒNo, no,Ó quoth she, Òno dame, hereafter living
ÊÊÊÊBy my excuse shall claim excuseÕs giving.Ó
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth TarquinÕs name: ÒHe, he,Ó she says,
But more than ÒheÓ her poor tongue could not speak;
Till after many accents and delays,
Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,
ÊÊÊÊShe utters this: ÒHe, he, fair lords, Õtis he,
ÊÊÊÊThat guides this hand to give this wound to me.Ó
Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed.
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison where it breathed.
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed
ÊÊÊÊHer winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly
ÊÊÊÊLifeÕs lasting date from cancelled destiny.
Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew,
Till LucreceÕ father that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughtered body threw,
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew
ÊÊÊÊThe murdÕrous knife, and, as it left the place,
ÊÊÊÊHer blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who, like a late-sacked island, vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
ÊÊÊÊSome of her blood still pure and red remained,
ÊÊÊÊAnd some looked black, and that false Tarquin stained.
About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood a watÕry rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place;
And ever since, as pitying LucreceÕ woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows,
ÊÊÊÊAnd blood untainted still doth red abide,
ÊÊÊÊBlushing at that which is so putrified.
ÒDaughter, dear daughter,Ó old Lucretius cries,
ÒThat life was mine which thou hast here deprived.
If in the child the fatherÕs image lies,
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?
Thou wast not to this end from me derived.
ÊÊÊÊIf children predecease progenitors,
ÊÊÊÊWe are their offspring, and they none of ours.
ÒPoor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new born;
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn.
O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
ÊÊÊÊAnd shivered all the beauty of my glass,
ÊÊÊÊThat I no more can see what once I was!
ÒO time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,
If they surcease to be that should survive!
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,
And leave the faltÕring feeble souls alive?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive.
ÊÊÊÊThen live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see
ÊÊÊÊThy father die, and not thy father thee!Ó
By this starts Collatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;
And then in key-cold LucreceÕ bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space;
ÊÊÊÊTill manly shame bids him possess his breath,
ÊÊÊÊAnd live to be revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward soul
Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng
ÊÊÊÊWeak words, so thick come in his poor heartÕs aid
ÊÊÊÊThat no man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime ÒTarquinÓ was pronounced plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrowÕs tide, to make it more.
At last it rains, and busy winds give oÕer.
ÊÊÊÊThen son and father weep with equal strife
ÊÊÊÊWho should weep most, for daughter or for wife.
The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay,
The father says ÒSheÕs mine.Ó ÒO, mine she is,Ó
Replies her husband. ÒDo not take away
My sorrowÕs interest; let no mourner say
ÊÊÊÊHe weeps for her, for she was only mine,
ÊÊÊÊAnd only must be wailed by Collatine.Ó
ÒO,Ó quoth Lucretius, ÒI did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spilled.Ó
ÒWoe, woe,Ó quoth Collatine, Òshe was my wife,
I owed her, and Õtis mine that she hath killed.Ó
ÒMy daughterÓ and Òmy wifeÓ with clamours filled
ÊÊÊÊThe dispersed air, who, holding LucreceÕ life,
ÊÊÊÊAnswered their cries, Òmy daughterÓ and Òmy wifeÓ.
Brutus, who plucked the knife from LucreceÕ side,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Burying in LucreceÕ wound his follyÕs show.
He with the Romans was esteemed so
ÊÊÊÊAs silly jeering idiots are with kings,
ÊÊÊÊFor sportive words and uttÕring foolish things.
But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein deep policy did him disguise,
And armed his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in CollatinusÕ eyes.
ÒThou wronged lord of Rome,Ó quoth he, Òarise!
ÊÊÊÊLet my unsounded self, supposed a fool,
ÊÊÊÊNow set thy long-experienced wit to school.
ÒWhy, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds.
ÊÊÊÊThy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
ÊÊÊÊTo slay herself, that should have slain her foe.
ÒCourageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such relenting dew of lamentations,
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will suffer these abominations,Ñ
ÊÊÊÊSince Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced,Ñ
ÊÊÊÊBy our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.
ÒNow, by the Capitol that we adore,
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,
By heavenÕs fair sun that breeds the fat earthÕs store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintained,
And by chaste LucreceÕ soul that late complained
ÊÊÊÊHer wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
ÊÊÊÊWe will revenge the death of this true wife.Ó
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kissed the fatal knife, to end his vow;
And to his protestation urged the rest,
Who, wondÕring at him, did his words allow.
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
ÊÊÊÊAnd that deep vow which Brutus made before,
ÊÊÊÊHe doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish TarquinÕs foul offence;
Which being done with speedy diligence,
ÊÊÊÊThe Romans plausibly did give consent
ÊÊÊÊTo TarquinÕs everlasting banishment.
VENUS AND ADONIS

Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON,
and Baron of Titchfield.
Right Honourable, I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heartÕs content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the worldÕs hopeful expectation.
Your honourÕs in all duty,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

VENUS AND ADONIS

Even as the sun with purple-colourÕd face
Had taÕen his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheekÕd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he lovÕd, but love he laughÕd to scorn;ÊÊÊÊÊ4
ÊÊÊÊSick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
ÊÊÊÊAnd like a bold-facÕd suitor Õgins to woo him.
ÒThrice fairer than myself,Ó thus she began,
ÒThe fieldÕs chief flower, sweet above compare,ÊÊÊÊÊ8
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are:
ÊÊÊÊNature that made thee, with herself at strife,
ÊÊÊÊSaith that the world hath ending with thy life.ÊÊÊÊÊ12
ÒVouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:ÊÊÊÊÊ16
ÊÊÊÊHere come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
ÊÊÊÊAnd being set, IÕll smother thee with kisses.
