^note

^note

POEMS.

Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
  Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.

Right Honourable,

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor how the worlde will censure me for choosing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burthen onelye, if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take aduantage of all idle houres, till I have honoured you with some grauer labour. But if the first heire of my inuention proue deformed, I shall be sorie it had so noble a godfather, and never after eare so barren a land, for fear it yeeld me still so bad a haruest, I leaue it to your Honourable survey, and your Honor to^{1 note} your heart's content, which I wish may alwaies answere your owne wish, and the worlds hopefull expectation.

Volume 9: Venus and Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-colour'd ^note face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn:
  Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
  And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
‘Thrice fairer than myself,’ thus she began,
‘The field's chief ^note flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses ^note are;
  Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
  Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein ^note his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
  Here come and sit ^note, where never serpent hisses ^note,
  And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;

‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety ^note,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
  A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
  Being wasted in such time-beguiling ^note sport.’
With this she seizeth ^note on his sweating palm,
The precedent ^note of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it ^note balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
  Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
  Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other ^note was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
  She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
  He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens—O, how quick is love! ^note—
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
  Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
  And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
  And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
  ‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning ^note of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs ^note
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
  He saith ^note she is immodest, blames her miss ^note;
  What follows more she murders ^note with a kiss.
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;
  Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
  And where she ends she doth anew begin.
Forced ^note to content ^note, but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth ^note in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey ^note,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
  Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
  So they were dew'd with such distilling ^note showers.
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
  Rain added to a river that is rank
  Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear ^note she tunes her tale;
Still is he ^note sullen ^note, still he ^note lours and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger ^note ashy-pale;

  Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
  Her best ^note is better'd ^note with a more delight ^note.
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
  Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;
  And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper ^note peering through a wave,
Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
  But when her lips ^note were ready for his pay,
  He winks, and turns ^note his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her ^note fire must burn:
  ‘O, pity,’ 'gan she cry, ‘flint-hearted boy!
  'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?
‘I have been woo'd ^note, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy ^note neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
  Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
  And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt ^note have.
‘Over my altars hath he hung ^note his lance,
His batter'd ^note shield, his uncontrolled crest,

And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To toy ^note, to wanton, dally, smile and jest;
  Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
  Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
‘Thus he that overruled I overswayed ^note,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose ^note chain:
Strong-temper'd ^note steel his stronger strength obeyed ^note,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
  O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
  For mastering ^note her that ^note foil'd the god of fight!
‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine—
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they ^note red—
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine:
What see'st thou in the ground ^note? hold up thy head:
  Look in mine eyeballs, there ^note thy beauty lies;
  Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes ^note?
‘Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels ^note where there are ^note but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
  These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean
  Never can blab, nor know not ^note what we mean.
‘The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shews thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should ^note not be wasted:

  Fair flowers that are not gather'd ^note in their prime
  Rot and consume themselves in little time.
‘Were I hard-favour'd ^note, foul, or wrinkled-old ^note,
Ill-nurtured ^note, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice ^note,
  Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
  But having no defects, why dost ^note abhor me?
‘Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft ^note and plump ^note, my marrow burning;
  My smooth moist hand ^note, were it with thy hand felt,
  Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd ^note hair ^note,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
  Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
  Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These ^note forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till ^note night, even where I list to sport me:
  Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
  That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize ^note love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on ^note theft.
  Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
  And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse:
  Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;
  Thou wast ^note begot; to get it is thy duty.
‘Upon the earth's 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;
  And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
  In that thy likeness still is left alive.’
By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For, where they lay, the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired ^note in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
  Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
  So he were like him and by Venus' side.
And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
  Souring ^note his cheeks, cries ‘Fie, no more of love!
  The sun doth burn my face; I ^note must remove.’

‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young, and so unkind! ^note
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone! ^note
I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
  I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs ^note;
  If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.
‘The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that ^note sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
  And were I not immortal, life were done
  Between this heavenly and ^note earthly sun.
‘Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than ^note flint, for stone at rain relenteth:
Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
  O, had thy mother borne so hard ^note a mind,
  She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
‘What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this ^note?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, ^note fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
  Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,
  And one for interest ^note, if thou wilt have twain.
‘Fie, lifeless ^note picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman ^note bred!

  Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion,
  For men will kiss even by their own direction.’
This said, impatience chokes ^note her pleading tongue ^note,
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:
  And now she weeps, and now she fain would ^note speak,
  And now her sobs do her intendments ^note break.
Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band ^note:
She would, he will ^note not in her arms be bound;
  And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
  She locks her ^note lily fingers one in one.
‘Fondling,’ she saith ^note, ‘since I have hemm'd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I'll be a park ^note, and thou shalt be my deer ^note;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
  Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
  Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
‘Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass ^note and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
  Then be my deer ^note, since I am such a park;
  No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each ^note cheek appears a pretty dimple:

Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
  Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
  Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die.
These lovely ^note caves, these round ^note enchanting pits,
Open'd ^note their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.
Being mad ^note before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
  Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
  To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn! ^note
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.
  ‘Pity,’ she cries, ‘some favour, some remorse!’
  Away he springs ^note, and hasteth to his horse.
But, lo, from forth ^note a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth ^note espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
  The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
  Breaketh his rein ^note and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven ^note girths ^note he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb ^note resounds like heaven's thunder;
  The iron bit he crusheth ^note 'tween his ^note teeth,
  Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane ^note
Upon his compass'd crest now stand ^note on end ^note;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send ^note:
  His eye, which scornfully glisters ^note like fire ^note,
  Shows his hot ^note courage and his high ^note desire.
Sometime ^note 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 ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried;
  And this ^note I do to captivate the eye
  Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’
What recketh he his rider's angry stir ^note,
His flattering ‘Holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping ^note gay?
  He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
  For nothing else with his proud sight agrees ^note.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well proportion'd ^note steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
  So did this ^note horse excel a common one
  In shape, in courage, colour, pace ^note and bone.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye ^note, small head and nostril wide,

High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
  Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
  Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometime ^note he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts ^note at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base ^note he now prepares,
And whether ^note he run or fly they know not whether ^note;
  For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
  Fanning the hairs, who wave ^note like feather'd ^note wings.
He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;
She answers him, as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
  Spurns at his love and ^note scorns the heat he feels,
  Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy malcontent ^note,
He vails ^note his tail, that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock ^note lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
  His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
  Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.
His testy ^note master goeth ^note about to take him;
When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:

  As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
  Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.
All swoln with chafing ^note, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love ^note by pleading may be blest;
  For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
  When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said;
Free vent of words love's fire ^note doth ^note assuage;
  But when the heart's attorney once is mute,
  The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.
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,
  Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
  For 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!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue ^note,
How white and red each ^note other did destroy!
  But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
  It flash'd forth fire, as ^note lightning from the sky.
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 ^note feels:

  His tenderer ^note cheek receives ^note her soft hand's print,
  As apt as new-fall'n ^note snow takes any dint.
O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo'd ^note still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:
  And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
  With tears, which chorus-like ^note her eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prison'd in a gaol ^note of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster ^note band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
  This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
  Show'd like two ^note silver doves that sit a-billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
‘O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;
  For one sweet look thy ^note help I would assure thee,
  Though nothing but my body's ^note bane would cure thee.’
‘Give me my hand,’ saith he; ‘why dost thou feel it?’
‘Give me my heart ^note,’ saith ^note she, ‘and thou shalt have it;
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:
  Then love's deep groans I never shall regard,
  Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.’

‘For shame,’ he cries, ‘let go, and let me go;
My day's ^note delight is past, my horse is gone,
And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone;
  For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
  Is how to get my palfrey from the mare ^note.’
Thus she replies: ^note ‘Thy palfrey, as he ^note should ^note,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd;
Else, suffer'd ^note, it will set the heart on fire:
  The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
  Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
‘How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree ^note,
Servilely master'd with a leathern rein ^note!
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
  Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
  Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.
‘Who sees ^note his true-love ^note 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?
  Who is so ^note faint, that dares ^note not be so bold
  To touch the fire ^note, the weather being cold?
‘Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy;
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee:
  O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
  And once made perfect, never lost again.’

‘I know not love,’ quoth he, ‘nor will not ^note know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;
  For I have heard it is a life in death ^note,
  That laughs, and weeps, and all but with ^note a breath.
‘Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing things be any jot diminish'd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
  The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young
  Loseth ^note his pride, and never waxeth ^note strong.
‘You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;
To love's alarms ^note it will not ope the gate:
  Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;
  For where a heart is hard they make no battery.’
‘What! canst thou talk?’ quoth she, ‘hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!
Thy mermaid's ^note voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now press'd with bearing:
  Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding,
  Ear's ^note deep-sweet music ^note, and heart's deep-sore ^note wounding ^note.
‘Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible ^note;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me ^note that were but sensible:

  Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
  Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
‘Say, that the sense of feeling ^note were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
  For from the stillitory ^note of thy face excelling
  Comes breath perfumed, that breedeth love by smelling.
‘But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the feast might ^note ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock ^note the door,
  Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
  Should by his stealing in ^note disturb the feast?’
Once more the ruby-colour'd ^note portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck ^note to the seaman ^note, tempest to the field,
  Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
  Gusts ^note and foul flaws to herdmen ^note and to herds.
This ill presage advisedly she marketh:
Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
  Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
  His meaning struck ^note her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,
For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth:
A smile recures the wounding of a frown;
But ^note blessed bankrupt ^note, that by love ^note so thriveth!
  The silly boy, believing she is dead,
  Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;
And all amazed ^note brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall ^note the wit that can so well defend her!
  For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
  Till his breath breatheth ^note life in her again.
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd:
  He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
  Will ^note never rise, so he will kiss her still.
The night of sorrow now is turn'd 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 earth ^note relieveth ^note:
  And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
  So is her face illumined with her eye;
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd ^note all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with ^note his brow's repine;
  But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
  Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

‘O, where am I?’ quoth she; ‘in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?
  But now I lived, and life was death's annoy;
  But now I died, and death was lively joy.
‘O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:
Thy eyes' shrewd ^note tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath ^note taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain,
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine;
  And these mine eyes ^note, true leaders to their queen,
  But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.
‘Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries ^note wear!
And as they last, their verdure ^note still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
  That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
  May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.
‘Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips ^note imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing;
  Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips
  Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.
‘A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
And pay them at thy leisure ^note, one by one.
What is ten hundred ^note touches ^note unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?

  Say, for non-payment ^note that the debt should double,
  Is twenty hundred ^{note note} kisses such a trouble?’
‘Fair queen,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe ^note years:
Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
  The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
  Or being early ^note pluck'd is sour to taste.
‘Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait ^note,
His day's hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl, night's herald, shrieks ^note, 'tis very late;
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest;
  And ^note coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light
  Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
‘Now let me say ‘Good night,’ and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’
‘Good night,’ quoth she ^note; and, ere he ^note says ‘Adieu,’
The honey fee of parting tender'd ^note is:
  Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
  Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.
Till breathless he disjoin'd ^note, 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 ^note:
  He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth,
  Their lips together glued, fall ^note to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the ^note yielding prey ^note,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;

Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
  Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
  That she ^note will draw his lips' rich treasure dry.
And having felt ^note 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,
  Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
  Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.
Hot, faint and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamed with ^note too ^note much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing,
Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling,
  He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
  While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.
What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing ^note,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
  Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
  But 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 suck'd.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles ^note, yet 'tis ^note pluck'd:
  Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
  Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:

She is resolved no longer to restrain him;
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
  The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
  He carries thence incaged ^note in his breast.
‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?’
  He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends ^note
  To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.
‘The boar!’ quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek ^note; she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
  She sinketh down, still hanging by ^note his neck,
  He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
  That worse than Tantalus' ^note is her annoy,
  To clip Elysium, and to lack her joy.
Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw ^note,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. ^note
  The warm effects ^note which she in him finds missing
  She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:
She hath assay'd as much as may be proved;
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee;
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.

