In Metaphor, Allusion, Description, and all the strongest and highest Colourings of Poetry, they both are certainly without Equals. Spenser indeed trod more in the Paths of Learning,

borrow'd, improv'd, and heighten'd all he imitated: But Shakespear's Field is Nature, and there he undoubtedly triumphs without a Rival. His Imagination is a perpetual Fountain of Delight, and all drawn from the same Source: even his Wildnesses are the Wildnesses of Nature. So that Milton seems to have hit his Character best, when he says,

The Child of Fancy, with the additional Epithet of sweetest, is an Expression perfectly fine, becoming both the Praiser, and the Praised, and exactly after the manner of the antient Poets.

AND yet I cannot place his Learning so low as others have done, there being evident Marks thro all his Writings of his Knowledge in the Latin Language, and the Roman History. The Translation of Ovids two Epistles, Paris to Helen, and her Answer, gives a sufficient Proof of his Acquaintance with that Poet. Nor are these Letters so very easy for a common Translator: For there is a good deal of the Heathen Mythology and Poetical Fictions, of which Shakespear misses none, but is ever faithful to the Original. How they may be receiv'd in these Days of flowing Versification I know not; but I have a Translation of the Metamorphoses of the same Age, far inferior to these Epistles.

BUT to return to Mr. Gildon, the Republisher of these Poems. He has prefix'd to them an Essay on the Rise and Progress of the Stage, and added Remarks on all his Plays, in order to let the Reader into the Beauties, and Defects of Shakespear. As to the Essay, tho there have been many Things wrote in a loose unconnected manner on the same Subject, yet I have seen nothing in our Tongue so regular, so fully explanatory, or so well supported by Instances from the antient Tragic Poets. One may safely say, that this was the Study of

his whole Life, the darling and over-ruling Passion of his Soul, which work'd off, and shew'd it self on all Occasions both in Discourse and Composition. Sophocles and Euripides were his Idols, whom he look'd upon with a sort of religious Veneration, and took a Pride in making Converts to his Opinion, by displaying their hidden Glories to the rest of Mankind. This intimate Acquaintance with these great Originals, made him an excellent Judge of what deviated from their Standard. Great modern Names and Authorities were never his Guides, but a Conformity to the just Rules of the best antient Critics, and the first Writers. For this Reason the Reader will find him in the Course of the Remarks, bearing very hard on Mr. Dryden, tho at the same time that he condemn'd the Critic, he admir'd the Poet.

THE same cannot be said of his Style, as his Sense; his Expression being often dark, his Sentences long, unequal, and crouded with Words of the same Signification. A depression of Fortune, want of Health and Leisure, allow'd him no Time for the Filings, and Polishings of a correct Writer. And yet with all his Imperfections, there is great Matter of Improvement to be pick'd out of his Essay, and Remarks.

I must not here leave Mr. Gildon without taking notice of an Argument he has brought to prove these Poems genuine; which is the Use of the Compound and Decompound Epithets, as if this was in a manner peculiar to Shakesprar. Others have carried the matter further, and from thence argu'd Shakespear into an Understanding of the Greek Language, from whence they are deriv'd. Any one who is acquainted with old English Books, may see they were in use before our Author's Time; and as for their being taken from the Greeks, that will appear ridiculous, when we consider how easily those Epithets are form'd. For allow but any Number adopted into our Tongue, and a hundred may be coin'd in as many Minutes. For

Instance, if I read far-shooting from the Greek, could not I presently compound Fire-darting, and twenty others?

BUT since we are upon this Subject, let us examine it a little more closely. I wish the Patrons of this Practice would give us any Reason for flinging in this unnatural foreign Mixture into our Language, when we have Words of Signification, and Sound sufficient to answer our Ideas. What occasion is there for Adulteration, when we have current Coin enough of our own? All our best and modest Writers have stretch'd no farther than the Compound, and those sparingly, and in Translation, where they will best bear. If the Compounds may be bore with Patience, the Decompounds are mere Monsters; as these of our Author, the Hot-scent-smelling Hounds, the Dew-be-dabled Morn, &c. They offend the Ear, and cannot be repeated without uneasiness. The Genius of every Tongue is different; and tho the Greek abounds with these beautifully extravagant Liberties, neither the severe Chastity of the Latin, nor our own will allow of them. Vida an excellent Critic is of the same Opinion as to the Latin; and as his Words may have some Influence, I shall give a Translation of a Passage or two to this Purpose.

But he is fuller soon after; as here,

“Ipsaque Quadrifidis subniti corpora membris.
“Itala nec passim fert Monstra Tricorpora Tellus.
“Horresco diros sonitus, ac levia fundo
“Invitus per-terricrepas per Carmina Voces.
Two Single Words in pleasing Union join,
If gently wedded in a Social Line:
But more nor Rule, nor Decency afford,
Verse hobbles on a long-four-jointed Word.
The Decompounds of Three, are very rare,
And Monsters foreign to our Latian Air.
Harsh jarring Sounds strike grating on the Sense,
And give my Reason, as my Ear, Offence.
Unwillingly I force in gliding Song
A grumbling Thrice-re-gurgling Word along.

OUR Language, as it now stands, bears a near Affinity to the Latin, and most of its Rules are become our own. Writers should therefore consider first what our Tongue will bear, know its Original, how it has been improv'd, and from whence it has borrowed, before they begin with such bold Innovations. A single Authority is neither a Rule, nor a Guide. Casaubon de Linguâ Anglicâ vetere will show them the Excellence, Force, Power and Compass of our Mother English; after which they will hardly seek out for harsh and unnatural Imitations of a Dead Language.

BUT enough of this. It is not my Province to speak of Shakespear's Plays; only I cannot but observe that some of them do not answer their Titles. In Julius Cæsar for Instance, there is little of the Man, or his memorable Exploits, unless what is said after his Death; and if any one were to form an Idea of him from what Shakespear makes him speak, he

would make but an indifferent Figure for the Foremost of Mankind. Hear only his Character from Tully, an Enemy—“Fuit in illo Ingenium, Ratio, Memoria, Litteræ, Cura, Cogitatio, Diligentia: res bello gesserat, quamvis Reipublicæ calamitosas, attamen Magnas. Multos annos regnare est meditatus: magno labore, magnis periculis, quod cogitaverat, effecerat: muneribus, monumentis, congiariis, epulis multitudinem imperitam deliniebat: suos prœmiis, adversarios Clementiæ Specie devinxerat. Quid multa? attulerat jam liberæ Civitati, partim metu, partim patientis, Consuetudinem Serviendi.”

A Cæsar thus qualified, and shown in all these Lights, were fit for the Pen of an Addison, or a Congreve; and then we might cry out with Anthony,

Here was a Cæsar—when comes such Another?

I THOUGHT to say no more to his Plays; but the Character my Lord Shaftesbury gives them is too considerable to be omitted. He was himself a fine Writer, and an excellent Judge of Nature, so that his Testimony will bear a just sway with the Reader. His words are, “Our old Dramatic Poet, Shakespear, may witness for our good Ear and manly Relish. Notwithstanding his natural Rudeness, his unpolish'd Style, his antiquated Phrase and Wit, his want of Method and Coherence, and his Deficiency in almost all the Graces and Ornaments of this kind of Writing; yet by the Justness of his Moral, the Aptness of many of his Descriptions, and the plain and natural Turn of several of his Characters, he pleases his Audience, and often gains their Ear, without a single Bribe from Luxury or Vice. That Piece of his, (the Tragedy of Hamlet) which appears to have most affected English Hearts, and has perhaps been oftnest acted of any which have come upon our Stage, is almost one continu'd Moral: a Series of deep Reflections, drawn from one Mouth, upon the Subject of one single Accident and Calamity, naturally fitted to move Horror and Compassion.

It may be properly said of this Play, if I mistake not, that it has only One Character or principal Part. It contains no Adoration or Flattery of the Sex: no ranting at the Gods: no blustering Heroism: nor any thing of that curious mixture of the Fierce and Tender, which makes the hinge of modern Tragedy, and nicely varies it between the Points of Love, and Honour.”

I HAVE already run this Preface to a great length, otherwise I should have taken notice of some beautiful Passages in the Poems; but a Reader of Taste cannot miss them.