ÒAnd yet not cloy thy lips with loathÕd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,ÊÊÊÊÊ20
Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
ÊÊÊÊA summerÕs day will seem an hour but short,
ÊÊÊÊBeing wasted in such time-beguiling sport.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ24
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
EarthÕs sovereign salve to do a goddess good:ÊÊÊÊÊ28
ÊÊÊÊBeing so enragÕd, desire doth lend her force
ÊÊÊÊCourageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courserÕs rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,ÊÊÊÊÊ32
Who blushÕd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
ÊÊÊÊShe red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
ÊÊÊÊHe red for shame, but frosty in desire.ÊÊÊÊÊ36
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens;ÑO! how quick is love!Ñ
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:ÊÊÊÊÊ40
ÊÊÊÊBackward she pushÕd him, as she would be thrust,
ÊÊÊÊAnd governÕd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:ÊÊÊÊÊ44
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And Õgins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,
ÊÊÊÊAnd kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
ÊÊÊÊÒIf thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ48
He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.ÊÊÊÊÊ52
ÊÊÊÊHe saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
ÊÊÊÊWhat follows more, she murders with a kiss.
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,ÊÊÊÊÊ56
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffÕd or prey be gone:
ÊÊÊÊEven so she kissÕd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
ÊÊÊÊAnd where she ends she doth anew begin.ÊÊÊÊÊ60
ForcÕd to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face.
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,ÊÊÊÊÊ64
ÊÊÊÊWishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers
ÊÊÊÊSo they were dewÕd with such distilling showers.
Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastenÕd in her arms Adonis lies;ÊÊÊÊÊ68
Pure shame and awÕd resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
ÊÊÊÊRain added to a river that is rank
ÊÊÊÊPerforce will force it overflow the bank.ÊÊÊÊÊ72
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
ÕTwixt crimson shame and anger ashy pale;ÊÊÊÊÊ76
ÊÊÊÊBeing red she loves him best, and being white,
ÊÊÊÊHer best is betterÕd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,ÊÊÊÊÊ80
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
ÊÊÊÊWhich long have rainÕd, making her cheeks all wet;
ÊÊÊÊAnd one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,ÊÊÊÊÊ85
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being lookÕd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave,ÊÊÊÊÊ88
ÊÊÊÊBut when her lips were ready for his pay,
ÊÊÊÊHe winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summerÕs heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.ÊÊÊÊÊ92
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
ÊÊÊÊÒO! pity,Ó Õgan she cry, Òflint-hearted boy,
ÊÊÊÊÕTis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?ÊÊÊÊÊ96
ÒI have been wooÕd as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle neÕer did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;ÊÊÊÊÊ100
ÊÊÊÊYet hath he been my captive and my slave,
ÊÊÊÊAnd beggÕd for that which thou unaskÕd shalt have.
ÒOver my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batterÕd shield, his uncontrolled crest,ÊÊÊÊÊ104
And for my sake hath learnÕd to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest;
ÊÊÊÊScorning his churlish drum and ensign red
ÊÊÊÊMaking my arms his field, his tent my bed.ÊÊÊÊÊ108
ÒThus he that overrulÕd I overswayÕd,
Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain:
Strong-temperÕd steel his stronger strength obeyÕd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.ÊÊÊÊÊ112
ÊÊÊÊOh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
ÊÊÊÊFor mastÕring her that foilÕd the god of fight.
ÒTouch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red,ÊÊÊÊÊ116
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine:
What seeÕst thou in the ground? hold up thy head,
ÊÊÊÊLook in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
ÊÊÊÊThen why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?ÊÊÊÊÊ120
ÒArt thou ashamÕd to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight,ÊÊÊÊÊ124
ÊÊÊÊThese blue-veinÕd violets whereon we lean
ÊÊÊÊNever can blab, nor know not what we mean.
ÒThe tender spring upon thy tempting lipÊÊÊÊÊ127
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted,
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted,
ÊÊÊÊFair flowers that are not gatherÕd in their prime
ÊÊÊÊRot, and consume themselves in little time.ÊÊÊÊÊ132
ÒWere I hard-favourÕd, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-nurturÕd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
OÕerworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,ÊÊÊÊÊ136
ÊÊÊÊThen mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
ÊÊÊÊBut having no defects, why dost abhor me?
ÒThou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,ÊÊÊÊÊ139
Mine eyes are grey and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning,
ÊÊÊÊMy smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
ÊÊÊÊWould in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.ÊÊÊÊÊ144
ÒBid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevellÕd hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.ÊÊÊÊÊ148
ÊÊÊÊLove is a spirit all compact of fire,
ÊÊÊÊNot gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
ÒWitness this primrose bank whereon I lie:ÊÊÊÊÊ151
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
ÊÊÊÊIs love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
ÊÊÊÊThat thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?ÊÊÊÊÊ156
ÒIs thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.ÊÊÊÊÊ160
ÊÊÊÊNarcissus so himself himself forsook,
ÊÊÊÊAnd died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
ÒTorches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,ÊÊÊÊÊ164
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growthÕs abuse,
ÊÊÊÊSeeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
ÊÊÊÊThou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.ÊÊÊÊÊ168
ÒUpon the earthÕs increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;ÊÊÊÊÊ172
ÊÊÊÊAnd so in spite of death thou dost survive,
ÊÊÊÊIn that thy likeness still is left alive.Ó
By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,ÊÊÊÊÊ176
And Titan, tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
ÊÊÊÊWishing Adonis had his team to guide,
ÊÊÊÊSo he were like him and by VenusÕ side.ÊÊÊÊÊ180
And now Adonis with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows oÕerwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,ÊÊÊÊÊ184
ÊÊÊÊSouring his cheeks, cries, ÒFie, no more of love:
ÊÊÊÊThe sun doth burn my face; I must remove.Ó
ÒAy me,Ó quoth Venus, Òyoung, and so unkind!
What bare excuses makÕst thou to be gone!ÊÊÊÊÊ188
IÕll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
ÊÊÊÊIÕll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
ÊÊÊÊIf they burn too, IÕll quench them with my tears.ÊÊÊÊÊ192
ÒThe sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;ÊÊÊÊÊ196
ÊÊÊÊAnd were I not immortal, life were done,
ÊÊÊÊBetween this heavenly and earthly sun.
ÒArt thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth:ÊÊÊÊÊ200
Art thou a womanÕs son and canst not feel
What Õtis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
ÊÊÊÊO had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
ÊÊÊÊShe had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.ÊÊÊÊÊ204
ÒWhat am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:ÊÊÊÊÊ208
ÊÊÊÊGive me one kiss, IÕll give it thee again,
ÊÊÊÊAnd one for intÕrest, if thou wilt have twain.