  ‘Fie, fie,’ he says, ‘you crush me; let me go;
  You have no reason to withhold me so.’
‘Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst ^note hunt the boar.
O, be advised: thou know'st ^note not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
  Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,
  Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
‘On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
  Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
  And whom he strikes his crooked ^note tushes slay ^note.
‘His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed ^note;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
  The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
  As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes.
‘Alas, he nought ^note esteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eyes ^note pay ^note tributary gazes;
Not thy soft hands ^note, sweet lips and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
  But having thee at vantage—wondrous dread!—
  Would ^note root these beauties as he roots the mead.
‘O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought ^note to do with such foul fiends:

Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
  When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble ^note,
  I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.
‘Didst thou not mark my face ^note? was it not white?
Saw'st ^note thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright ^note?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
  My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
  But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.
‘For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel;
Gives ^note false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry ‘Kill, kill!’
  Distempering gentle Love in ^note his desire,
  As air and water do ^note abate the fire.
‘This sour informer, this bate-breeding ^note spy,
This canker that eats up Love's tender spring,
This carry-tale ^note, dissentious ^note Jealousy,
That sometime ^note true news, sometime false ^note doth bring,
  Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
  That if I love thee, I thy death should ^note fear:
‘And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing ^note boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;

  Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
  Doth make them ^note droop ^note with grief and hang the head.
‘What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble ^note at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination:
  I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
  If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.
‘But if thou needs wilt ^note hunt, be ruled by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
  Pursue these fearful creatures o'er ^note the downs,
  And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.
‘And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot ^note his troubles,
How he outruns the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
  The many musits ^note through the which he goes
  Are like a labyrinth to amaze ^note his foes.
‘Sometime he runs among ^note a flock ^note of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime ^note where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;
  And sometime sorteth with a herd ^note of deer ^note:
  Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

‘For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing ^note hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
  Then do they spend their mouths ^note: Echo replies,
  As if another chase were in the skies.
‘By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
  And now his grief may be compared well
  To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
‘Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled ^note wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth ^note scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
  For misery is trodden ^note on by many,
  And being low never relieved by any.
‘Lie 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 ^note thou hear'st me moralize,
  Applying this to that, and so to so;
  For love can comment upon every woe.
‘Where did I leave?’ ‘No matter where,’ quoth he;
‘Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
The night is spent.’ ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth she.
‘I am,’ quoth he, ‘expected of my friends;
  And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.’
  ‘In night,’ quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all.

‘But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys ^note make true men thieves ^note; so do thy lips
  Make modest Dian ^note cloudy and forlorn,
  Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.
‘Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine ^note,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
  Wherein she framed thee, in high heaven's despite,
  To shame the sun by day and her by night.
‘And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities
And pure perfection with impure defeature;
  Making it subject to the tyranny
  Of mad ^note mischances and much misery;
‘As burning fevers ^note, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning ^note pestilence and frenzies ^note wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating ^note of the blood:
  Surfeits, imposthumes, grief and damn'd despair,
  Swear ^note Nature's death for framing thee so fair.
‘And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute's fight ^note brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat the impartial ^note gazer late did wonder,

  Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd ^note and done,
  As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.
‘Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
That ^note on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
  Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
  Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.
‘What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark ^note obscurity?
  If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
  Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
‘So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire ^note that reaves his son of life.
  Foul-cankering ^note rust the hidden treasure frets,
  But gold that's put to use more gold begets.’
‘Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme:
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
  For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,
  Your treatise makes me like ^note you worse ^note and worse.
‘If love have ^note lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's ^note songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;

  For know, my heart stands armed in mine ^note ear,
  And will not let a false sound enter there;
‘Lest the deceiving harmony should run ^note
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber ^note to be barr'd of rest.
  No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
  But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
‘What have you urged that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to ^note danger:
I hate not love, but your device ^note in love
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
  You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
  When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!
‘Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd ^note his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
  Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
  As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
‘Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always ^note fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
  Love surfeits not, Lust ^note like a glutton dies;
  Love is all truth ^note, Lust full of forged lies.
‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:

  Mine ears, that to your wanton talk ^note attended,
  Do burn themselves for having so offended.’
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark lawnd ^note runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
  Look, how ^note a bright star shooteth from the sky, ^note
  So glides he in the night from Venus' eye:
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing ^note upon a late-embarked ^note friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
  So did the merciless and pitchy night
  Fold in ^note the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed ^note, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood;
  Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
  Having lost the fair discovery ^note of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves ^note, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply ^note is redoubled:
  ‘Ay me!’ she cries, and twenty times, ‘Woe, woe!’
  And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She, marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemporally ^note a woeful ditty;

How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty ^note:
  Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
  And still the choir ^note of echoes answer ^note so.
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
If ^note pleased themselves, others ^note, they think, delight
In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport:
  Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
  End without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds resembling ^note parasites ^note;
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ^note?
  She says ^note ‘'Tis so:’ they answer all ‘'Tis so;’
  And would say after her, if she said ‘No.’
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
  Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
  That ^note cedar-tops ^note and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this ^note fair good-morrow:
‘O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous ^note influence that makes him bright,
  There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother,
  May lend thee light, as thou dost ^note lend to other.’

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn ^note,
And yet she hears no tidings ^note of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
  Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
  And all in haste she coasteth ^note to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss ^note her face,
Some twine ^note about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
  Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
  Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds ^note just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
  Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
  Appals her senses and her spirit ^note confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
  Finding their enemy to be so curst,
  They all strain courtesy ^note who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale ^note weakness numbs each feeling part:
  Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
  They ^note basely fly, and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses all ^note dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
  Bids them leave quaking, bids ^note them fear no more:
  And with that word she spied the hunted boar;
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together ^note,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
  This way she runs, and now she will no further,
  But back retires ^note to rate the boar for murther ^note.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path ^note that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated ^note with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
  Full of respects ^note, yet nought ^note at all respecting:
  In hand ^note with all things, nought ^note at all effecting ^note.
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound ^note,
And asks the ^note weary caitiff for his master;
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd ^note sores the only sovereign plaster;
  And here she meets another sadly scowling ^note,
  To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ^note ceased his ill-resounding ^note noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,

Against the welkin volleys ^note out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
  Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
  Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look, how the ^note world's poor people are amazed ^note
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed ^note,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
  So she at these ^note sad signs draws up her breath,
  And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
‘Hard-favour'd ^note tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,’—thus chides she Death,—
‘Grim-grinning ^note ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
  Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set ^note
  Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
‘If 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.
  Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
  Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.
‘Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had ^note spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st ^note a flower:
  Love's golden arrow at him should have fled ^note,
  And not Death's ebon dart ^note, to strike him dead.