FOR my own part, as this Revisal of his Works obliged me to look over Shakespear's Plays, I can't but think the Pains I have taken in correcting, well recompensed by the Pleasure I have receiv'd in reading: And if after this, I should attempt any thing Dramatic in his Vein and Spirit, be it owing to the Flame borrow'd from his own Altar!

AN ESSAY ON THE Art, Rise, and Progress of the STAGE, In Greece, Rome, and England.

Before I come to the Art and Rise of the Stage, I shall say a Word or two of Shakespear, the English Ornament of it, and of his Works. I confess that I have nothing to add to his Life, written by Mr. Rowe, who has perfectly exhausted that Subject; yet he has, by declining a general and full Criticism, left me room enough to discourse both of the Author's Genius, and his Writings. As I shall give many more Examples of his Beauties, than those few which his Editor has but slightly glanc'd on in his Life; so shall I lay down such Rules of Art, as that the Reader may be able

to distinguish his Errors from his Perfections, now too much, and too unjustly confounded by the foolish Bigotry of his blind and partial Adorers. For there are a sort of Men, who deal by him, as some of our modern Dedicators do by their Patrons; denying them all Defects, and at the same time dawbing them with shining Qualities, which they do not only not possess, but have no need of, to compleat their Character: By so childish a Conduct not only bringing into question those which are really their Due, but making their Patrons as ridiculous, as themselves. For an unjust or ill-grounded Praise of the Living, is no better than fulsom Flattery; and of the Dead, only a mere assuming Compliment to ourselves, as Men of greater Genius, Discernment, and Penetration than others, in the Discovery of Beauties, which they are not able to find out. This is the very Fault which those Modernists lay to the Charge of the Admirers of the Antients: For while they would persuade us, that these have given Beauties to Homer, Virgil, Horace, &c. which those Poets never thought of, or design'd, they have advanc'd so unreasonable a Bigotry to our Poet, that if a Man, by Art and Reason, but question the greatest and most absurd of his Faults, with the Romans of old, on the same occasion—Clamant periisse Pudorem.

'Tis my Opinion, that if Shakespear had had those Advantages of Learning, which the perfect Knowledge of the Antients would have given him; so great a Genius as his would have made him a very dangerous Rival in Fame to the greatest Poets of Antiquity: So far am I from seeing, how this Knowledge could either have curb'd, confin'd, or spoil'd the natural Excellence of his Writings. For tho I must always think our Author a Miracle, for the Age he liv'd in, yet I am oblig'd, in Justice to Reason and Art, to confess that he does not come up to the Antients, in all the Beauties of the Drama; yet it is no small Honour to him, that he has surpass'd them in the Topicks or Common Places.

But to put his Errors and his Excellencies on the same Bottom, is to injure the latter, and give the Enemies of our Poet

an Advantage against him, of doing the same; that is, of rejecting his Beauties, as all of a piece with his Faults. This unaccountable Bigotry of the Town to the very Errors of Shakespear was the Occasion of Mr. Rymer's Criticisms, and drove him as far into the contrary Extreme. I am far from approving his Manner of treating our Poet: Tho Mr. Dryden owns that all, or most of the Faults he has found, are just; yet he adds this odd Reflection: “And yet, says he, who minds the Critick, and who admires Shakespear less?” That was as much as to say, “Mr. Rymer has indeed made good his Charge, and yet the Town admir'd his Errors still:” Which I take to be a greater Proof of the Folly and abandon'd Taste of the Town, than of any Imperfections in the Critick. And this, in my Opinion, expos'd the Ignorance of the Age he liv'd in; to which, Mr. Rowe very justly ascribes most of his Faults. It must be own'd, that Mr. Rymer carry'd the Matter too far, since no Man, who has the least Relish of Poetry, can question his Genius: For, in spite of his known and visible Errors, when I read Shakespear, even in some of his most irregular Plays, I am surpriz'd into a Pleasure so great, that my Judgment is no longer free to see the Faults, tho they are ever so gross and evident. There is such a Witchery in him, that all the Rules of Art, which he does not observe, tho built on an equally solid and infallible Reason, as intirely vanish away in the Transports of those that he does observe, as if I had never known any thing of the Matter. The Pleasure, I confess, is as peculiar as strong; for it comes from the admirable Draughts of the Manners, visible in the Distinction of his Characters, and his surprizing Reflections and Topicks, which are often extremely heighten'd by the Expression and Harmony of Numbers: For in these no Man ever excell'd him, and very few ever came up to his Merit. Nor is his nice touching the Passion of Joy, the least Source of this Satisfaction; for he frequently moves this, in some of the most indifferent of his Plays, so strongly, that it is impossible to quell the Emotion. There is likewise ever a Sprightliness in his Dialogue, and often a Genteelness, especially

in his Much ado about Nothing, which is very surprizing for that Age, and what the Learned BEN could not attain by all his Industry: And I confess, if we make some small Allowance for a few Words and Expressions, I question whether any one has since excell'd him in that Particular.

Tho all these Beauties were owing chiefly to a natural Strength of Genius in him, yet I can never give up his Acquaintance with the Antients, so intirely as Mr. Rowe has done; because I think there are many Arguments to prove, that he knew at least some of the Latin Poets, particularly Ovid; two of his Epistles being translated by him: His Motto to Venus and Adonis is another Proof. But that he had read Plautus himself, is plain from his Comedy of Errors, which is taken visibly from the Menœchmi of that Poet; as will be evident, when we come to consider that Play. The Characters he has in his Plays drawn of the Romans, is a Proof, that he was acquainted with their Historians; and Ben himself, in his commendatory Verses before the first Folio Edition of Shakespear's Works, allows him to have a little Latin, and less Greek; that is, he would not allow him to be as perfect a Critick in the Latin, as he himself was; but yet that he was capable of reading at least the Latin Poets; as is, I think, plainly prov'd. For I can see no manner of Weight in that Conjecture, which supposes that he never read the Antients, because he has not any where imitated them; so fertile a Genius as his, having no need to borrow Images from others, which had such Plenty of his own. Besides, we find by Experience, that some of our modern Authors, nay, those who have made great Figures in the University for their Wit and Learning, have so little follow'd the Antients in their Performances, that by them a Man could never guess that they had read a Word of them; and yet they would take it amiss, not to be allow'd to be very well read both in the Latin, and Greek Poets. If they do this in their Writings out of Pride, or want of Capacity; may we not as justly suppose, that Shakespear did it out of an Abundance of his own natural Stock? I contend not here to prove, that he was a perfect Master of either the Latin, or Greek

Authors; but all that I aim at, is to shew, that as he was capable of reading some of the Romans, so he had actually read Ovid, and Plautus, without spoiling or confining his Fancy, or Genius.

“Whether his Ignorance of the Antients were a Disadvantage to him or no, may admit of a Dispute.” I am surpriz'd at the Assertion; unless Mr. Rowe means, That all things may be argu'd upon; and that the Problems of Euclid, so long admitted as indisputable, may, by a new sort of Scepticism, be call'd in question. The Reason he assigns for this, is thus: “For tho the Knowledge of them might have made him more correct, yet it is not improbable but that the Regularity and Deference for them, which would have attended that Correctness, might have restrain'd some of that Fire, Impetuosity, and even beautiful Extravagance, which we admire in Shakespear.” I must own, that I am not capable of comprehending his Proof, or indeed of finding that it is any Proof at all: For if the Knowledge of the Antients would have made him correct, it would have given him the only Perfection he wanted; and that is certainly an Advantage not to be disputed. But then this “Correctness might have restrain'd some of that Fire, Impetuosity, and even Beautiful Extravagance, &c.” We do not find, that Correctness in Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, Euripides, &c. restrain'd any Fire that was truly celestial: And why we should think, that it would have had a worse Effect on Shakespear, I cannot imagine; nor do I understand what is meant by Beautiful Extravagance: For if it be something beyond Nature, it is so far from being admir'd by Men of Sense, that it is contemn'd and laugh'd at. For what there is in any Poem, which is out of Nature, and contrary to Verisimilitude and Probability, can never be beautiful, but abominable. The Business of Poetry is to copy Nature truly, and observe Probability and Verisimilitude justly; and the Rules of Art are to shew us what Nature is, and how to distinguish its Lineaments from the unruly and preposterous Sallies and Flights of an irregular, and uninstructed Fancy. So that as I think it is plain, that Shakespear was

not intirely ignorant of the Antients; so, I believe, it is as evident, that he would have been much more, not less, perfect than he is, had his Ignorance of them been much less, than it really was. A judicious Reader of our Author will easily discover those Defects, that his Beauties would make him wish had been corrected by a Knowledge of the whole Art of the Drama. For it is evident, that by the Force of his own Judgment, or the Strength of his Imagination, he has follow'd the Rules of Art in all those Particulars in which he pleases. I know, that the Rules of Art have been sufficiently clamour'd against by an ignorant and thoughtless sort of Men of our Age; but it was because they knew nothing of them, and never consider'd, that without some Standard of Excellence, there could be no Justice done to Merit, to which Poetasters, and Poets must else have an equal Claim, which is the highest Degree of Barbarism. Nay, without an Appeal to these very Rules, Shakespear himself is not to be distinguish'd from the most worthless Pretenders, who have often met with an undeserv'd Applause, and challeng'd the Title of great Poets from their Success.

