To whom she sobbing speaks! O! eye of eyes! Why pry'st thou through my window? Leave thy peeping,

Mock with thy tickling beams, eyes that are sleeping:

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath nought to do what's done by night.' Thus cavils she with every thing 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,

Like an unpractised swimmer, plunging still,
With 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 passions strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues:

Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words; Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords. The little birds, that tune their morning's 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 griet's society.

True sorrow then is feelingly surprised, When with like semblance it is sympathized. 'Tis 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 will do it good;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle Blood,
Which being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'er-
flows;

Grief dallied with, nor law, nor limit knows.
You mocking birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes intomb
Within your hollow-swelling feather'd 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.
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears,
Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with

tears.

'Come Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my dishevel'd hair,

As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain my tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear:

For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tercus descants better skill.

And while against a thorn thou bear'st 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.

These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languish-

ment.

And for, poor bird, thou sing'st 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, We will find out; and there we will unfold To creatures stern, sad tunes to change their kinds;

Site men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.'

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly;

Or one incompass'd with a winding maze,
That cannot tread the way out readily:
So with herself is she in mutiny.

To live or die, which of the twain were better, When life is shamed, and death reproaches debtor.

" To kill myself,' quoth she, ʻalack! what were it, But with my body my poor soul's pollution? They that lose half, with greater patience bear

it,

Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion,

Who having two sweet babes, when death takes

one,

i slay the other and be nurse to none.

My body or my sonl, which was the dearer,'
When the one pure, the other made divine?
Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
When both were kept from heaven and Colatine?
Ah me! the bark peal'd from the lofty pine,
His leaves will wither, and his sap decay;
So must my soul, her bark being peal'd away.
Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted;
Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;

Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted,
Grosly ingirt with daring intamy.
Then let it not be call'd impiety,

If in this blemish'd fort. I make some hole,
Through which I may convey this troubled soul.
'Yet die I will not, till my Colatine
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 I'll bequeath, Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent, And as his due, writ in my testament.

My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife,
That wounds my body so dishonoured :

'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life:
The one will live, the other being dead.
So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred;
For in my death I murder shameful scorn,
My shame so dead, my honour is new born.
Dear 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 may'st be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me:

Myself thy friend, will kill myself thy foe:
And for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin so.
This brief abridgment of my will I make:
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution (husband) do you take;
Mine honour be the knife's, that makes my wound,
My shame be his, that did my fame confound;
And all my fame that lives, disbursed be
To those that live, and think no shame of me.
'Thou Colatine shall oversee this will,
How was I overseen, that thou shalt see it?
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free

Her mistress she doth give demure good-mor row,

With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty;
And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
(For why, her face wore sorrow's livery)
But durst not ask of her audaciously,

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so;
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
E'en so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky;
Who in a salt-wayed ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid wecp 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 gentie sex to weep are often willing;

Grieving themselves to guess at other smarts: And then they drown their eyes, or break their

hearts.

For men have marble, women waxen minds, And therefore they are form'd as marbic will:

The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds

Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,

No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. Their smoothness, like a goodly champain plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep.

In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils, that obscurely sleep: Through crystal walls each little mote will peep. Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,

Poor women's faces are their own faults books. No man inveighs against the wither'd flower, But chides rough winter, that the flower has kill'd:

Nor that devour'd, but that which doth devour, Is worthy blame: 0 let it not be hild

Poor women's faults that they are so fulfill'd

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

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, Assail'd by night with eircumstances strong

Of present death, and shame that might ensue, By that her death to do her husband wrong; Such danger to resistance did belong.

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

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

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

But tell me, girl, when went (and there she
staid,

Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?'
Madam, ere I was up,' reply'd the maid,

The more to blame, my sluggard negligence:
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense;

Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

But lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness?

O peace,' quoth Lucrece, it it should be told, The repetition cannot make it less; For more it is than I can well express:

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

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

men

Bid thou be ready by and by, to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it,

The cause craves laste, and it will soon be writ.'

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hov'ring o'er the paper with her quill;
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,
What wit sets down, is blotted straight with-will;
This is too curious good, this blunt and ill:

Much like a press of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife, that greeteth thee,

Health to thy person; next vouchsafe t afford (If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see) Some present speed to come and visit me:

So I commend me from our house in grief, My woes are tedious, though my words are brief?'

Here folds she up the tenur of her woe, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly:

By this short schedule Colatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality:
She dares not therefore make discovery,

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

cuse.