‘Dost ^note thou drink tears, that thou provokest 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?
  Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
  Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.’
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd ^note her eyelids, who ^note, like sluices, stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd;
  But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
  And with his strong course opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears ^note, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
  But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
  Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng ^note her constant woe,
As striving who ^note should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so
That every present ^note sorrow seemeth chief,
  But none is best: then join they all together ^note,
  Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off she hears some huntsman holloa ^note;
A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:
The dire ^note imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;

  For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
  And flatters her it is Adonis' ^note voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass: ^note
Yet sometimes ^note falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass ^note
  To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
  Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing ^note love, how strange it seems ^note
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair, and hope, makes ^note thee ridiculous:
  The one doth flatter thee in thoughts ^note unlikely,
  In likely ^note thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath ^note wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame ^note;
It was not she that call'd him all to nought ^note:
Now she adds honours ^note to his hateful name;
  She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
  Imperious ^note supreme of all mortal things.
‘No, no,’ quoth she, ‘sweet Death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear
When as ^note I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;

  Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess,—
  I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease ^note.
‘'Tis not my fault: the ^note boar provoked my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he's author of thy slander:
  Grief hath two tongues; and never woman yet
  Could rule them both without ten women's wit.’
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
  Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs ^note, and stories
  His ^note victories, his triumphs and his glories.
‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
  For he being dead, with him ^note is beauty slain,
  And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
‘Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves;
Trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.’
  Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
  Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.
As falcons ^note to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;

  Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd ^note with the view,
  Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;
Or, as the snail ^note, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smother'd ^note up in shade ^note doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
  So, at his ^note bloody view, her eyes are fled
  Into the deep-dark ^note cabins ^note of her head:
Where they resign ^note their office and their light
To the disposing of her ^note troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly ^note night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
  Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
  By their suggestion ^note gives a deadly groan,
Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd ^note in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation ^note shakes,
Which with cold terror ^note doth men's minds ^note confound.
  This mutiny each part doth so surprise,
  That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;
And being open'd ^note threw unwilling light ^note
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd ^note
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was ^note drench'd:

  No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed,
  But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
  Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow;
  Her eyes are mad that they have wept ^note 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,
That makes more gashes ^note where no breach should ^note be:
  His face seems twain, each several limb ^note is doubled;
  For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
‘My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet,’ quoth she, ‘behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:
  Heavy heart's lead ^note, melt ^note at mine eyes' red fire! ^note
  So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
‘Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue ^note is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ^note ensuing?
  The flowers ^note are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
  But true-sweet ^note beauty lived and died with him ^note.

‘Bonnet nor ^note veil henceforth ^note no creature wear!
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose ^note, you ^note need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you:
  But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
  Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.
‘And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off, and, being gone,
Play with his locks ^note: then would Adonis weep;
  And straight, in pity of his tender years,
  They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
‘To see his face the lion walk'd ^note along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung ^note,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
  If he had spoke, the wolf ^note would leave his prey ^note,
  And never fright the silly lamb that day.
‘When he beheld his shadow in the ^note brook,
The ^note fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
  Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red ^note cherries;
  He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
‘But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:
  If he did see his face, why then I know
  He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.

‘'Tis true, 'tis true ^note; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did ^note not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
  And nuzzling ^note in his flank, the loving swine
  Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
‘Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth ^note with his; the more am I ^note accurst.’
  With this, she falleth in the place she stood,
  And stains her face with his congealed ^note blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears ^note a heavy tale,
As if they ^note 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 beheld
A thousand times, and now ^note no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect:
  ‘Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,
  That, thou ^note being dead, the day should ^note yet be light.
‘Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning but unsavoury end;

  Ne'er settled equally, but high ^note or low,
  That all love's pleasure ^note shall not match his woe.
‘It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud;
Bud, and be ^note blasted, in a breathing while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets that shall the truest ^note sight beguile:
  The strongest body shall it make most weak,
  Strike the wise dumb ^note, and teach the fool to speak.
‘It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
  It shall be raging-mad ^note, and silly-mild ^note,
  Make the young old, the old become a child.
‘It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful and too severe ^note,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;
  Perverse it shall be where ^note it shows ^note most toward,
  Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
‘It shall be cause ^note of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile ^note to all discontents,
As dry combustious ^note matter is to fire:
  Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
  They that love best their loves ^note shall not enjoy.’

By this the boy that by her side lay kill'd
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood, that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower sprung ^note up, chequer'd ^note with white,
  Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
  Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head, the new-sprung ^note flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is rest from her by death:
  She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
  Green-dropping ^note sap, which she compares to tears.
‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father's guise—
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire—
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
  And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
  To wither in my breast as in his blood.
‘Here was thy father's bed, here in ^note my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo, in ^note this hollow cradle take thy rest;
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
  There shall not be one minute in ^note an hour
  Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.’
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ^note;
  Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
  Means to immure herself and not be seen.

The loue I dedicate to your Lordship is without end: wherof this Pamphlet without beginning is but a superfluous Moity. The warrant I haue of your Honourable disposition, not the worth of my vntutord Lines makes it assured of acceptance. What I haue done is yours, what I haue to doe is yours, being part in all I haue, deuoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duety would^{1 note} shew greater, meane time, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship; To whom I wish long life still lengthned with all happinesse.

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 people's 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 king's son, in their discourses after supper every one 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 every one 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 Lucrece' 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 dispatcheth 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.

Volume 9: The Rape of Lucrece
From the besieged ^note Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed ^note Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire
  And girdle with embracing flames the waist
  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.
Haply that name of ‘chaste’ unhappily ^note set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
  Where mortal stars ^note, as bright as heaven's beauties,
  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.
For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless ^note wealth the heavens ^note had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud ^note rate,
  That kings might be espoused to more fame,
  But king nor peer ^note to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd ^note but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd ^note and done
As is ^note the morning's ^note silver-melting ^note dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expired date, cancell'd ere well ^note begun:
  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth ^note then apologies ^note be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish ears ^note, because it is his own?
Perchance his boast of Lucrece' ^note sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting
  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
  That ^note golden hap which their superiors want.
But some untimely thought did instigate
His all-too-timeless ^note 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 ^note liver glows ^note.
  O rash-false ^note heat, wrapp'd in repentant ^note cold,
  Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!