ÒFie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,ÊÊÊÊÊ212
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:
ÊÊÊÊThou art no man, though of a manÕs complexion,
ÊÊÊÊFor men will kiss even by their own direction.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ216
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause.ÊÊÊÊÊ220
ÊÊÊÊAnd now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
ÊÊÊÊAnd now her sobs do her intendments break.
Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;ÊÊÊÊÊ224
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
ÊÊÊÊAnd when from thence he struggles to be gone,
ÊÊÊÊShe locks her lily fingers one in one.ÊÊÊÊÊ228
ÒFondling,Ó she saith, Òsince I have hemmÕd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
IÕll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:ÊÊÊÊÊ232
ÊÊÊÊGraze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
ÊÊÊÊStray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
ÒWithin this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom grass and high delightful plain,ÊÊÊÊÊ236
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
ÊÊÊÊThen be my deer, since I am such a park,ÊÊÊÊÊ239
ÊÊÊÊNo dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.Ó
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;ÊÊÊÊÊ244
ÊÊÊÊForeknowing well, if there he came to lie,
ÊÊÊÊWhy there love livÕd, and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
OpenÕd their mouths to swallow VenusÕ liking.ÊÊÊÊÊ248
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
ÊÊÊÊPoor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
ÊÊÊÊTo love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!ÊÊÊÊÊ252
Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing:ÊÊÊÊÊ256
ÊÊÊÊÒPity,Ó she cries; Òsome favour, some remorse!Ó
ÊÊÊÊAway he springs, and hasteth to his horse.
But lo from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,ÊÊÊÊÊ260
AdonisÕ tramping courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
ÊÊÊÊThe strong-neckÕd steed, being tied unto a tree,
ÊÊÊÊBreaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.ÊÊÊÊÊ264
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heavenÕs thunder;
ÊÊÊÊThe iron bit he crusheth Õtween his teeth,ÊÊÊÊÊ269
ÊÊÊÊControlling what he was controlled with.
His ears up-prickÕd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassÕd crest now stand on end;ÊÊÊÊÊ272
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
ÊÊÊÊHis eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
ÊÊÊÊShows his hot courage and his high desire.ÊÊÊÊÊ276
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, ÒLo thus my strength is tried;
ÊÊÊÊAnd this I do to captivate the eyeÊÊÊÊÊ281
ÊÊÊÊOf the fair breeder that is standing by.Ó
What recketh he his riderÕs angry stir,
His flattering ÒHollaÓ, or his ÒStand, I sayÓ?ÊÊÊÊÊ284
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
ÊÊÊÊHe sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
ÊÊÊÊFor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.ÊÊÊÊÊ288
Look when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportionÕd steed,
His art with natureÕs workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed:ÊÊÊÊÊ292
ÊÊÊÊSo did this horse excel a common one,
ÊÊÊÊIn shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
Round-hoofÕd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
ÊÊÊÊLook, what a horse should have he did not lack,
ÊÊÊÊSave a proud rider on so proud a back.ÊÊÊÊÊ300
Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather:
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And where he run or fly they know not whether;ÊÊÊÊÊ304
ÊÊÊÊFor through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
ÊÊÊÊFanning the hairs, who wave like featherÕd wings.
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind,ÊÊÊÊÊ308
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
ÊÊÊÊSpurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
ÊÊÊÊBeating his kind embracements with her heels.ÊÊÊÊÊ312
Then like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.ÊÊÊÊÊ316
ÊÊÊÊHis love, perceiving how he was enragÕd,
ÊÊÊÊGrew kinder, and his fury was assuagÕd.
His testy master goeth about to take him,
When lo the unbackÕd breeder, full of fear,ÊÊÊÊÊ320
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
ÊÊÊÊAs they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
ÊÊÊÊOutstripping crows that strive to overfly them.ÊÊÊÊÊ324
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast;
And now the happy season once more fits
That love-sick love by pleading may be blest;ÊÊÊÊÊ328
ÊÊÊÊFor lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong,
ÊÊÊÊWhen it is barrÕd the aidance of the tongue.
An oven that is stoppÕd, or river stayÕd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:ÊÊÊÊÊ332
So of concealed sorrow may be said,
Free vent of words loveÕs fire doth assuage;
ÊÊÊÊBut when the heartÕs attorney once is mute,
ÊÊÊÊThe client breaks, as desperate in his suit.ÊÊÊÊÊ336
He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,ÊÊÊÊÊ340
ÊÊÊÊTaking no notice that she is so nigh,
ÊÊÊÊFor all askance he holds her in his eye.
O what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy,ÊÊÊÊÊ344
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy:
ÊÊÊÊBut now her cheek was pale, and by and by
ÊÊÊÊIt flashÕd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.ÊÊÊÊÊ348
Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:ÊÊÊÊÊ352
ÊÊÊÊHis tendÕrer cheek receives her soft handÕs print,
ÊÊÊÊAs apt as new-fallÕn snow takes any dint.
Oh what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing,ÊÊÊÊÊ356
His eyes saw her eyes, as they had not seen them,
Her eyes wooÕd still, his eyes disdainÕd the wooing:
ÊÊÊÊAnd all this dumb play had his acts made plain
ÊÊÊÊWith tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the hand,ÊÊÊÊÊ361
A lily prisonÕd in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band,
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:ÊÊÊÊÊ364
ÊÊÊÊThis beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
ÊÊÊÊShowÕd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
ÒO fairest mover on this mortal round,ÊÊÊÊÊ368
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound,
ÊÊÊÊFor one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
ÊÊÊÊThough nothing but my bodyÕs bane would cure thee.Ó
ÒGive me my hand,Ó saith he, Òwhy dost thou feel it?Ó
ÒGive me my heart,Ó saith she, Òand thou shalt have it.
O give it me lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steelÕd, soft sighs can never grave it.ÊÊÊÊÊ376
ÊÊÊÊThen loveÕs deep groans I never shall regard,
ÊÊÊÊBecause AdonisÕ heart hath made mine hard.Ó
ÒFor shame,Ó he cries, Òlet go, and let me go,
My dayÕs delight is past, my horse is gone,ÊÊÊÊÊ380
And Õtis your fault I am bereft him so,
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone,
ÊÊÊÊFor all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
ÊÊÊÊIs how to get my palfrey from the mare.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ384
Thus she replies: ÒThy palfrey as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire,
Affection is a coal that must be coolÕd;
Else, sufferÕd, it will set the heart on fire,ÊÊÊÊÊ388
ÊÊÊÊThe sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
ÊÊÊÊTherefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
ÒHow like a jade he stood tied to the tree,
Servilely masterÕd with a leathern rein!ÊÊÊÊÊ392
But when he saw his love, his youthÕs fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
ÊÊÊÊThrowing the base thong from his bending crest,
ÊÊÊÊEnfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.ÊÊÊÊÊ396
ÒWho sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?ÊÊÊÊÊ400
ÊÊÊÊWho is so faint that dare not be so bold
ÊÊÊÊTo touch the fire, the weather being cold?