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:

To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better, To see sad sights, moves more than hear them told;

For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold: When every part a part of woe doth bear, 'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear.

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ, At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste; The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast, As lagging fowls before the northern blast, Speed more than speed, but dull and slow she deems;

Extremity still urgeth such extremes. The homely villain curt'sies to her low, And blushing on her with a stedfast eye,

Receives the scroll without or yea, or no, And forthwith bashful innocence doth hie. But they, whose guilt within their bosoms lie, Imagine every eye beholds their blame, For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame: When, silly groom, God wot, it was defect Of spirit, life, and bold andacity,

Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd 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 blush'd as knowing Tarquin's lust
And blushing with him, wist'ly on him gazed,
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish
The more she thought he spy'd in her some bie.
mish.

But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone:
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan.
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting made for Priam's Troy;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy.
Threatening cloud-kissing lion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life;

Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping tear, Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife. The red blood reek'd to shew the painter's strife. And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights, Like 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 ap pear

The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.

Such sweet observance in this work was had, That 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 hers and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces: Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That 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 cypher'd either's heart; Their face, their manners most expressly told. In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roil'd; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Shew'd deep regard and smiling government. There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,

Making such sober actions with his hand,
That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight:
In speech it seem'd his beard, all silver white,
Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did Bly
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.
About him were a press of gaping faces,
Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice;
All jointly list'ning, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice;
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.
The scalps of many almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seem'd to mock the mind.
Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head,
His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear;
Here one being throng'd, bears black all blown
and red;

Another smother'd, seems to pelt and swear,
And in their rage, (such signs of rage they bear)
As but for loss of Nestor's golden words,
It seems they would debate with angry swords.
For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,

That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Griped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined.

And from the walls of strong besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd 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,

That through their light joy seem'd to appear, (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear. And from the strand of Dardan where they fought, To Simois' 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

Retire again, till meeting greater ranks They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. To this wel'-painted piece is Lucrece come To find a face where all distress is stell'd;

Many she sees, where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomized

Time's rum, beanty's wreck, and grim care's reign; Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised;

Of what she was, no semblance did remain;
Her blue blood changed to black in every vein:
Wanting the spring, that those shrunk pipes had
fed,

Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead.

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldame's 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; And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief, and not a tongue. 'Poor instrument,' quoth she, without a sound! I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue;

And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus, that hath done him wrong, And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long ; And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks, that are thine enemies.

Show me the stemmpet, that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear:
Thy heat of lust, fend Paris, did incur
This load of wrath, that burning Troy did bear;
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here:

And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die.

'Why should the private pleasure of some one, Become the public plague of many more? Let sin alone committed, light alone Upon his head, that hath transgressed 80. Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe. For one's offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general?

'Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies! Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sounds! Here friend by friend in bloody channel tes! And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds! And one man's lust these many lives confounds! Had doating Priam check'd his son's desire, Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.' Here feelingly she weeps Troy's 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

To pencill'd pensiveness, and colour'd sorrow; She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round, And whom 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 shew'd content, Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes, So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn his woes. In him the painter labour'd with his skill, To hide deceit, and give the harmless show, An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe; Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but mingled so, That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale, the fair that false hearts have. But, like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertain'd a show so seeming just;

And therein so insconced his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust, False creeping craft and perjury should thrust, Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skill'd workman this wild 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, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces.

This picture she advisedly perused, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill: Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused, So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill: And still on him she gazed, and gazing still, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes, the picture was belied. 'It cannot be,' quoth she, 'that so much guile,' She would have said, can lurk in such a look ;

But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue, can lurk, from cannot, took ; It cannot be, she in that sense forsook, And turn'd it thus; it cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind.

For e'en as subtle Sinon here is painted,

So sober sad, so weary, and so mild,
(As if with grief or travel he had fainted)
To me came Tarquin armed, so beguiled
With outward honesty, but yet defiled
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,
So did I Tarquin, so my Troy did perish.
'Look, look how list'ning Priam wets his eyes,
To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise?
For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds:
His eyes drop fire, no water thence proceeds.
Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,
Are balls of quenchless fire to buin thy city.
'Such 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 :

So Priam's trust false Simon's tears doth Aatter,
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.

Here all enraged such passion her assalls, 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. At last she smilingly with this gives o'er, "Fool! fool! quoth she, his wounds will not be

sore.'

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining: She looks tor night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining: Short time seems long, in sorrow's sharp sustaining. Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps. Which all this time hath over-slipt her thought, That she with painted images hath spent,

Being from the feeling of her own grief brought,
By deep surmise of others detriment,
Losing her woes in shews of discontent.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
To think their dolour others have endured.