Nature, Nature is the great Cry against the Rules. We must be judg'd by Nature, say they; not at all considering, that Nature is an equivocal Word, whose Sense is too various and extensive ever to be able to appeal to; since it leaves it to the Fancy and Capacity of every one, to decide what is according to Nature, and what not. Besides, there may be a great many things natural, which Dramatick-Poetry has nothing to do with. To do the Needs of Life, is as natural as any Action of it; but to bring such a thing into a Piece of History-Painting, or Dramatick-Poetry, would be monstrous and absurd, tho natural; for there may be many things natural in their proper Places, which are not so in others. It is therefore necessary, there should be Rules to let the Poet know not only what is natural, but when it is proper to be introduc'd, and when not. The Droll-Pieces of the Dutch are all very natural; yet I dare believe there is no Man so very ignorant of the Decorum of History-Painting, as to think, that in the Tent of Darius, by Monsieur Le Brun, or the Jephtha's

Sacrifice, it wou'd be natural or proper to introduce one of those Droll-Pieces, either of drinking, dancing, snick-or-snee, or the like. For tho both the Painters have propos'd Nature for their Copy, and have drawn her perfectly well; yet Grief and Laughter are so very incompatible, that to join these two Copies of Nature together, wou'd be monstrous, and shocking to any judicious Eye. And yet this Absurdity is what is done so commonly among us in our Tragi-Comedies; this is what our Shakespear himself has frequently been guilty of, not only in those Mixtures which he has given us of that kind, but in many other Particulars, for want of a thorow Knowledge of the Art of the Stage.

After this, I hope no Man will assert, that Criticism is an ill-natur'd Work, unless he will declare for all the Extravagancies of Ignorance, and that Absurdities ought to be indulg'd for the sake of a great Name. For if Truth and Reason may be of any Account, to point out the real Errors of any Man, must be thought a good-natur'd Office; since it is to bring Men to a just Sense of things, and a true Knowledge and Taste of Nature, and Art. Did ever any Man think it an ill-natur'd thing to tell a Friend of his Mistakes in Conduct? Much less must it be thought so in the Discoveries of the Errors of writing; because by the Correction many are inform'd how to direct themselves justly, and not to follow the Ignes Fatuos of a distemper'd Fancy, without ever consulting Judgment; which must make its Decision by the Rules of Art. I confess, that there is a Decency in doing this, which to forsake, is to become liable to this Censure, as Mr. Rymer has done; who was not content to point out the Faults of Shakespear, but would deny him all manner of Excellence: The like has been done by the Remarker on Cato. This indeed favours of Ill-nature and Envy: But sure no body will accuse Aristotle of the same Crime, for those he discovers in Sophocles, Euripides, and some other Greek Poets, whose Beauties and Perfections he recommends to our Imitation. Notwithstanding that he forms from these his Poeticks, and tho they were of such great Authority and Esteem; yet this Father of all Criticks makes no

Difficulty of showing in what they transgress'd the Rules, which he founds on Reason, and Nature: Which the Athenians rightly look'd on, as a piece of Justice, not Ill-nature. For if, as he allow'd them their Excellencies, he had not pointed out their Defects; he had left room for a Bigotry to a Name, to have made their Vices pass for Virtues, to the prejudice of the just Improvement of so noble an Art. Thus I shall all along recommend the Beauties of Shakespear; but must beg leave to lay down the Rules of the Drama, lest we fall into an erroneous Imitation of his Faults. The Answer of Dionysius to Pompey the Great, will be just, to all who shall be of his mind,—Pompey complain'd, that he had found fault with Plato, to which he replies in this manner,—“Your Veneration for Plato is just, but your Accusation of me unjust. When a Man writes to show what is good or bad in a Subject, he ought, with the utmost Exactness, to point out its Virtues, and Vices, because that is a certain way to come at the Truth, which is the most valuable of all things. Had I wrote against Plato, with a Design to decry his Works, I ought to have been accounted as envious as Zoilus; but, on the contrary, my Design was to praise him: Yet if in doing this, I have discover'd and improv'd any of his Errors or Defects, I have done nothing that merits a Complaint, &c.‘

This, I hope, is sufficient to clear just Criticism from the Imputation of Ill-nature: And I am of opinion, that since Poetry has always been esteem'd, in all civiliz'd and polite Countries, a noble Art; there is a Necessity to free it from that Barbarism it has hitherto lain under in this Nation, especially in its most valuable and useful Part, the Drama; to lay down those Rules which may form our Judgment, and bring it to a Perfection, that it has not yet known among us.

There is indeed a very formidable Party among us, who are such Libertines in all manner of Poetry, especially in the Drama, that they think all regular Principles of Art an Imposition not to be born; yet, while they refuse in Poetry just Rules, as a Test of their Performance, they will allow no Man a Master in any other, that follows not the Rules of his Art, be it

Painting, Statuary, Architecture, &c. tho the Precepts of Poetry are not less founded on Nature, and Reason, and must indeed be the only Distinction betwixt an Artist, and a Pretender. This false Notion has open'd a Door to all the abominable Scriblers, who have so often won a Reputation from the Ignorance of the Town (to the Scandal of the Nation) nay, who have pass'd for Authors of the first Rank; tho their Writings, as Ben Johnson, in his Discoveries, has it, A Man would not wrap up any wholesome Drug in, &c. For if Poetry have no certain Standard of Excellence, no fix'd Rules to go by; then it must of consequence be an arbitrary Licence of writing what extravagant thing soever one pleases; and that Mess of Madness, that is most plausibly cook'd up by the Players, and goes best down with the Mob, that is, the Ignorant of all Degrees and Stations, is the best Poetry: A Notion so very whimsical, that it was never entertain'd in any City in the Universe, but London (and perhaps Madrid,) for it levels all Men, makes Settle and Durfey as good Poets as Otway, and Addison: Which is to deter Men of Learning and Genius from writing, since they are liable to Censures, almost as scandalous as those the Poets of Madrid are subject to; as we have the Account from The Lady's Travels into Spain: Which, because it bears some Proportion to the State of our Stage, I shall transcribe.

—‘The finest Comedy in the World, (says she) I mean those acted in the Cities, very often receive their Fate from the weak Fancy of some ignorant Wretch or other. But there is one particularly, a Shoe-maker, who decides the Matter, and who has gain'd so absolute an Authority so to do, that when the Poets have made their Plays, they go to him, and as it were, sue to him for his Approbation: They read to him their Plays; and the Shoe-maker, with grave Looks thereupon, utters abundance of Nonsence; which nevertheless the poor Poet is forc'd to put up. After all, if he happens to be at the first acting of it, every body has his Eyes upon the Behaviour and Action of this pitiful Fellow: The young People, of what Quality soever, imitate him; if he yawns, they yawn; if he laughs, so do they. In a word, sometimes he grows angry or

weary, and then takes a little Whistle, and falls a whistling; at the same time you hear an hundred Whistles, which make so shrill a noise that 'tis enough to confound the Heads of all the Spectators. By this time, our poor Poet is quite ruin'd; all his Study and Pains having been at the Mercy of a Blockhead, according as he was in good or bad Humour.’