ÒLet me excuse thy courser, gentle boy,
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,ÊÊÊÊÊ404
To take advantage on presented joy,
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee.
ÊÊÊÊO learn to love, the lesson is but plain,
ÊÊÊÊAnd once made perfect, never lost again.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ408
ÒI know not love,Ó quoth he, Ònor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
ÕTis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;ÊÊÊÊÊ412
ÊÊÊÊFor I have heard, it is a life in death,
ÊÊÊÊThat laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.
ÒWho wears a garment shapeless and unfinishÕd?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?ÊÊÊÊÊ416
If springing things be any jot diminishÕd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth;
ÊÊÊÊThe colt thatÕs backÕd and burdenÕd being young,
ÊÊÊÊLoseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.ÊÊÊÊÊ420
ÒYou hurt my hand with wringing. Let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart,
To loveÕs alarms it will not ope the gate:ÊÊÊÊÊ424
ÊÊÊÊDismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattÕry;
ÊÊÊÊFor where a heart is hard they make no battÕry.Ó
ÒWhat! canst thou talk?Ó quoth she, Òhast thou a tongue?
O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing;ÊÊÊÊÊ428
Thy mermaidÕs voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now pressÕd with bearing:
ÊÊÊÊMelodious discord, heavenly tune, harsh-sounding,
ÊÊÊÊEarÕs deep sweet music, and heartÕs deep sore wounding.
ÒHad I no eyes but ears, my ears would loveÊÊÊÊÊ433
That inward beauty and invisible;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:ÊÊÊÊÊ436
ÊÊÊÊThough neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
ÊÊÊÊYet should I be in love by touching thee.
ÒSay that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,ÊÊÊÊÊ440
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
ÊÊÊÊFor from the stillitory of thy face excelling
ÊÊÊÊComes breath perfumÕd, that breedeth love by smelling.
ÒBut oh what banquet wert thou to the taste,ÊÊÊÊÊ445
Being nurse and feeder of the other four;
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid suspicion double-lock the door,
ÊÊÊÊLest jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
ÊÊÊÊShould by his stealing in disturb the feast?ÓÊÊÊÊÊ448
Once more the ruby-colourÕd portal openÕd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield,ÊÊÊÊÊ452
Like a red morn that ever yet betokenÕd
Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,
ÊÊÊÊSorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
ÊÊÊÊGusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.ÊÊÊÊÊ456
This ill presage advisedly she marketh:
Even as the wind is hushÕd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,ÊÊÊÊÊ460
ÊÊÊÊOr like the deadly bullet of a gun,
ÊÊÊÊHis meaning struck her ere his words begun.
And at his look she flatly falleth down
For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth;ÊÊÊÊÊ464
A smile recures the wounding of a frown;
But blessed bankrout, that by love so thriveth!
ÊÊÊÊThe silly boy, believing she is dead,
ÊÊÊÊClaps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red.ÊÊÊÊÊ468
And all amazÕd brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!ÊÊÊÊÊ472
ÊÊÊÊFor on the grass she lies as she were slain,
ÊÊÊÊTill his breath breatheth life in her again.
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,ÊÊÊÊÊ476
He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marrÕd:
ÊÊÊÊHe kisses her; and she, by her good will,
ÊÊÊÊWill never rise, so he will kiss her still.ÊÊÊÊÊ480
The night of sorrow now is turnÕd to day:
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
Like the fair sun when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth:ÊÊÊÊÊ484
ÊÊÊÊAnd as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
ÊÊÊÊSo is her face illuminÕd with her eye.
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fixÕd,
As if from thence they borrowÕd all their shine.ÊÊÊÊÊ488
Were never four such lamps together mixÕd,
Had not his clouded with his browÕs repine;
ÊÊÊÊBut hers, which through the crystal tears gave light
ÊÊÊÊShone like the moon in water seen by night.ÊÊÊÊÊ492
ÒO where am I?Ó quoth she, Òin earth or heaven?
Or in the ocean drenchÕd, or in the fire?
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?ÊÊÊÊÊ496
ÊÊÊÊBut now I livÕd, and life was deathÕs annoy;
ÊÊÊÊBut now I died, and death was lively joy.
ÒO thou didst kill me; kill me once again:
Thy eyesÕ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,ÊÊÊÊÊ500
Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain,
That they have murderÕd this poor heart of mine;
ÊÊÊÊAnd these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
ÊÊÊÊBut for thy piteous lips no more had seen.ÊÊÊÊÊ504
ÒLong may they kiss each other for this cure!
Oh never let their crimson liveries wear,
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year:ÊÊÊÊÊ508
ÊÊÊÊThat the star-gazers, having writ on death,
ÊÊÊÊMay say, the plague is banishÕd by thy breath.
ÒPure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?ÊÊÊÊÊ512
To sell myself I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing;
ÊÊÊÊWhich purchase if thou make, for fear of slips,
ÊÊÊÊSet thy seal manual on my wax-red lips.ÊÊÊÊÊ516
ÒA thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one,
What is ten hundred touches unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?ÊÊÊÊÊ520
ÊÊÊÊSay, for non-payment that the debt should double,
ÊÊÊÊIs twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?Ó
ÒFair queen,Ó quoth he, Òif any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:ÊÊÊÊÊ524
Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
ÊÊÊÊThe mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
ÊÊÊÊOr being early pluckÕd, is sour to taste.ÊÊÊÊÊ528
ÒLook the worldÕs comforter, with weary gait
His dayÕs hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl, nightÕs herald, shrieks, Õtis very late;
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,ÊÊÊÊÊ532
ÊÊÊÊAnd coal-black clouds that shadow heavenÕs light
ÊÊÊÊDo summon us to part, and bid good night.