When at Collatium ^note this false lord arrived ^note,
Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived ^note
Which of them both should underprop her fame:
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;
  When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
  Virtue would stain that o'er ^note with silver white.
But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field:
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild
Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their ^note shield;
  Teaching them thus to use it ^note in the fight,
  When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.
This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,
Argued by beauty's red and virtue's ^note white:
Of either's colour was the other queen,
Proving from world's minority their right:
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;
  The sovereignty of either being so great,
  That oft they interchange each other's seat.
This silent war ^note of lilies and of roses,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;
Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
  To those two armies ^note, that would let him go
  Rather than triumph in ^note so false a foe.
Now thinks he that her husband's ^note 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
  Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
  In silent wonder of still-gazing ^note eyes.
This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth ^note the false worshipper;
For unstain'd thoughts ^note do seldom dream on ^note evil;
Birds never limed ^note no secret bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
  And reverend welcome to her princely guest,
  Whose inward ill ^note no outward harm express'd:
For that he colour'd ^note with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits ^note of majesty;
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime ^note too much wonder of his eye,
Which, having all, all could not satisfy;
  But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,
  That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she, that never coped ^note with stranger eyes ^note,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle-shining ^note secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books:
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;
  Nor could she moralize his wanton sight ^note,
  More than his eyes were open'd ^note to the light.
He stories to her ears her husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

And decks with praises Collatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory: ^note
  Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,
  And wordless ^note so greets heaven for his success.
Far from the purpose of his coming hither,
He makes excuses for his being there:
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Till sable Night, mother ^note of dread and fear,
  Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
  And in her vaulty prison stows ^note the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy spright ^note;
For after supper long he questioned ^note
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:
Now leaden slumber with life's ^note strength doth fight;
  And every one to rest themselves betake ^note,
  Save thieves and cares and troubled minds that wake ^note.
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:
Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining,
  And when great treasure is the meed proposed ^note,
  Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed ^note.
Those that much covet are with ^note gain so fond
That what ^note they have not, that which they possess, ^note

They scatter and unloose it from their ^note bond,
And so, by hoping more, they have but less;
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess
  Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
  That they prove bankrupt ^note in this poor-rich ^note gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth and ease, in waning age;
And in ^note this aim there is such thwarting strife
That one for all or all for one we gage;
As life for honour in fell battle's ^note rage;
  Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
  The death of all, and all together ^note lost.
So that in venturing ill ^note we leave to be
The things we are for that which we expect;
And this ambitious foul ^note infirmity,
In having much, torments us with defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
  The thing we have, and, all for want of wit,
  Make something nothing by augmenting it.
Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour ^note to obtain his lust;
And for himself himself he must forsake:
Then where is truth, if there be no ^note self-trust?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
  When he himself himself confounds, betrays
  To slanderous tongues and ^note wretched hateful days ^note?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes ^note:

No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owls' and wolves' ^note death-boding cries;
Now serves the season that they may surprise
  The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
  While ^note lust and murder wakes ^note to stain and kill.
And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm;
But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,
  Doth too too ^note oft betake him to retire,
  Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.
His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do ^note fly;
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:
  ‘As from this cold flint I enforced ^note this fire,
  So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate ^note
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully he doth despise
  His naked armour of still-slaughter'd ^note lust,
  And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:
‘Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine:
And die, unhallow'd ^note thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine:
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:

  Let fair humanity abhor the deed
  That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.
‘O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave!
True valour still a true respect should have;
  Then my digression is so vile, so base,
  That it will live engraven in my face.
‘Yea ^note, 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,
  Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
  To wish that I their father had not bin ^note.
‘What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
  Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
  Would with the sceptre straight be strucken ^note down? ^note
‘If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
  This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
  Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?
‘O 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 forego their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
  And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
  But coward-like with trembling terror die.
‘Had Collatinus kill'd 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:
  But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
  The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.
‘Shameful it is; ^note ay, if ^note the fact be known:
Hateful it is; ^note there is no hate in loving:
I'll beg her love; but she is not her own: ^note
The worst is but denial and reproving:
My will is strong, past reason's weak removing.
  Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw
  Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’
Thus graceless holds he disputation
'Tween 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
  All pure effects ^note, and doth so far proceed
  That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.
Quoth he, ‘She took me kindly by the hand,
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard ^note news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.
O, how her fear did make her colour rise!
  First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
  Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

‘And how ^note her hand, in my hand being lock'd,
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which struck ^note her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer
  That had Narcissus seen her as she stood
  Self-love ^note had never drown'd him in the flood.
‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth ^note;
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth ^note:
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ^note;
  And when his ^note gaudy banner is display'd,
  The coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.
‘Then, childish fear ^note avaunt! debating ^note die!
Respect and reason ^note wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand mine ^note eye:
Sad pause and deep regard beseems ^note the sage;
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage:
  Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize;
  Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’
As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost choked ^note by unresisted lust.
Away he steals with open listening ear,
Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust;
Both which, as servitors to the unjust,
  So cross him with their opposite persuasion,
  That 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;
  But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
  Which once corrupted takes the worser part;
And therein heartens ^note up his servile powers,
Who, flatter'd ^note by their leader's 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.
  By reprobate desire thus madly led,
  The Roman lord marcheth ^note to Lucrece' ^note bed.
The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforced, retires ^note 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;
  Night-wandering ^note weasels shriek to see him there;
  They fright him, yet he still pursues his ^note fear.
As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies ^note 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;
  But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
  Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch:
And being lighted, by the light he ^note spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein her ^note needle sticks:

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle ^note his finger pricks;
As who should say ‘This glove to wanton tricks
  Is not ^note inured ^note; return again in haste;
  Thou see'st our mistress' ornaments are chaste.’
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;
He in the worst sense construes ^note their denial:
The doors ^note, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
  Who with a lingering stay his course doth let,
  Till every minute pays the hour his debt.
‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,
Like little frosts that sometime ^note 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;
  Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands,
  The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’
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 barr'd him from the blessed thing he sought.
So from himself impiety hath wrought,
  That for his prey ^note to pray he doth begin,
  As if the heavens should countenance his sin.
But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,
Having solicited the eternal power
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they ^note would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts: quoth he ‘I must deflower:

  The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact;
  How can they then assist me in the act?
‘Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide ^note!
My will is back'd with resolution ^note:
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;
The blackest ^note sin is clear'd ^note with absolution;
Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution.
  The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
  Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’
This said, his ^note guilty hand pluck'd up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide.
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch:
Thus treason ^note works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ^note;
  But she, sound sleeping ^note, fearing no such thing,
  Lies 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 ^note in his head:
By their high treason is his heart misled ^note;
  Which gives the watch-word to his hand full ^note soon
  To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.
Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed ^note 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,