This perhaps may seem a harder Fate, than what our Poets here are liable to: But whilst Ignorance is to be Judge of Art, and the Direction of the Theatre is in such Hands, it is certain, the Case is much the same. For the Fate of a Play depends on these Gentlemen's Opinion of it, who have nothing to guide them but Fancy, which leads them ten times into an Error, for once that it hits right; and then it is by wondrous chance. Nay, it is no new Defect of the Stage; for when the Poets, that is, the Masters of the Art, left off ordering the Stage, and directing the Actors, as the admirable Critick Monsieur Dacier observes in his Notes on the last Chapter of Aristotle's Art of Poetry, the Players being left to themselves, immediately spoil'd the acting, and degenerated from that Wisdom and Simplicity, by which they had been maintain'd.

These are the Gentlemen particularly that bring their Arguments against regular Plays, which had been as falsly urg'd before the Reformation of the French Stage; as is plain from the Academy's Animadversions on the Cid of Corneille, p. 22: Let their Words justify my Assertion—Que si au contraire, quelques Pieces regulaires donnent peu de Satisfaction; il ne faut pas croire, que ce soit la Faute des Regles, mais bien celles des Auteurs; dont le Sterile Genie na pu fournir a l' Art, une que fust assez Riche: i. e. ‘If, on the contrary, some regular Pieces give but little Satisfaction, you ought not to believe, that this is the Fault of the Rules, but of the Authors; whose barren Genius cannot supply Art with what is rich and noble.’ The Rules of Art indeed are not for any Man, to whom Nature has not given a Genius; without which it is impossible to observe, or indeed perfectly to understand them.

The ingenious Michael Cervantes, the celebrated Author of Don Quixot, tells us, that the same Objection was made to him in Defence of irregular Plays, that had usurp'd the Spanish Stage under the Direction of the Actors. Which I shall transcribe, because it shows that Stage to be like ours; that the Opinion of a Man of his Wit and Judgment, may have a just Influence on those, who look more on Authority, than Reason.

In the 50th Chapter of his first Part, the Canon and the Curate are discoursing to this purpose,—‘If these Plays, that are now in vogue, as well those that are mere Fiction, as those that are taken out of History, are all or the greatest part of them, plain visible Fopperies, and things without Head or Tail; yet the Multitude delights in, and thinks them good, tho they are so far from it. And if the Poets who write, and the Players who act, say they must be such, because the Multitude will have them so, and no otherwise; and that those which are regular, and carry on the Plot according to Art, are only of use to a few wise Men, who understand them, and all the rest make nothing of them; and that it is better for them to get their Bread by Many, than to be look'd on by a Few— If this be so, I say, the same will be the Fate of my Book; after I have crack'd my Brain to observe the Rules I have spoken of, I shall lose my Labour. And tho I have sometimes endeavour'd to persuade the Actors, that they are in the wrong in following that Opinion; and that they would draw more People, and gain more Reputation by acting Plays, that are according to the Rules of Art, than by those Mad ones: They are so fond of their own Opinion, that there is no bearing them out of it. I remember I once said to one of these obstinate Men—Tell me, don't you remember that a few Years ago, there were three Plays acted in Spain, written by a famous Poet of this Kingdom, which were so excellent, that they astonish'd, pleas'd, and surpriz'd all that saw them, as well ignorant, as wise; the Multitude, as better Sort? And those three alone yielded the Actors more Money than thirty

of the best that have been made since. Doubtless, Sir, said the Poet I speak of, you mean the Isabella, Phillis, and Alexander? I mean the same, quoth I, and see whether those did not observe the Rules of Art; and did not please all People? So that the Fault is not in the Multitude, who require Follies: but in those, who know not how to show them any thing else. Nor was the Play of Ingratitude Reveng'd a Foppery; nor was there any in that of Numantia; nor the Amorous Merchant; much less in the Favourable She-Enemy; nor in some others, that have been written by judicious Poets, to their great Reputation and Renown, and to the Advantage of those that acted them. Much more I urg'd; which, in my Opinion, confounded, but did not convince him, so as to make him recede from his erroneous Conceit.’

‘You have hit on a thing, Master Canon, (answer'd the Curate) that has stir'd up the old Grudge I bear the Plays now in use; which is not inferior to my Aversion to Books of Knight-Errantry. For whereas the Drama, according to Tully, ought to be a Mirror of human Life, a Pattern of Manners, and a lively Image of Truth; those, that are acted now-a-days, are Mirrors of Extravagancies; Patterns of Follies; and lively Images of Lewdness. For what greater Extravagancies can there be, than to bring on a Child in its Swadling-bands, in the first Scene of the First Act; and in the second to have him walk in, as grown up to a stout Man? And what greater Folly than to represent to us a fighting old Fellow, and a cowardly young Man; an haranguing Footman; a Page taking on him to be a Privy-Counsellor; a King a mere Clown; a Princess an errant Cook-Wench? What shall I say to the Time and Place, that these Accidents may or might have happen'd in? For I have seen a Play, whose first Act began in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third in Africa; and had it held out four Acts, the fourth would have ended in America; and so it would have been acted in all the four Quarters of the World.

And if Imitation be the principal Part of the Drama, how is it possible that any tolerable Understanding should be pleas'd

to see, that when they are acting a Passage, that happen'd in the Days of King Pepin, or Charlemagne; the same Man, who acts the Hero of the Play, should be made the Emperor Heraclius, who carry'd the Cross to Jerusalem, in order to recover the Holy Sepulchre, as Godfrey of Bulloin did, when there are many Years distance betwixt those Actions? Or when the Play is grounded on Fiction, to apply it to Truths out of History; or patch it up with Accidents, that happen'd to several Persons, and at a several Times; and this not with any Contrivance to make it appear probable, but with manifest Errors altogether inexcusable? And the worst of it is, there are some Blockheads who call this Perfection, and all the rest Notion and Pedantry, &c.’

And after some Reflections on the monstrous Miracles forg'd for their religious Plays, he proceeds—

—‘All this is an Affront to Truth, a Discredit to History, and a Shame to the Spanish Wits. Because Foreigners, who are very strict in observing the Laws of the Drama, look on us as ignorant and barbarous, when they see the Absurdity, and enormous Folly of these we write. And that is not excus'd by saying, that the chief Design of well-govern'd Commonwealths, in permitting Plays to be acted, is to divert the Commonalty with some lawful Recreation, to disperse the ill Humours that Idleness often breeds; and that since this is done by any Play good, or bad, there is no Occasion to prescribe Laws, or confine those that write, or those that act them, to make them such as they ought to be: For, as I said, any of them serve to compass the End design'd by them. To this I would answer, that the End would be infinitely better attain'd by good Plays, than these that are not so. For a Man, after seeing a good and well-contriv'd Play, would go away pleas'd with the Comedy, instructed by the serious Part, surpriz'd at the Plot, improv'd by the Language, warn'd by the Frauds, inform'd by the Examples, disgusted at Vice, and in love with Virtue: For a good Play must work all these Effects upon him That sees it, tho he be never so rude, and unthinking. And

it is absolutely impossible, but that a Play, that has all these Qualifications, must please, divert, satisfy, and content beyond that which wants them; as for the most part those do that are now acted. And the Poets that write them are not in the Fault; for some of them are very sensible of the Errors they commit, and know what they ought to do. But Plays being become venal, they say, and are in the right on't, that the Actors would give nothing for them, if they were not of that Stamp. And therefore the Poet endeavours to suit himself to what the Actor, who is to pay for it, requires, &c.’

This is so near an Image of our Dramatick State, in this Nation, that I hope the Observation of so receiv'd a Wit as Michael Cervantes, will have some weight with our Men of Figure, who are, or would be thought Men of Sense and Politeness. Yet, if they should think Authority insufficient, because against their wretched Goûst; I shall shew, that Reason is as much against them: and then shew the Source of our ill Taste, and the Corruption of our Stage, by giving a View of the Original and Rise of the Drama, in Greece, in Rome, and in this Nation.

To come therefore to Reason, against those blind Enemies to Regularity, and without which there can be no Harmony, we must prove that Poetry is an Art.