ÒNow let me say good night, and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ536
ÒGood night,Ó quoth she; and ere he says adieu,
The honey fee of parting tenderÕd is:
ÊÊÊÊHer arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
ÊÊÊÊIncorporate then they seem, face grows to face.ÊÊÊÊÊ540
Till breathless he disjoinÕd, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth,ÊÊÊÊÊ544
ÊÊÊÊHe with her plenty pressÕd, she faint with dearth,
ÊÊÊÊTheir lips together glued, fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;ÊÊÊÊÊ548
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
ÊÊÊÊWhose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
ÊÊÊÊThat she will draw his lipsÕ rich treasure dry.ÊÊÊÊÊ552
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,ÊÊÊÊÊ556
ÊÊÊÊPlanting oblivion, beating reason back,
ÊÊÊÊForgetting shameÕs pure blush and honourÕs wrack.
Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamÕd with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe thatÕs tirÕd with chasing,ÊÊÊÊÊ561
Or like the froward infant stillÕd with dandling:
ÊÊÊÊHe now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
ÊÊÊÊWhile she takes all she can, not all she listeth.ÊÊÊÊÊ564
What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempÕring,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compassÕd oft with ventÕring,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:ÊÊÊÊÊ568
ÊÊÊÊAffection faints not like a pale-facÕd coward,
ÊÊÊÊBut then woos best when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suckÕd.ÊÊÊÊÊ572
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles, yet Õtis pluckÕd.
ÊÊÊÊWere beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
ÊÊÊÊYet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him;ÊÊÊÊÊ577
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
She is resolvÕd no longer to restrain him,
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,ÊÊÊÊÊ580
ÊÊÊÊThe which by CupidÕs bow she doth protest,
ÊÊÊÊHe carries thence encaged in his breast.
ÒSweet boy,Ó she says, Òthis night IÕll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.ÊÊÊÊÊ584
Tell me, loveÕs master, shall we meet tomorrow
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?Ó
ÊÊÊÊHe tells her no, tomorrow he intends
ÊÊÊÊTo hunt the boar with certain of his friends.ÊÊÊÊÊ588
ÒThe boar!Ó quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek, she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws.ÊÊÊÊÊ592
ÊÊÊÊShe sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
ÊÊÊÊHe on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:ÊÊÊÊÊ596
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
ÊÊÊÊThat worse than TantalusÕ is her annoy,
ÊÊÊÊTo clip Elysium and to lack her joy.ÊÊÊÊÊ600
Even as poor birds, deceivÕd with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw:
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.ÊÊÊÊÊ604
ÊÊÊÊThe warm effects which she in him finds missing,
ÊÊÊÊShe seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain, good queen, it will not be,
She hath assayÕd as much as may be provÕd;ÊÊÊÊÊ608
Her pleading hath deservÕd a greater fee;
SheÕs love, she loves, and yet she is not lovÕd.
ÊÊÊÊÒFie, fie,Ó he says, Òyou crush me; let me go;
ÊÊÊÊYou have no reason to withhold me so.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ612
ÒThou hadst been gone,Ó quoth she, Òsweet boy, ere this,
But that thou toldÕst me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
Oh be advisÕd; thou knowÕst not what it is,
With javelinÕs point a churlish swine to gore,ÊÊÊÊÊ616
ÊÊÊÊWhose tushes never sheathÕd he whetteth still,
ÊÊÊÊLike to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
ÒOn his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;ÊÊÊÊÊ620
His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres whereÕer he goes;
ÊÊÊÊBeing movÕd, he strikes whateÕer is in his way,
ÊÊÊÊAnd whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.ÊÊÊÊÊ624
ÒHis brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed,
Are better proof than thy spearÕs point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:ÊÊÊÊÊ628
ÊÊÊÊThe thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
ÊÊÊÊAs fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
ÒAlas! he naught esteems that face of thine,
To which loveÕs eyes pay tributary gazes;ÊÊÊÊÊ632
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
ÊÊÊÊBut having thee at vantage, wondrous dread!
ÊÊÊÊWould root these beauties as he roots the mead.
ÒOh let him keep his loathsome cabin still,ÊÊÊÊÊ637
Beauty hath naught to do with such foul fiends:
Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends.
ÊÊÊÊWhen thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
ÊÊÊÊI fearÕd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.
ÒDidst thou not mark my face, was it not white?
SawÕst thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?ÊÊÊÊÊ644
Grew I not faint, and fell I not downright?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
ÊÊÊÊMy boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
ÊÊÊÊBut like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.
ÒFor where love reigns, disturbing jealousyÊÊÊÊÊ649
Doth call himself affectionÕs sentinel;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry ÒKill, kill!ÓÊÊÊÊÊ652
ÊÊÊÊDistempÕring gentle love in his desire,
ÊÊÊÊAs air and water do abate the fire.
ÒThis sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up loveÕs tender spring,ÊÊÊÊÊ656
This carry-tale, dissentious jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
ÊÊÊÊKnocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
ÊÊÊÊThat if I love thee, I thy death should fear.ÊÊÊÊÊ660
ÒAnd 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 stainÕd with gore;ÊÊÊÊÊ664
ÊÊÊÊWhose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
ÊÊÊÊDoth make them droop with grief and hang the head.
ÒWhat should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble at thÕimagination?ÊÊÊÊÊ668
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination:
ÊÊÊÊI prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
ÊÊÊÊIf thou encounter with the boar tomorrow.ÊÊÊÊÊ672
ÒBut if thou needs wilt hunt, be rulÕd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtilty,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:ÊÊÊÊÊ676
ÊÊÊÊPursue these fearful creatures oÕer the downs,
ÊÊÊÊAnd on thy well-breathÕd horse keep with thy hounds.
ÒAnd when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troublesÊÊÊÊÊ680
How he outruns the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
ÊÊÊÊThe many musits through the which he goes
ÊÊÊÊAre like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.ÊÊÊÊÊ684
ÒSometime he runs among a 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,ÊÊÊÊÊ688
ÊÊÊÊAnd sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
ÊÊÊÊDanger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.
ÒFor there his smell with others being mingled,ÊÊÊÊÊ691
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;
ÊÊÊÊThen do they spend their mouths: echo replies,
ÊÊÊÊAs if another chase were in the skies.ÊÊÊÊÊ696
ÒBy this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listÕning ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still.