But now the mindful messenger comes 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 stream'd, like rainbows in the sky.
These watergalls, in her dim element,
Foretel 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, look red and raw,
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares,

But stood like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from hence, wond'ring each other's chance.

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins: What uncouth ill event

Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love! what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress." Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire, Ere once she can discharge one word of woe: At length address'd, to answer his desire, She modestly prepares, to let them know Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe: While Colatine, and his consorted lords, With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her wat'ry nest, Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.

Few words,' quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending; In me more woes than words are now depending: And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. Then 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

By foul enforcement might be done to me,
From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.

For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
With shining falchion, in my chamber came
A creeping creature with a flaming light,
And softly cried, Awake, thou Roman dame!
And entertain my love; else lasting shame

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
If thou my love's desire do contradict.
"For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he,
Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,

I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And swear I found you, where you did fulfil
The loathsome act of lust; and so did kill

The lechers in their deed: this act will be
My fanie, and thy perpetual infamy.

With 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,
And never be forgot in mighty Rome,

Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

woe;

me

From what is past, the help, that thou shalt lend me Comes all too late: yet let the traitor die;

For sparing justice feeds iniquity.'

But ere I name him, your fair lords,' quoth
she,

(Speaking to those that came with Colatine)
Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to 'venge this wrong of mine:
For 'tis a meritorious fair design,

To chase injustice with revengeful arms,
Knights by their oaths should right poor ladies
harms.'

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 bewray'd: But she that yet her sad task hath not said,

The protestation stops. 'O speak!' quoth she, 'How may this forced stain be wiped from me? 'What is the quality of my offence, Being constrain'd 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? The poison'd fountain clears itself again, And why not I, from this compelled stain ?” With this they all at once began to say, Her body's stain the mind untainted clears, While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map, which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune carved in with tears.

'No, no,' quoth she, no dame hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuses giving.'

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin's name. He, he,' she

That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed; Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly

Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.

Stone still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Stood Colatine and all his lordly crew,

Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw :
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew

The murd'rous kuife, and as it left the place,
Her blood, in pure 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 the late sack'd island vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.

Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,
And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin

stain'd.

About the mourning and congealed face Of that black blood, a watʼry rigol goes,

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place; And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Corrupted blood some wat'ry token shews: And blood untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrified.

Daughter! dear dangnter:' old Lucretius cries, "That life was mine, which thou hast here deprived; If in the child the father's image lies, Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unlived? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. If children predecease progenitors, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. 'Poor broken glass, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance, my old age new born; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and cold, Shews me a bare-boned death by time out-worn: O from my cheeks my image thou hast torn! And shiver'd all the beauty from my glass, That I no more can see what once I was. 'O! Time, cease thou thy course, and haste no longer,

If thee surcease to be, that should survive:

Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And leave the falt'ring feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive; Then live sweet Lucrece, live again and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee.' By this starts Colatine as from a dream, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;

And then in clay-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space;

Till manly shame bids him possess his breath,
And 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 controul, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, He 'gins to talk; but through his lips do throng

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe,

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show: He with the Romans was esteemed so,

As silly jeering ideots are with kings, For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. But now he throws that shallow habit by, Wherein true policy did him disguise,

And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,

To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes.

Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he,' arise; Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool,

Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.

Why, Colatine, 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: Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart

In such lamenting 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 alominations (Since Rome herself doth stand in them dis graced)

By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.

Now by the capitol that we adore!

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd!
By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's

store;

By all our country's rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife!
We will revenge the death of this true wife!
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knite to end his vow:
And to his protestation urged the rest,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow:
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
And that deep vow which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To shew the bleeding body throughout Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul oflence.
Which being done, with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent,
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

aid,

That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime Tarqnin was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if his name he tore : This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow's tide to make it more. At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er:

Then son and father weep with equal strife, Who 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, 'she's mine! O mine she is,' Replies her husband; 'do not take away My sorrow's interest, let no mourner say, He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wail'd by Colatine.'

O quoth Lucretius, I did give that life, Which she too carly and too late hath spill'd.'

Woe! woe? quoth Colatine, she was my wife, I own'd her, and 'us mine that she hath kill'd. My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd The dispersed air, who holding Lucrece' life,

Answer'd their cries 1 daughter, and my wife.'

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thon, that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, makest waste in miggar ding, Pity the world, or else this giutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

• i. e. Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Sonnets were first entered in Stationers' Hall.