As the Injustice of Men was the Cause of Laws, so the Decay of Arts, and the Faults committed in them (as Dacier observes) oblig'd Men first to make Rules, and afterwards to revive them. The Laws of Legislators place all their Reason in their Will, or the present Occurrences; but the Rules of Poetry advance nothing but what is accompany'd with Reason, and drawn from the common Sentiments of Mankind: so that Men themselves become the Rule and Measure of what these prescribe.

All Arts are certain Rules or Means of arriving at, or doing something that is good and beneficial to Mankind; now Poetry aiming at the Instruction of Men by Pleasure, it proposes a certain End for the Good of Men: it must therefore have certain Rules or Means of obtaining that End; and is therefore an Art.

Poetry is not only an Art, but its Rules are known, and it is impossible to succeed without them. The certain Consequence of this is, that the Rules, and what pleases, are never contrary to each other, and that you can never obtain the latter, without the former. Secondly, That Poesy being an Art, can never be prejudicial to Mankind: for when any Verses are so, they deviate from the Rules, and are no longer Poetry, which was invented, and improv'd for their advantage only. Poesy owes its Rise to Religion: Hymns in the praise of, and Thanksgiving to Heaven for Blessings receiv'd, was the original Poetry; for Men, naturally inclin'd to Imitation, employ'd their native Tendence to Musick and Song, to the Praises of their Gods: And had Man continu'd in his primitive Simplicity, Hymns and Divine Songs, as among the Hebrews, had been all our Poetry. But in the Heathen System, Men soon deviated from this Purity; admitting first the Praise of Men, and then Satire, or Raillery on one another at their drunken Meetings, at Harvest-home, or the like. Thus Poetry being corrupted soon, scarce retain'd any Footsteps of Religion, whence it first sprung.

The succeeding Poets, being the Divines and Philosophers of those times, observing the invincible Bent of the People to these Feasts and Shows, and that it would be a fruitless Labour and Endeavour to restore their primitive Simplicity; took an admirable and wise care to turn this Inclination of theirs to Pleasure, to their advantage; by making that Pleasure convey Instruction to them, in so agreeable a manner.

To pass over the various Changes of Poetry, we must remember that we owe to Homer the Epick Poem; and in that, the Origin of Tragedy, more excellent for the Regulation of the Passions, than the Epopee, which only reach'd to Customs. The Invention of Comedy some attribute to the Corruption and degenerate Luxury of the People, some to the Margites of Homer; but both these Opinions are easily reconcil'd: for the Opprobria Rustica, as Horace calls them, the lewd Railleries of the Country-People at their drunken rural Festivals, gave the Ground-work, which the Margites of Homer reduc'd into a more decent Form and Order,

and gave the Idea, whence after-Poets deriv'd the antient Comedy.

But hence it is plain, as I have said, that Poesy is an Art, because we see from its Rise it has propos'd a certain End, and must necessarily have certain Means to be conducted to that End. For where there is a Right and a Wrong, there must be some Art or Rules to avoid the one, and arrive at the other. But then perhaps it may still be question'd, whether these Rules are fix'd and known, and whether they are those prescrib'd by Aristotle? That they are known, will be plain from what follows; and that they are those of Aristotle, at least in the Drama (which I shall chiefly insist on in this Essay) will be as plain, if we consider, 1st, Who gives the Rules: 2dly, When he gave them: and 3dly, The Manner in which he gave them. Aristotle's Character for Knowledge in all the politer Arts, will be of some Force; for his Genius and Capacity are sufficiently known to the Learned. 2dly, The Age he liv'd in, was in almost the first Regulation, if not Rise of Tragedy; learning the Art with Sophocles, and Euripides, who brought it to Perfection, and seeing the effect it had on the most polite and knowing People of the World. 3dly, The Manner in which they are deliver'd, is so evident and conformable to Nature, as that I cannot but be sensible of their truth. To confirm this, I consider the effects they have had in all Nations where they were known; for all the Beauties of Homer, Sophocles, Euripides, and the other Greek Poets of any note, are perfectly conformable to them: and these being five hundred years after reviv'd, in the time of Augustus, at Rome, we find the Beauties of Virgil, and the Latins owing to them. Nay, two thousand Years after they were written, we observe that by them the best Tragedies of France and Spain, nay, I may say of England too, are those in which they are perfectly follow'd: in which all that pleases, is according to the Rules; and all that disgusts, or is insipid, wild, or extravagant, contrary to them: for good Sense and right Reason are of all Countries. Human Laws indeed which regard the State, alter according to the Circumstances and Interests of the Men for which they were made: but these are

always the same, and ever support their Vigour, because they are the Law of Nature, which always acts uniformly, revives them continually, and gives them a perpetual Existence.

From hence it follows, that these Rules are known, and that they are those deliver'd by Aristotle, and that they are never opposite to what pleases; since they were made to shew us the Path we ought to tread, that we may arrive at what pleases. Were the Rules and what pleases opposite, we could never please but by chance; which is absurd. As there are certain Rules, therefore, that teach us to please, so we ought to make it our business to study and learn them, both for the reading and judging part: for these Rules are drawn from the Pleasant and the Profitable, and lead us to their Source. The Pleasant and the Profitable are what naturally please; and that, in all Arts, is what we always consult. In this most perfect and sure Model of Imitation, we find perfect UNITY, and ORDER; for it is it self the Effect of Order, and the Rule to conduct us to it: while there is only one way to find Order, but many to fall into Confusion.

‘There would be nothing bad (says Dacier very justly) in the World, if all that pleas'd were good; for there's nothing so absurd, but will have some Admirers. You may say indeed, that it is not true that what is Good pleases, because we daily see Disputes about the Good and the Pleasant; that the same thing pleases some, and displeases others; nay, it pleases and displeases the very same Man at different times. From whence then proceeds this difference? It comes either from an absolute Ignorance of the Rule, or that the Passions alter it. Rightly to clear this Truth, I believe, I may lay down this Maxim, That all sensible Objects are of two sorts; some may be judg'd of by the Sense independently of Reason (I call Sense that Impression which the animal Spirits make on the Soul) and others can't be judg'd of, but by Reason exercis'd in Science. Things simply agreeable or disagreeable, are of the first Sort; all the World may judge alike of these. For example, the most Ignorant in Musick perceives very well when a Player on the Lute strikes

one String for another; because he judges by his Sense, and his Sense is the Rule. On such occasions we may, therefore, very well say, That all that pleases, is good; because that which is good does please, or that which is ill never fails to displease: for neither Passion, nor Ignorance dull the Senses, but sharpen them. It is not thus in things that spring from Reason: Passion and Ignorance work very strongly in them, and choke the Judgment; and for this cause we ordinarily judge so ill, and differently in those things of which Reason is the Rule, and the Cause. Why what is bad often pleases, and that which is good does not always do so, is not the Fault of the Object, but of the Judge: But what is good will infallibly please those who can judge, and that's sufficient. By this we may see, that a Play, that shall bring those things which are to be judg'd by Reason within the Rules, and also that which is to be judg'd by Sense, shall never fail to please both the Learned, and the Ignorant. Now this Conformity of Suffrages is the most sure, or, according to Aristotle, the only mark of the Good and Pleasant. But these Suffrages are not to be obtain'd but by the observing of the Rules, and consequently these Rules are the only cause of the Good and the Pleasant; whether they are follow'd methodicaly and with design, or only by hazard or chance. For 'tis certain, there are many Persons who are intirely ignorant of these Rules, and yet do not miss of Success in many things. But this is far from destroying the Rules, since it only serves to shew their Beauty, and proves how far they are conformable to Nature, since those often follow them, who know nothing of them.

The latter end of this is perfectly prov'd by our Shakespear, who in all that pleases is exactly conformable to the Rules, tho 'tis evident by his Defects, that he knew nothing of them. I hope this is enough to satisfy any reasonable Man, not only that as Poesy is an Art, it proposes certain Means to arrive at a certain End; but that these Rules are absolutely necessary for the judging, and writing justly. If any one desire to see this Argument handled more at large, it will be worth his while to read Monsieur

Dacier's admirable Preface to his Remarks on the Poeticks of Aristotle; from which, what I have said on this Head is but an Abridgment.