  That dazzleth ^note them, or else some shame supposed;
  But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed ^note.
O, had they in that darksome prison died!
Then had they seen the period of their ill;
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece' side,
In his clear bed might have reposed still:
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill;
  And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
  Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight.
Her lily hand her rosy cheek ^note lies under,
Cozening ^note the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who ^note, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss;
Between whose hills her head ^note entombed is:
  Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies,
  To be admired of lewd unhallow'd ^note eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet; whose perfect white
Show'd ^note like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light,
  And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
  Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair, like golden threads, play'd ^note with her breath;
O modest wantons! wanton ^note modesty!
Showing ^note life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's ^note mortality:
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify

  As if between them twain there were ^note no strife,
  But that life lived in death ^note and death in life.
Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair ^note 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;
  Who, like a foul usurper, went about
  From this fair throne ^note to heave ^note the owner out.
What could he see but mightily ^note he noted?
What did he note but strongly he desired? ^note
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in ^note his will his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
  Her azure veins, her alabaster ^note skin,
  Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified;
Slack'd, not suppress'd; for standing by her side,
  His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
  Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins:
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting ^note,
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor children's tears nor mothers' ^note groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting:

  Anon his beating heart, alarum ^note striking,
  Gives 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, march'd on to make his stand
On her bare breast ^note, the heart ^note of all her land;
  Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
  Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They, mustering 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 lock'd-up eyes,
  Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
  Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and controll'd.
Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth ^note dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking;
What terror 'tis ^note! but she, in worser taking,
  From sleep disturbed ^note, heedfully doth view
  The sight which makes supposed terror true ^note.
Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies;
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears ^note
Quick-shifting antics ^note, ugly in her eyes:
Such shadows are the weak brain's ^note forgeries;
  Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
  In 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! distress'd,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
  This moves in him more rage and lesser pity,
  To make the breach ^note and enter this sweet city.
First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin
To sound a parley to his heartless foe;
Who ^note o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm ^note to know,
Which he by dumb ^note demeanour seeks to show;
  But she with vehement prayers urgeth still
  Under what colour he commits this ill. ^note
Thus he replies: ‘The colour in thy face ^note,
That even for anger makes the lily pale
And the ^note red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale:
Under that colour am I come to scale
  Thy ^note never-conquer'd ^note fort: the fault is thine,
  For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.
‘Thus 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 earth's delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might;
  But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
  By thy bright beauty was it ^note newly bred.
‘I see what crosses my attempt ^note 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;
  Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
  And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst ^note law or duty.
‘I have debated, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;
But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
  Reproach, disdain ^note and deadly enmity;
  Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.’
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon towering in the skies, ^note
Coucheth ^note the fowl below with his wings' ^note shade,
Whose crooked ^note beak threats if he mount he dies:
So under his insulting falchion ^note lies
  Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells
  With trembling fear, as fowl ^note hear falcon's ^note bells.
‘Lucrece,’ quoth he, ‘this 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 I'll slay,
To kill thine honour with thy life's ^note decay;
  And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
  Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.
‘So thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye;
Thy ^note kinsmen hang their heads ^note at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy:
And thou, the author of their obloquy,

  Shalt ^note have thy trespass cited up in rhymes
  And sung by children in succeeding ^note times.
‘But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend:
The fault unknown is as a thought ^note unacted;
A little harm done to a great good end
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometime ^note is compacted
  In a pure compound ^note; being so applied,
  His venom in effect is purified.
‘Then, for thy husband and thy children's ^note sake,
Tender my suit: bequeath ^note not to their lot
The shame that from them no device ^note can take,
The blemish that will never be forgot;
Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour's blot:
  For marks descried ^note in men's nativity
  Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.’
Here with a cockatrice' ^note dead-killing ^note eye
He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause;
While she, the picture of true piety,
Like a white hind under ^note the gripe's ^note sharp claws,
Pleads, in a wilderness where are ^note no laws,
  To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,
  Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.
But ^note when a black-faced cloud the world doth ^note threat,
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains ^note hiding,

From earth's dark womb ^note some gentle gust doth ^note get,
Which blows ^note these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hindering their present fall by this ^note dividing;
  So his unhallow'd ^note haste her words delays,
  And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.
Yet, foul night-waking ^note 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 ^note in plenty wanteth:
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
  No penetrable entrance to her plaining:
  Tears harden lust, though marble wear ^note with raining ^note.
Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed ^note
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face;
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed ^note,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place,
  And midst the sentence so her accent breaks
  That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.
She conjures him by high almighty Jove,
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath,
By her untimely tears, her husband's love,
By holy human law and common troth,
By heaven and earth, and all the power ^note of both,
  That to his borrow'd ^note bed he make ^note retire,
  And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.
Quoth she: ‘Reward 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 thy shoot ^note be ended;
  He is no woodman that doth bend his bow
  To strike a poor unseasonable doe.
‘My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me:
Thyself art mighty; for thine ^note own sake leave me:
Myself a weakling; do not then ensnare me:
Thou look'st not like deceit; do not deceive me.
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee:
  If ever man were ^note moved with woman's moans,
  Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans:
‘All which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart,
To soften it with their continual motion;
For stones dissolved to water do convert.
O, ^note if no harder than a stone thou art,
  Melt at my tears, and be compassionate!
  Soft pity enters at an iron gate.
‘In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee:
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?
To all the host ^note of heaven I complain me,
Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely name.
Thou art not what thou seem'st; and if the same,
  Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king;
  For kings, like gods, should govern every thing.
‘How will thy shame be seeded ^note in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring! ^note
If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage,
What darest ^note thou not when once ^note thou art a king? ^note
O, be remember'd ^note, no outrageous thing

  From vassal actors can be wiped away;
  Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.
‘This deed will ^note make thee ^note only loved for fear;
But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love:
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like ^note offences prove:
If but for fear of this, thy ^note will remove;
  For princes are the glass, the school, the book,
  Where subjects' ^note eyes do learn, do read, do look.
‘And 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? ^note
  Thou back'st ^note reproach against long-living ^note laud,
  And makest fair reputation but a bawd.
‘Hast thou command? ^note by him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command ^note 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 fulfil,
  When, pattern'd by thy fault, foul sin ^note may say
  He learn'd to sin and thou didst teach the way? ^note
‘Think but how vile a spectacle it were,
To view thy present trespass in another.
Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear;
Their own transgressions partially they smother:
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.
  O, how are they wrapp'd in with infamies
  That from their ^note own misdeeds askance their eyes!