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;ÊÊÊÊÊ700
ÊÊÊÊAnd now his grief may be compared well
ÊÊÊÊTo one sore sick that hears the passing bell.
ÒThen shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way,ÊÊÊÊÊ704
Each envious briar his weary legs do scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
ÊÊÊÊFor misery is trodden on by many,
ÊÊÊÊAnd being low never relievÕd by any.ÊÊÊÊÊ708
ÒLie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hearÕst me moralize,ÊÊÊÊÊ712
ÊÊÊÊApplying this to that, and so to so,
ÊÊÊÊFor love can comment upon every woe.
ÒWhere did I leave?Ó ÒNo matter where,Ó quoth he
ÒLeave me, and then the story aptly ends:ÊÊÊÊÊ716
The night is spent.Ó ÒWhy, what of that?Ó quoth she.
ÒI am,Ó quoth he, Òexpected of my friends;
ÊÊÊÊAnd now Õtis dark, and going I shall fall.Ó
ÊÊÊÊÒIn night,Ó quoth she, Òdesire sees best of all.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ720
But if thou fall, oh then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.ÊÊÊÊÊ723
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
ÊÊÊÊMake modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
ÊÊÊÊLest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.Ó
ÒNow of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shineÊÊÊÊÊ728
Till forging nature be condemnÕd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven, that were divine;
ÊÊÊÊWherein she framÕd thee, in high heavenÕs despite,
ÊÊÊÊTo shame the sun by day and her by night.ÊÊÊÊÊ732
ÒAnd therefore hath she bribÕd the destinies,
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,ÊÊÊÊÊ736
ÊÊÊÊMaking it subject to the tyranny
ÊÊÊÊOf mad mischances and much misery.
ÒAs burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,ÊÊÊÊÊ740
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood;
ÊÊÊÊSurfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damnÕd despair,
ÊÊÊÊSwear natureÕs death, for framing thee so fair.ÊÊÊÊÊ744
ÒAnd not the least of all these maladies
But in one minuteÕs fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat thÕimpartial gazer late did wonder,ÊÊÊÊÊ748
ÊÊÊÊAre on the sudden wasted, thawÕd and done,
ÊÊÊÊAs mountain snow melts with the midday sun.
ÒTherefore despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,ÊÊÊÊÊ752
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
ÊÊÊÊBe prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
ÊÊÊÊDries up his oil to lend the world his light.ÊÊÊÊÊ756
ÒWhat 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 dark obscurity?ÊÊÊÊÊ760
ÊÊÊÊIf so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
ÊÊÊÊSith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
ÒSo in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,ÊÊÊÊÊ764
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher sire that reeves his son of life.
ÊÊÊÊFoul cankÕring rust the hidden treasure frets,
ÊÊÊÊBut gold thatÕs put to use more gold begets.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ768
ÒNay then,Ó quoth Adon, Òyou will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme;
The kiss I gave you is bestowÕd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;ÊÊÊÊÊ772
ÊÊÊÊFor by this black-facÕd night, desireÕs foul nurse,
ÊÊÊÊYour treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
ÒIf love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,ÊÊÊÊÊ776
Bewitching like the wanton mermaidÕs songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;
ÊÊÊÊFor know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
ÊÊÊÊAnd will not let a false sound enter there.ÊÊÊÊÊ780
ÒLest 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 barrÕd of rest.ÊÊÊÊÊ784
ÊÊÊÊNo, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
ÊÊÊÊBut soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
ÒWhat have you urgÕd that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger;ÊÊÊÊÊ790
I hate not love, but your device in love
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
ÊÊÊÊYou do it for increase: O strange excuse!
ÊÊÊÊWhen reason is the bawd to lustÕs abuse.ÊÊÊÊÊ792
ÒCall it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating lust on earth usurpÕd his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;ÊÊÊÊÊ796
ÊÊÊÊWhich the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
ÊÊÊÊAs caterpillars do the tender leaves.
ÒLove comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But lustÕs effect is tempest after sun;ÊÊÊÊÊ800
LoveÕs gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
LustÕs winter comes ere summer half be done.
ÊÊÊÊLove surfeits not, lust like a glutton dies;
ÊÊÊÊLove is all truth, lust full of forged lies.ÊÊÊÊÊ804
ÒMore 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,ÊÊÊÊÊ808
ÊÊÊÊMine ears, that to your wanton talk attended
ÊÊÊÊDo burn themselves for having so offended.Ó
With this he breaketh from the sweet embraceÊÊÊÊÊ811
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
Leaves love upon her back deeply distressÕd.
ÊÊÊÊLook how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
ÊÊÊÊSo glides he in the night from VenusÕ eye.ÊÊÊÊÊ816
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:ÊÊÊÊÊ820
ÊÊÊÊSo did the merciless and pitchy night
ÊÊÊÊFold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazÕd, as one that unaware
Hath droppÕd a precious jewel in the flood,ÊÊÊÊÊ824
Or ÕstonishÕd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;
ÊÊÊÊEven so confounded in the dark she lay,
ÊÊÊÊHaving lost the fair discovery of her way.ÊÊÊÊÊ828
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:ÊÊÊÊÊ832
ÊÊÊÊÒAy me!Ó she cries, and twenty times, ÒWoe, woe!Ó
ÊÊÊÊAnd twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;ÊÊÊÊÊ836
How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote,
How love is wise in folly foolish witty:
ÊÊÊÊHer heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
ÊÊÊÊAnd still the choir of echoes answer so.ÊÊÊÊÊ840
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For loversÕ hours are long, though seeming short,
If pleasÕd themselves, others they think, delight
In such like circumstance, with such like sport:ÊÊÊÊÊ844
ÊÊÊÊTheir copious stories oftentimes begun,
ÊÊÊÊEnd without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds resembling parasites;ÊÊÊÊÊ848
Like shrill-tonguÕd tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
ÊÊÊÊShe says, ÒÕTis so:Ó they answer all, ÒÕTis so;Ó
ÊÊÊÊAnd would say after her, if she said ÒNo.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ852
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;ÊÊÊÊÊ856
ÊÊÊÊWho doth the world so gloriously behold,
ÊÊÊÊThat cedar tops and hills seem burnishÕd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:
ÒOh thou clear god, and patron of all light,ÊÊÊÊÊ860
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
ÊÊÊÊThere lives a son that suckÕd an earthly mother,
ÊÊÊÊMay lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.Ó
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,ÊÊÊÊÊ865
Musing the morning is so much oÕerworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love;
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn.ÊÊÊÊÊ868
ÊÊÊÊAnon she hears them chant it lustily,
ÊÊÊÊAnd 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,ÊÊÊÊÊ872
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
ÊÊÊÊLike a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
ÊÊÊÊHasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.ÊÊÊÊÊ876
By this she hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder
WreathÕd up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;ÊÊÊÊÊ880
ÊÊÊÊEven so the timorous yelping of the hounds
ÊÊÊÊAppals her senses, and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,ÊÊÊÊÊ884
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud,
ÊÊÊÊFinding their enemy to be so curst,
ÊÊÊÊThey all strain courtÕsy who shall cope him first. 888
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;ÊÊÊÊÊ892
ÊÊÊÊLike soldiers when their captain once doth yield,
ÊÊÊÊThey basely fly and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,
Till cheering up her senses sore dismayÕd,ÊÊÊÊÊ896
She tells them Õtis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
ÊÊÊÊBids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:
ÊÊÊÊAnd with that word, she spied the hunted boar.ÊÊÊÊÊ900
Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:ÊÊÊÊÊ904
ÊÊÊÊThis way she runs, and now she will no further,
ÊÊÊÊBut back retires, to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again;ÊÊÊÊÊ908
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
ÊÊÊÊFull of respects, yet naught at all respecting,
ÊÊÊÊIn hand with all things, naught at all effecting.