Since therefore the Necessity of Rules is thus evident, I think I cannot be more just to the Art, and to those Poets who may hereafter arise worthy the Name, than to lay down, in as few Words as possible, the Rules of the Drama: to which I shall subjoin some relating to the Epigram, under which last Head most of the Miscellanies of Shakespear will fall; that by this means the ingenious Reader may distinguish betwixt his Errors, and Beauties, and so fix his Praise on a juster ground, than the blind Caprice of every ignorant Fancy. And if by this he will not appear so praise-worthy in many things, as he may now be thought, yet his Praise will be greater and more valuable when it is founded on Reason and Truth, and the Judgment of Men of Sense and Understanding.

Before I come to the particular Rules of the Stage, as Aristotle has laid them down, I shall set down what an English Nobleman has given us on this Subject in Verse; because there are some Things relating especially to the Diction, which Aristotle has not meddled with; and others, which tho conformable to him, yet being in Verse, sink easier into the Memory, and will lead the Reader better to the Apprehension and retaining the particular Rules in Prose, and perhaps give him a better relish of them. For when by Pleasure we are first let into the View of Truth, it has such Charms, as to engage our Pursuit after it, thro ways not altogether so smooth and delightful. The Verses I take out of the Essay on Poetry written by the late Duke of Buckingham, at a Time when the Town run away with as strange Monsters as have pleas'd since; tho those were dress'd a little more gayly, and went by there Chime a little more glibly off the Tongue.

  The Unities of Action, Time, and Place,
Which if observ'd give Plays so great a Grace,
Are, tho but little practis'd, too well known,
To be taught here, where we pretend alone
From nicer Faults to purge the present Age,
Less obvious Errors of the English Stage.
  First then Soliloquies had need be few,
Extremely short, and spoke in Passion too.
Our Lovers talking to themselves, for want
Of others, make the Pit their Confident.
Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus
They trust a Friend, only to tell it us:
Th' Occasion should as naturally fall,
As when * ^noteBellario confesses all.
Figures of Speech, which Poets think so fine,
Art's needless Varnish to make Nature shine,
Are all but Paint upon a beauteous Face,
And in Descriptions only can have place.
But to make Rage declaim, and Grief discourse,
From Lovers in Despair fine things to force,
Must needs succeed: for who can chuse but pity
A dying Hero miserably witty?
But O! the Dialogue, where Jest and Mock
Are held up like a Rest at shuttle-cock!
Or else like Bells eternally they chime,
They sigh in Simile, and die in Rhime.
What Things are these, who would be Poets thought?
By Nature not inspir'd, nor Learning taught?
Some Wit they have, and therefore may deserve
A better Course, than this by which they starve.
But to write Plays! Why 'tis a bold Pretence
To Judgment, Breeding, Wit, and Eloquence.
Nay more, for they must look within, to find
These secret Turns of Nature in the Mind.
Without this Part, in vain would be the Whole,
And but a Body all, without a Soul.

All this together yet is but a Part
Of * ^noteDialogue, that great and powerful Art
Now almost lost; which the old Grecians knew,
From which the Romans fainter Copies drew,
Scarce comprehended since, but by a few:
Plato and Lucian are the best Remains
Of all the Wonders which this Art contains:
Yet to our selves we must some justice do,
Shakespear, and Fletcher are our Wonders now.
Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er,
Go see them play'd, then read them as before:
For tho in many things they often fail,
Over our Passions still they so prevail,
That our own Grief by theirs is rock'd asleep,
The Dull are forc'd to feel, the Wife to weep.
Their Beauties imitate, avoid their Faults.
† ^noteFirst on a Plot employ thy careful Thoughts;
Turn it with Time a thousand several ways,
This oft alone has given Success to Plays.
Reject that vulgar Error, which appears
So fair, of making perfect Characters:
There's no such thing in Nature, and you'll draw
A faultless Monster, which the World ne'er saw.
‡ ^noteSome Faults must be, that his Misfortunes drew,
But such as may deserve Compassion too.
Besides the main Design compos'd with Art,
¶ ^noteEach moving Scene must be a Plot apart.

Contrive each little Turn, mark every Place,
As Painters first chalk out the future Face.
Yet be not fondly your own Slave for this,
But change hereafter what appears amiss.
  Think not so much where shining Thoughts to place,
As what a Man should say in such a case.
Neither in Comedy will this suffice,
The Player too must be before your Eyes:
And tho 'tis Drudgery to stoop so low,
To him you must your utmost Meaning show.
  Expose no single Fop, but lay the Load
More equally, and spread the Folly broad.
The other way is vulgar; oft we see
A Fool derided by as bad as he.
Hawks fly at nobler Game; in this low way
A very Owl may prove a Bird of Prey.
Ill Poets so will one poor Fop devour:
But to collect, like Bees, from every Flower,
Ingredients to compose that precious Juice,
Which serves the World for Pleasure, and for Use;
In spite of Faction this would Favour get:
But Falstaff seems inimitable yet, &c.

In what I have to say of the Rules, I shall confine my self to them, without going into the Controversy, yet I shall sometimes add the Reason and Foundation, that being the Extremity my Bounds will admit.

To begin therefore with the Definition of Tragedy (for the Rules of that I shall first insist on, much of Comedy depending on them) it is this—‘Tragedy is the Imitation of one grave and entire Action of a just Length, and which, without the Assistance of Narration, by the means of Terror and Compassion, perfectly refines in us all sorts of Passions, and whatever is like them.’

This is explain'd by a Piece of History-Painting (which is very near a-kin to Tragedy) for the Painter takes one grave and entire

Action, and mingles nothing else with it. For example, Raphael painted the Battel of Constantine, but he brought not into that one Action of Constantine, all that he had done in his Life; for that had been monstrous, and contrary to Nature and Art. Thus a Tragedy is the Imitation of some one grave Action, but not all the Actions of a Man's Life.

From hence it is plain, that there is no place in Tragedy for any thing but grave and serious Actions. Comedy imitates the witty, and the pleasant, and the ridiculous Actions of Mankind. Next, this Action must be entire; that is, it must have a Beginning, Middle, and End, and be of a just Length: not so long as that of the Epopee, nor so short as a single Fable. The excluding Narration, and the confining its Aim to Terror, and Compassion, distinguishes it from the Epick Poem, which may be perfect without them, and employs Admiration.

By the refining the Passions, I mean not their Extirpation, which is impossible; but the reducing them to just Bounds and Moderation, which renders them as useful as they are necessary: for by representing to us the Miseries of those who have yielded too much to them, it teaches us to have a stricter guard over them; and by beholding the great Misfortunes of others, it lessens those that we either do, or may feel our selves.

This Imitation mention'd in the Definition being made by the Actors, or Persons representing, the Scenes are to be regarded by the Poet: For the Decoration is not only for Pomp and Show, as it is generally design'd, but to express the Nature of the things represented, and the Place where; since there is no Action that does not suppose a Place, and Actors dress'd in one Habit or other proper to that Place.

As Tragedy is the Imitation of an Action, not Inclinations or Habits; so there is no Action, that does not proceed from the Manners and the Sentiments: therefore the Manners and Sentiments are essential Parts of Tragedy. For nothing but the Manners and Sentiments can distinguish and characterize an Action: the Manners form, and the Sentiments explain it, exposing its

Causes and Motives; and those being the Producers of Actions, are the Causes of Good and Evil to Mankind.

The Imitation of an Action is properly call'd the Fable; that is, the Composition of all the Parts and Incidents of this Action is the Fable. The Manners distinguish the Qualities of the Persons represented; that is, characterize Men, denote their Inclinations either good or bad. The Manners of Achilles were Choler, and Temerity; those of Æneas sweet Temper, and Piety. The Sentiments are the Discourses or Speeches of the Dramatick Persons, discovering their Thoughts, and making known their Actions: by which they speak agreeably to their Manners or Characters, that the Auditors may know their Manners before they see their Actions.