‘To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal,
Not to seducing ^note lust, thy rash relier ^note:
I sue for exiled majesty's repeal;
Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire:
His true respect will prison false desire,
  And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne ^note,
  That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.’
‘Have done,’ quoth he: ‘my 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 ^note streams that pay a daily debt ^note
  To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls' ^note haste
  Add to his ^note flow, but alter not his ^note taste.’
‘Thou art,’ quoth she, ‘a sea, a sovereign king;
And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek ^note to stain ^note the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills shall ^note change thy good,
  Thy sea within a puddle's ^note womb is hearsed ^note,
  And not the puddle ^note in thy sea dispersed ^note.
‘So 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;

  The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
  But low shrubs ^note wither at the cedar's root.
‘So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state’— ^note
‘No more,’ quoth he; ‘by heaven, I will not hear thee:
Yield to ^note my love; if not, ^note enforced hate,
Instead ^note of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee;
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee
  Unto the ^note base bed of some rascal groom,
  To be thy partner in this shameful doom.’
This said, he sets his foot upon the light,
For light and lust are deadly enemies:
Shame folded up in blind concealing ^note night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries;
  Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd
  Entombs her outcry in her lips' ^note sweet fold:
For with the nightly ^note 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 ^note lust should stain so pure a bed!
  The spots whereof could weeping purify,
  Her tears should drop on them perpetually.
But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose ^note again:
This forced league doth force a further strife;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain;
This hot desire converts to cold disdain:

  Pure Chastity is rifled of her store,
  And 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 ^note
The prey wherein by nature they delight,
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares ^note this night:
  His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
  Devours 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
  Can curb his heat or rein ^note his rash desire,
  Till, like a jade, Self-will himself doth tire.
And then with lank and lean discolour'd ^note cheek,
With heavy eye, knit brow ^note, and strengthless pace,
Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor and meek,
Like to a bankrupt ^note beggar wails his case ^note:
The flesh being proud ^note, Desire doth fight with Grace,
  For there it revels, and when that decays
  The guilty rebel for remission prays.
So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased ^note;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of times he stands disgraced ^note:
Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced ^note,
  To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,
  To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection ^note
Have batter'd down her consecrated wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection ^note
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death and pain perpetual:
  Which in her prescience ^note she controlled still,
  But her foresight could not forestall ^note their will.
Even in this thought through the dark night ^note 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 perplex'd in greater pain.
  She bears the load of lust he left behind,
  And he the burthen 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 ^note with guilty fear;
  She stays, exclaiming on the direful night;
  He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loathed delight.
He thence departs a heavy convertite;
She there remains a hopeless ^note cast-away;
He in his speed looks for the morning light;
She prays she never may behold the day,
‘For day,’ quoth she, ‘night's 'scapes ^note doth open lay,
  And my true eyes have never practised how
  To cloak offences with a cunning brow.
‘They think not but that every eye can see
The same disgrace which they themselves behold;

And therefore would they still in darkness be ^note,
To have their unseen sin remain untold;
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,
  And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,
  Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I ^note feel.’
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 ^note
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.
  Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite
  Against the unseen secrecy of night:
‘O 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 ^note defame!
  Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator
  With close-tongued treason and the ravisher!
‘O hateful, vaporous ^note and foggy Night!
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportion'd course of time;
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb
  His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
  Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.
‘With rotten damps ^note ravish the morning air;
Let their exhaled unwholesome ^note breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick;
And let thy misty ^note vapours ^note march so thick

  That in their smoky ranks ^note his smother'd ^note light
  May set at noon and make perpetual night.
‘Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's child,
The silver-shining ^note queen he would distain ^note;
Her twinkling handmaids too ^note, by him defiled,
Through Night's black bosom should not peep again:
So should I have co-partners in my pain;
  And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,
  As palmers' chat makes ^note short their ^note pilgrimage.
‘Where now I have no one to blush with me, ^note
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,
  Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
  Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.
‘O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking ^{note note} smoke,
Let not the jealous Day behold that face
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak
Immodestly lies martyr'd ^note with disgrace!
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
  That all the faults which in thy reign are made
  May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade!
‘Make me not object to the tell-tale Day!
The light will ^note show, character'd ^note in my ^note brow,

The story ^note of sweet chastity's decay,
The impious breach ^note of holy wedlock ^note vow:
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
  To cipher ^note what is writ in learned books,
  Will quote ^note my loathsome trespass in my looks.
‘The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name;
The orator, to deck his oratory,
Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame;
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,
  Will tie the hearers to attend each line,
  How Tarquin wronged ^note me, I Collatine.
‘Let my good name, that senseless reputation,
For Collatine's dear love be kept ^note unspotted:
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserved reproach to him allotted
  That is as clear from this attaint of mine
  As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.
‘O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!
O unfelt sore! crest-wounding, private scar!
Reproach is stamp'd in Collatinus' face,
And Tarquin's eye may read the mot ^note afar,
How he in peace is wounded, not in war. ^note
  Alas, how many ^note bear such shameful blows,
  Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows!
‘If, 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 robb'd and ransack'd by injurious theft:

  In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,
  And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept.
‘Yet am I guilty ^note of thy honour's wrack; ^note
Yet for ^note 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,
  And talk'd ^note of virtue: O unlook'd-for ^note evil,
  When virtue is profaned in such a devil!
‘Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud? ^note
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
  But no perfection is so absolute
  That some impurity ^note doth not pollute.
‘The 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 ^{note note} Tantalus he sits
And useless barns ^note the harvest ^note of his wits,
  Having no other pleasure of his gain
  But torment that it cannot cure his pain.
‘So then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd 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 ^note fortune long.

  The sweets we wish for ^note turn to loathed sours
  Even in the moment that we call them ours.
‘Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers;
The adder hisses ^note where the sweet birds sing;
What virtue breeds iniquity devours:
We have no good that we can say is ours
  But ill-annexed ^note Opportunity
  Or kills his life or else his quality.
‘O Opportunity, thy guilt is great!
'Tis thou that executest the traitor's treason;
Thou set'st ^note the wolf where he the lamb may get;
Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st ^note the season;
'Tis thou that spurn'st ^note at right, at law, at reason;
  And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
  Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him ^note.
‘Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;
Thou blow'st ^note the fire when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'st ^note honesty, thou murder'st ^note troth;
Thou foul abettor ^note! thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud:
  Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
  Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!
‘Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy smoothing ^note titles to a ragged name,
Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter ^note wormwood taste:
Thy violent vanities can never last.