Here kennelÕd in a brake she finds a hound,ÊÊÊÊÊ913
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
ÕGainst venomÕd sores the only sovereign plaster.ÊÊÊÊÊ916
ÊÊÊÊAnd here she meets another sadly scowling,
ÊÊÊÊTo whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceasÕd his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouthÕd mourner, black and grim,ÊÊÊÊÊ920
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
ÊÊÊÊClapping their proud tails to the ground below,
ÊÊÊÊShaking their scratchÕd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look how the worldÕs poor people are amazedÊÊÊÊÊ925
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;ÊÊÊÊÊ928
ÊÊÊÊSo she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
ÊÊÊÊAnd sighing it again, exclaims on death.
ÒHard-favourÕd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,ÊÊÊÊÊ931
Hateful divorce of love,Ó thus chides she death,
ÒGrim-grinning ghost, earthÕs worm, what dost thou mean?
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
ÊÊÊÊWho when he livÕd, his breath and beauty set
ÊÊÊÊGloss on the rose, smell to the violet.ÊÊÊÊÊ936
ÒIf he be dead, O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it,
O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.ÊÊÊÊÊ940
ÊÊÊÊThy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
ÊÊÊÊMistakes that aim, and cleaves an infantÕs heart.
ÒHadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy power had lost his power.ÊÊÊÊÊ944
The destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluckÕst a flower.
ÊÊÊÊLoveÕs golden arrow at him should have fled,
ÊÊÊÊAnd not deathÕs ebon dart to strike him dead.ÊÊÊÊÊ948
ÒDost thou drink tears, that thou provokÕst such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?ÊÊÊÊÊ952
ÊÊÊÊNow nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
ÊÊÊÊSince her best work is ruinÕd with thy rigour.Ó
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vailÕd her eyelids, who like sluices stoppÕdÊÊÊÊÊ956
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom droppÕd
ÊÊÊÊBut through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
ÊÊÊÊAnd with his strong course opens them again.ÊÊÊÊÊ960
O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow;
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they viewÕd each otherÕs sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;ÊÊÊÊÊ964
ÊÊÊÊBut like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
ÊÊÊÊSighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;ÊÊÊÊÊ968
All entertainÕd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
ÊÊÊÊBut none is best, then join they all together,
ÊÊÊÊLike many clouds consulting for foul weather.ÊÊÊÊÊ972
By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla;
A nurseÕs song neÕer pleasÕd her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;ÊÊÊÊÊ976
ÊÊÊÊFor now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
ÊÊÊÊAnd flatters her it is AdonisÕ voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prisonÕd in her eye, like pearls in glass;ÊÊÊÊÊ980
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass
ÊÊÊÊTo wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
ÊÊÊÊWho is but drunken when she seemeth drownÕd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seemsÊÊÊÊÊ985
Not to believe, and yet too credulous;
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous,ÊÊÊÊÊ988
ÊÊÊÊThe one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
ÊÊÊÊIn likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,
Adonis lives, and death is not to blame;ÊÊÊÊÊ992
It was not she that callÕd him all to naught;
Now she adds honours to his hateful name.
ÊÊÊÊShe clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
ÊÊÊÊImperious supreme of all mortal things.ÊÊÊÊÊ996
ÒNo, no,Ó quoth she, Òsweet death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear
Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;ÊÊÊÊÊ1000
ÊÊÊÊThen, gentle shadow,Ñtruth I must confessÑ
ÊÊÊÊI railÕd on thee, fearing my loveÕs decease.
ÒÕTis not my fault, the boar provokÕd my tongue;
Be wreakÕd on him, invisible commander;ÊÊÊÊÊ1004
ÕTis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, heÕs author of my slander.
ÊÊÊÊGrief hath two tongues, and never woman yet,
ÊÊÊÊCould rule them both, without ten womenÕs wit.Ó
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,ÊÊÊÊÊ1009
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate;ÊÊÊÊÊ1012
ÊÊÊÊTells him of trophies, statues, tombs and stories
ÊÊÊÊHis victories, his triumphs and his glories.
ÒO love!Ó quoth she, Òhow much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and silly mind,ÊÊÊÊÊ1016
To wail his death who lives, and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind;
ÊÊÊÊFor he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
ÊÊÊÊAnd beauty dead, black Chaos comes again.ÊÊÊÊÊ1020
ÒFie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemmÕd with thieves,
Trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ1024
ÊÊÊÊEven at this word she hears a merry horn,
ÊÊÊÊWhereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.
As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light,ÊÊÊÊÊ1028
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boarÕs conquest on her fair delight;
ÊÊÊÊWhich seen, her eyes, as murderÕd with the view,
ÊÊÊÊLike stars ashamÕd of day, themselves withdrew.
Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,ÊÊÊÊÊ1033
Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smotherÕd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again:ÊÊÊÊÊ1036
ÊÊÊÊSo at his bloody view her eyes are fled
ÊÊÊÊInto the deep dark cabins of her head.
Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain,ÊÊÊÊÊ1040
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
ÊÊÊÊWho like a king perplexed in his throne,
ÊÊÊÊBy their suggestion gives a deadly groan.ÊÊÊÊÊ1044
Whereat each tributary subject quakes,
As when the wind imprisonÕd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earthÕs foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth menÕs minds confound.
ÊÊÊÊThis mutiny each part doth so surpriseÊÊÊÊÊ1049
ÊÊÊÊThat from their dark beds once more leap her eyes.
And being openÕd, threw unwilling light
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trenchÕd
In his soft flank, whose wonted lily whiteÊÊÊÊÊ1053
With purple tears that his wound wept, was drenchÕd.
ÊÊÊÊNo flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed,
ÊÊÊÊBut stole his blood and seemÕd with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,ÊÊÊÊÊ1057
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:ÊÊÊÊÊ1060
ÊÊÊÊHer voice is stoppÕd, her joints forget to bow,
ÊÊÊÊHer eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.
Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,ÊÊÊÊÊ1065
That makes more gashes, where no breach should be:
ÊÊÊÊHis face seems twain, each several limb is doubled,
ÊÊÊÊFor oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
ÒMy tongue cannot express my grief for one,ÊÊÊÊÊ1069
And yet,Ó quoth she, Òbehold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turnÕd to fire, my heart to lead:ÊÊÊÊÊ1072
ÊÊÊÊHeavy heartÕs lead, melt at mine eyesÕ red fire!
ÊÊÊÊSo shall I die by drops of hot desire.
ÒAlas poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive thatÕs worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or anything ensuing?ÊÊÊÊÊ1078
ÊÊÊÊThe flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim,
ÊÊÊÊBut true sweet beauty livÕd and died with him.
ÒBonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!ÊÊÊÊÊ1081
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you.
ÊÊÊÊBut when Adonis livÕd, sun and sharp airÊÊÊÊÊ1085
ÊÊÊÊLurkÕd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.
ÒAnd therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;ÊÊÊÊÊ1088
The wind would blow it off, and being gone,
Play with his locks; then would Adonis weep;
ÊÊÊÊAnd straight, in pity of his tender years,
ÊÊÊÊThey both would strive who first should dry his tears.
ÒTo see his face the lion walkÕd alongÊÊÊÊÊ1093
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him.ÊÊÊÊÊ1096
ÊÊÊÊIf he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
ÊÊÊÊAnd never fright the silly lamb that day.
ÒWhen he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;ÊÊÊÊÊ1100
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
ÊÊÊÊWould bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries,
ÊÊÊÊHe fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
ÒBut this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,ÊÊÊÊÊ1105
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
NeÕer saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave.ÊÊÊÊÊ1108
ÊÊÊÊIf he did see his face, why then I know
ÊÊÊÊHe thought to kiss him, and hath killÕd him so.
ÒÕTis true, Õtis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,ÊÊÊÊÊ1112
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
ÊÊÊÊAnd nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
ÊÊÊÊSheathÕd unaware the tusk in his soft groin.ÊÊÊÊÊ1116
ÒHad I been toothÕd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have killÕd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ1120
ÊÊÊÊWith this she falleth in the place she stood,
ÊÊÊÊAnd stains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold,ÊÊÊÊÊ1124
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies.
Two glasses where herself herself beheldÊÊÊÊÊ1129
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excellÕd,
And every beauty robbÕd of his effect.ÊÊÊÊÊ1132
ÊÊÊÊÒWonder of time,Ó quoth she, Òthis is my spite,
ÊÊÊÊThat thou being dead, the day should yet be light.
ÒSince thou art dead, lo here I prophesy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:ÊÊÊÊÊ1136
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end;
ÊÊÊÊNeÕer settled equally, but high or low,
ÊÊÊÊThat all loveÕs pleasure shall not match his woe.
ÒIt shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,ÊÊÊÊÊ1141
Bud, and be blasted in a breathing while;
The bottom poison, and the top oÕerstrawÕd
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile.ÊÊÊÊÊ1144
ÊÊÊÊThe strongest body shall it make most weak,
ÊÊÊÊStrike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.
ÒIt shall be sparing, and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;ÊÊÊÊÊ1148
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
ÊÊÊÊIt shall be raging mad, and silly mild,
ÊÊÊÊMake the young old, the old become a child.ÊÊÊÊÊ1152
ÒIt shall suspect where is no cause of fear,
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful, and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;ÊÊÊÊÊ1156
ÊÊÊÊPerverse it shall be, where it shows most toward,
ÊÊÊÊPut fear to valour, courage to the coward.
ÒIt shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension Õtwixt the son and sire;ÊÊÊÊÊ1160
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire,
ÊÊÊÊSith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
ÊÊÊÊThey that love best their love shall not enjoy.ÓÊÊÊÊÊ1164
By this the boy that by her side lay killÕd
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spillÕd,
A purple flower sprung up, chequerÕd with white,ÊÊÊÊÊ1168
ÊÊÊÊResembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
ÊÊÊÊWhich in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her AdonisÕ breath;ÊÊÊÊÊ1172
And says within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death;
ÊÊÊÊShe crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
ÊÊÊÊGreen-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.
ÒPoor flower,Ó quoth she, Òthis was thy fatherÕs guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For every little grief to wet his eyes,
To grow unto himself was his desire,ÊÊÊÊÊ1180
ÊÊÊÊAnd so Õtis thine; but know, it is as good
ÊÊÊÊTo wither in my breast as in his blood.
ÒHere was thy fatherÕs bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and Õtis thy right:ÊÊÊÊÊ1184
Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
ÊÊÊÊThere shall not be one minute in an hour
ÊÊÊÊWherein I will not kiss my sweet loveÕs flower.Ó
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,ÊÊÊÊÊ1189
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies,
In her light chariot quickly is conveyÕd;ÊÊÊÊÊ1192
ÊÊÊÊHolding their course to Paphos, where their queen
ÊÊÊÊMeans to immure herself and not be seen.