There is no Subject of a Tragedy where these following five Parts are not found, viz. The Fable, the Manners, the Sentiments, the Diction, and the Decoration. Aristotle adds the Musick, because the Greek Poets directed that too. But the chief and most considerable is the Fable, or the Composition of the Incidents, which form the Subject of the Tragedy; both in the Opinion of Aristotle, and of all those who know any thing of the Reason of Things. For Tragedy is in imitation of an Action, not of Men; whence it follows, that Action constitutes the Tragedy, and that there can be no Tragedy where there is no Action. The good or evil Fortune of Men depends on their Actions, and the End that every Man proposes to himself, is an Action, not a Quality: what Qualities Men pursue, are only as Mediums to some Action. Thus the general End that Mankind propose, is to live happily; but to live happily, is an Action, not a Quality. Man being therefore happy or miserable by his Actions, not Manners or Qualities; Tragedy proposes not to imitate the Manners, but adds them for the Production of Actions. So that the Fable (which is the Imitation of the Action) being the End of Tragedy, it must be of the most importance, and chiefly to be consider'd; for so the End in all things is. Another Proof, which Aristotle brings for the Preference of the Fable to all the other Parts of the Play, is, That the best and most taking Tragedies (of his

Time) are those which have their Peripeties, Revolutions, or Changes of Fortune, and Discoveries, as in the Oedipus of Sophocles: But these Discoveries are inseparable from the Subject, and consist intirely in Action. The Fable therefore furnishing the most efficacious Means of arriving at the End, must necessarily in Reason be the most important part of Tragedy.

Aristotle indeed, and his best Commentators, are very large on this Head, to prove that all the fine Diction, the Manners well express'd, and the Sentiments natural and just, are of no manner of value, if the Fable be faulty, or the Action maim'd. This is, I suppose, sufficient to let the Reader see, that this is not only the first Thing that comes under our Consideration, as some would without any ground in Reason insinuate; but the most noble and most important thing that he is to study, if he wou'd ever hope to deserve the Name of a Tragic Poet: to which indeed we have very few of those, who have made a considerable noise in the World for a little time, who have any Pretence. Besides, it is much easier to succeed in the Stile, or what the leading Fools call fine Diction (which is deriv'd, by the way, from Grammar and Rhetorick, not Poetry) than the forming of the Subject, or Fable justly, and with Art. Nature enabled Shakespear to succeed in the Manners and Diction often to perfection; but he could never by his Force of Genius, or Nature, vanquish the barbarous Mode of the Times, and come to any Excellence in the Fable; except in the Merry Wives of Windsor, and the Tempest.

Next to the Fable, the Manners are the most considerable (and in these Shakespear has generally excell'd, as will be seen when we come to his Plays;) for as Tragedy is the Imitation of an Action, so there are no Actions without the Manners, since the Manners are the Cause of Actions. By the Manners we discover the Inclinations of the Speaker, what Part, Side, or Course he will take on any important and difficult Emergence; and know how he will behave himself, before we see his Actions. Thus we know from the Manners of Achilles, what Answer he will give the Ambassadors of Agamemnon, by what the Poet has told us of

his Hero. And when Mercury brings Jove's Orders to Æneas, we know that the Piety of the Hero will prevail over his Love. And the Character of Oedipus makes us expect his extravagant Passions, and the Excesses he will commit by his Obstinacy. These Discourses therefore that do not do this, are without the Manners. The Character of Coriolanus, in Shakespear, prepares us to expect the Resolution he will take to disoblige the People; for Pride naturally contemns Inferiors, and over-values itself. The same may be said of Tybalt, in Romeo and Juliet; and most of the Characters of this Poet.

The Sentiments are the next in degree of Excellence to the Fable, and the Manners, and justly demand the third place in our Care and Study; for those are for the Manners, as the Manners for the Subject or Fable. The Action can't be justly imitated without the Manners, nor the Manners express'd without the Sentiments. In these we must regard Truth and Verisimilitude; as when the Poet makes a Madman speak exactly as a Madman does, or as 'tis probable he would do. This Shakespear has admirably perform'd in the Madness of King Lear; where the Cause of his Frenzy is ever uppermost, and mingles with all he says or does. But Beaumont and Fletcher have perform'd abominably in their Mad-house, in the Pilgrim, and our modern Alterer of that Play, has increas'd the Absurdities.

The Diction, or Language, obtains but the fourth Place of the essential Parts of a Tragedy, and is of the least importance of any of them, in the Opinion of Aristotle, the best of Criticks, and Reason: tho our modern Poetasters, or vile Pretenders to this noble Poem, have plac'd their chief Excellence in it. But the Reason of it is, because this was what they thought they could in some measure obtain, while the rest were intirely above their Reach and Capacity. For the Subject may be well conducted, the Manners well mark'd, and the Sentiments fine, tho ill express'd. It is indeed, as Dryden observes, the first Beauty that strikes the Ear, and enhances the Value of the Piece, but comes not into Competition with any of the other three.

The Decoration I have already mention'd, and how far that is to be regarded by the Poet.

Having thus seen the several Parts of Tragedy, and their Excellence in regard of each other, I come to give the Directions necessary for the making each of 'em perfect.

The first and chief of them I have prov'd to be the Fable or Subject; or, as we generally call it in English, the Plot. I shall begin with that, in the forming of which, the Poet's principal Care ought to be employ'd.

Every Action that is fit for a Tragick Imitation, or that can be made use of in Tragedy, ought not only to be intire, but of a just length; that is, it must have a Beginning, Middle, and End. This distinguishes it from momentaneous Actions, or those that happen in an instant, without Preparation, or Sequel; which wanting Extension, may come into the Incidents, not the Fable. The Cause or Design of undertaking an Action, is the Beginning; and the Effects of that Cause, and the Difficulties we find in the Execution, are the Middle; the unravelling and dissolving these Difficulties, is the End.

The Anger of Achilles is the Action propos'd by Homer in the two first Verses of the Ilias. The Quarrel betwixt him and Agamemnon is the Beginning; the Evils this Quarrel produc'd, are the Middle; and the Death of Hector, giving perfect Satisfaction to Achilles, leads to the unravelling the Action, and disposing Achilles to relent at the Tears and Prayers of Priam, and restores him to his first Tranquillity, which is the End. The Departure of Ulysses from Troy, begins the Action of the Odysses; the Hardships and Obstacles of his Voyage make the Middle; and his Arrival and Establishment in Ithaca the End.

The true Beginning to an Action, is that which does not necessarily require or suppose any thing before it, as part of that Action. Thus the Beginning of an Epic, or Dramatic Poem may be the Sequel of another Action: for the Quarrel of Agamemnon and Achilles, which is the Beginning of the Action of the Ilias, is Agamemnon's Injustice, which provok'd the Anger of Achilles, when all was quiet before in the Camp; so we may consider

this Affair the Sequel of, but not depending necessarily on any thing precedent, tho it come not to pass without it, and requires something else to follow it, depending on it, present or remote. The Retreat of Achilles to the Ships, the Trojans routing the Greeks on that Retreat, were the present Effects of his Anger; the remote, the Death of Patroclus, Reconcilement of Agamemnon and Achilles, and the Death of Hector, which satisfies and restores Tranquillity by the Tears of Priam. The End is just opposite to the Beginning; for it necessarily supposes something to have gone before, but nothing to follow it: as the End of the Anger of Achilles naturally supposes a Beginning of it, but nothing to come after. The Tranquillity of Achilles is restor'd by the Death of Hector, for then the Action is compleat; and to add any thing farther, would be to begin a new Action.

To instance in a Dramatic as well as Epic Action, tho they perfectly agree in this, let us consider the Action of the Antigone of Sophocles. The Beginning of this Action has no necessary Dependence on the Death of her Brother Polynices; for tho as to that, the Decree of Creon might have been or not have been, yet it follow'd that Death, nor could it have happen'd without it. The Action begins with the impious and partial Decree of Creon against the burying the Body of Polynices; the Middle is the Effects produc'd by that Decree in Antigone's Punishment, the Death of Æmon and Euridice; which produce the End, in breaking the Obstinacy of Creon, and making him penitent, and miserable.

The Middle is that which necessarily supposes something gone before, and something to follow: Thus all the Evils that the Anger of Achilles produc'd, necessarily suppose that Anger as their Cause and Beginning, from whence they did proceed. So these Evils, that is, the Middle producing the Satisfaction and Revenge of Achilles in the Death of Hector, furnish'd the End, in his relenting at the Misery of Priam. This is a perfect Example of an Epic and Dramatic Action, and shews, that the Poet cannot begin or end it where he pleases, if he would manage his Subject with true Oeconomy, and Beauty. For there must be the

Cause or Beginning; the Effect of that Cause, which is naturally the Middle; and the unravelling or finishing it, which is the End produc'd by the Middle, as that by the Beginning.