  How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
  Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?
‘When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's ^note friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtained ^note?
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes ^note to end? ^note
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained ^note?
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained ^note?
  The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
  But they ne'er meet ^note with Opportunity.
‘The patient dies while the physician sleeps;
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;
Advice ^note is sporting while infection breeds:
Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds:
  Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's ^note rages, ^note
  Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.
‘When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid:
They buy thy ^note help, but Sin ne'er gives a fee ^note;
He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
  My Collatine would else have come to me
  When Tarquin did, but he was stay'd ^note by thee.
‘Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,
Guilty of perjury and subornation ^note,
Guilty of treason, forgery and shift,
Guilty of incest, that abomination;
An accessary by thine inclination ^note

  To all sins past and all that are to come,
  From the creation to the general doom.
‘Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night,
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,
Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare ^note;
Thou nursest all and murder'st ^note all that are:
  O, hear me then, injurious, shifting ^note Time!
  Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.
‘Why hath thy servant Opportunity ^note
Betray'd the hours thou gavest me to repose,
Cancell'd my fortunes and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to fine ^note the hate of foes,
  To eat up errors ^note by opinion bred,
  Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.
‘Time's glory is to calm ^note contending kings,
To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,
To stamp the seal of time in aged ^note things,
To wake the morn and sentinel the night,
To wrong ^note the wronger till he render right,
  To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours ^note
  And smear with dust their glittering golden towers;
‘To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books and alter ^note their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings,
To dry the old oak's sap and cherish ^note springs,

  To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel
  And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel;
‘To 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,
  To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
  And waste huge stones with little water-drops.
‘Why work'st 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 ^note lends:
  O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back,
  I could prevent this storm and shun thy ^note wrack!
‘Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his ^note flight:
Devise extremes beyond extremity,
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night:
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright,
  And the dire thought of his committed evil
  Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.
‘Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances,
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid ^note groans;
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
To make him moan; but pity not his moans:
Stone him with harden'd ^note hearts ^note, harder than stones ^note;
  And let mild women to him lose ^note their mildness,
  Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

‘Let him have time to tear his curled hair,
Let him have time against himself to rave,
Let him have time of time's help to despair,
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave,
  And time to see one that by alms doth ^note live
  Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.
‘Let 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;
  And ever let his unrecalling crime ^note
  Have time to wail the abusing of his time.
‘O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,
Teach me to curse him that thou taught'st ^note 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;
  For who so base would such an office have
  As slanderous deathsman to so base a slave? ^note
‘The 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 honour'd or begets him hate;
For greatest scandal waits on greatest state ^note.
  The moon being clouded presently is miss'd,
  But little stars may hide them when they list.
‘The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,
And unperceived fly with the filth away;
But if the like the snow-white ^note swan desire,
The stain upon his silver down will stay.
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day:

  Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,
  But eagles ^note gazed upon with every eye.
‘Out, ^note idle words, servants to shallow fools!
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!
Busy yourselves ^note in skill-contending ^note schools;
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;
To trembling clients be you ^note mediators:
  For me, I force not argument a straw,
  Since that my case is past the ^note help of law.
‘In vain I rail at Opportunity,
At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful ^note Night;
In vain I cavil with mine infamy,
In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite:
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.
  The remedy indeed ^note to do me good
  Is to let forth my foul-defiled ^note blood.
‘Poor hand, why quiver'st ^note 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 livest in my defame:
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame
  And wast afeard ^note to scratch her wicked foe,
  Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.’
This said, from her be-tumbled ^note couch ^note she starteth ^note,
To find some desperate instrument of death:
But this no slaughterhouse ^note no tool imparteth ^note
To make more vent for passage of her breath;
Which, thronging ^note through her lips, so vanisheth

  As smoke from Ætna that in air consumes,
  Or that which from discharged cannon ^note fumes.
‘In vain,’ quoth she, ‘I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life.
I fear'd by Tarquin's ^note falchion to be slain,
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:
But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife:
  So am I now: O no, that cannot be;
  Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.
‘O, 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 slander's livery,
A dying life to living infamy:
  Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away,
  To burn the guiltless casket where it lay!
‘Well, 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 ^note shall never come to growth:
  He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
  That thou art doting father of his fruit.
‘Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought ^note,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;
But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
  And with my trespass never will dispense,
  Till life to death acquit my forced ^note offence.
‘I will not poison thee with my attaint,
Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd ^note excuses;

My sable ground of ^note sin I will not paint,
To hide the truth of this false ^note night's abuses:
My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices,
  As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
  Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.’
By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow-sad ^note gait ^note descended
To ugly ^note hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will ^note borrow:
  But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
  And therefore still in night would cloister'd ^note be.
Revealing day through every cranny spies,
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping;
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 nought ^note 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 ^note in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare;
No object but her passion's strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues:

  Sometime her ^note grief is dumb and hath no words;
  Sometime 'tis ^note 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 grief's society:
  True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed ^note
  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 would ^note do it good;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
  Who ^note, being stopp'd, the bounding banks ^note o'erflows;
  Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.
‘You mocking birds,’ quoth she, 'your tunes emtomb
Within your hollow-swelling ^note feather'd ^note breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and ^note dumb:
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests:
  Relish ^note your nimble notes to pleasing ears;
  Distress likes ^note dumps when time is kept with tears.
‘Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove ^note in my dishevell'd hair:
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear ^note,
And with deep groans the diapason bear;

  For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still.
  While thou on Tereus ^note descant'st ^note better skill ^note.
‘And whiles ^note 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 ^note our heart-strings to true ^note languishment.
‘And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day,
As shaming any eye should thee behold,
Some dark deep ^note desert, seated from the way,
That knows not ^note parching heat nor freezing cold,
Will we ^note find out; and there we will unfold
  To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds:
  Since men ^note prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.’
As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly,
Or one encompass'd ^note 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 reproach's ^note debtor.
‘To kill myself,’ quoth she, ‘alack, what were it,
But with my body my poor soul's pollution ^note?
They that lose ^note half with greater patience bear it