I have been the larger upon this Head, because so much Beauty depends upon it, and it is a Doctrine not so common, but that it needs a thorow Explication.

The Subject of the Drama should be of a just Extent, neither too narrow, nor too large; but that it may be seen, view'd, and consider'd at once, without confounding the Mind, which if too little and narrow, it will do, or make it wander, or distract it; as it will do, if it be too large and extensive. That is, the Piece ought to take up just so much time, as is necessary or probable for the introducing the Incidents, with their just Preparation. For to make a good Tragedy, that is, a just Imitation, the Action imitated ought not in reality to be longer than the Representation; for by that means it has the more Likeness, and by consequence is the more perfect: but as there are Actions of ten or twelve Hours, and their Representations cannot possibly be so long; then must we bring in some of the Incidents in the Intervals of the Acts, the better to deceive the Audience, who cannot be impos'd on with such tedious and long Actions, as we have generally on the Stage; as whole Lives, and many Actions of the same Man, where the Probable is lost as well as the Necessary: and in this our Shakespear is every where faulty, thro the ignorant Mode of the Age in which he liv'd; and which I instance not as a Reproach to his Memory, but only to warn the Reader, or young Poet to avoid the same Error.

Having shewn what an Action is, we now come more closely to the Subject; and first to the Unity of the Action, which can never be broken without destroying the Poem. This Unity is not preserv'd by the Representation of several Actions of one Man; as of Julius Cæsar, or Anthony and Brutus. Thus in the Cæsar of Shakespear, there is not only the Action of Cæsar's Death, where the Play ought to have ended, but many other subsequent Actions of Anthony and Brutus, even to the Overthrow and Death of Brutus and Cassius; and the Poet might as well

have carry'd it down to the settling of the Empire in Augustus, or indeed to the Fall of the Roman Empire in Augustulus. For there was no more reason for the ending it where he does, than at the Establishment of Augustus. Natural Reason indeed show'd to Shakespear the Absurdity of making the Representation longer than the Time, and the Place more extensive than the Place of acting; as is plain from his Chorus's in his Historical Plays, in which he apologizes for the Absurdity: as in the beginning of the fourth Act of the Winter's Tale, among other things, Time, the Chorus says;

And the second Act of Henry V. begins another Chorus, excusing the Variation of the Place:

And so goes on to describe all his Passage, &c. introducing a Narration to supply the Gap of the Action, or rather, of the Actions.

But the Chorus of the fifth Act is plainer on this Head:

In Pericles Prince of Tyre, the Chorus's excuse the rambling from place to place, and the like: But 'tis pity that his Discovery of the Absurdity did not bring him to avoid it, rather than make an Apology for it. But this is not the only Fault of the way of writing in his time, which he did not correct; for in the Chorus of the third Act of Henry V. he concludes in this manner:

Hence it is plain, that Shakespear's good Sense perceiv'd the ridiculous Absurdity of our fighting Senses, our Drum and Trumpeting Scenes; but he chose to go on in the way that he found beaten to his hands, because he unhappily knew no better road.

But to return from this short Digression.—This Unity of Action does not exclude the Episodes or various Under-Actions, which are dependent on, and contribute to the chief, and which without it are nothing. Thus a Painter represents in a Battel-Piece the Actions of every Particular that makes up the Army; but all these compose that main Action of the Battel. But this does not excuse the faulty Episodes or Under-plots (as they call them) of our English Plays, which are distinct Actions, and contribute nothing at all to the principal. Of this kind is Creon and Euridice, and Adrastus in our lamentable Oedipus. But indeed we have few Plays free from this Absurdity; of which the Orphan is one, where the Action is one, and every Episode, Part, or Under-Action, carries on and contributes to the main Action or Subject.

Thus the different Actions of different Men are not more distinctly different Actions, than those of one Man at different times. And we might as well make a Unity of all the Actions in the World, as of those of one Man. No Action of the same Man can be brought into a Tragedy, but that which necessarily or probably

relates to that Action, which the Tragedy imitates. The Wound of Ulysses, which he receiv'd in Parnassus, was necessary to his Discovery; but his Madness to avoid the War, was not: and therefore Homer takes notice of the former, but not of the latter. For as in all other Imitations, so in Tragedy, the thing imitated must be but One. This Action, with its Episodes or Under-Actions, ought to be so link'd together, that to take any part away, or to endeavour to transpose them, destroys the whole: for these Episodes or Under-Actions ought either necessarily or probably to be produc'd by the main Action, as the Death of Patroclus by the Anger of Achilles. For whatever can be put in or left out, without causing a sensible Change, can never be part of the Action. This is a sure Rule to distinguish the true Episodes from the false: And this Rule will indeed condemn most of our English Tragedies, in some of which, the very principal Character may be left out, and the Play never the worse. But more of that hereafter.

From what has been said of the Actions, main, and Episodic, it is plain that the Poet is not oblig'd to relate things just as they happen, but as they might, or ought to have happen'd: that is, the Action ought to be general and allegorical, not particular; for particular Actions can have no general Influence. Thus Homer, in the Action of Achilles, intends not the Description of that one individual Man, but to show what Violence and Anger would make all Men of that Character say or do: As therefore Achilles is a general and allegorical Person, so ought all Heroes of Tragedy to be; where they should speak and act necessarily or probably, as all Men so qualify'd, and in those Circumstances would do: differing from History in this, that the Drama consults not the Truth of what any particular Person did say or do, but only the general Nature of such Qualities to produce such Words and Actions. 'Tis true that Tragedy employs true Names, but that is to give a Credibility to the Action; the Persons still remaining general and allegoric. I would therefore recommend to the Poet the intire Invention of his own Fable; there being very few Actions in History, that are capable of being made general and allegoric, which is the Beauty and Essential of

both an Epic and Dramatic Action: not but the Poet may take Incidents from History and Matter of Fact; but then they must have that Probability, and Verisimilitude that Art requires.

But all these Properties of the Action, which we have given, are not sufficient; for the Action that is to be imitated in Tragedy, must also be such as excites Terrour and Compassion, and not Admiration, which is a Passion too weak to have the Effect of Tragedy. Terrour and Pity are rais'd by Surprize, when Events are produc'd out of Causes contrary to our Expectation; that is, when the Incidents produce each other, not merely follow after each other: for if it do not necessarily follow, 'tis no Incident for Tragedy. The Surprize must be the Effect of Design, not Chance, of precedent Incidents; allowing still, that there are Accidents that are by Chance, which yet seem done by Design, as the Fall of the Statue of Mitys on his Murderer, which kill'd him, for that Accident looks like the Work of Providence. Those Fables, where this is observ'd, will always appear the finest. Thus Oedipus is the best Subject for Tragedy that ever was; for all that happen'd to him is the Effect of Fortune: yet every body may see, that all the Accidents have their Causes, and fall out according to the Design of a particular Providence.

As the Actions imitated by Tragedy, so are all its Fables Simple, or Implex. The Simple is that, in which there is neither Change of the Condition or State of the principal Person or Persons, which is call'd the Peripetie, or Discovery; and the unravelling the Plot is only a single Passage of Agitation, or Trouble, or Repose and Tranquillity; as in the Medea and Hecuba of Euripides, and the Philoctetes, and Ajax of Sophocles: the same is the Fable of the Ilias, and that of the Æneis. The Implex Fable is that, which has a Peripetie, or a Discovery, or both; which is the most beautiful, and the least common. In the Antigone of Sophocles, there is the Change of the State and Fortune of Creon, and that produc'd by the Effect of his own barbarous Decree and Obstinacy. But in his Oedipus and Electra, there is both a Peripetie and Discovery; the first to Misery, the latter to Revenge, and Happiness. Oedipus, with his Change of Fortune, discovers,

that he is the Son of Jocasta and Laius, and so guilty of Incest, and Parricide. Electra discovers Orestes to be her Brother, and changes her Miseries into Happiness, in the Revenge of her Father's Death. In the Iphigenia in Tauris, Iphigenia making a Discovery that Orestes is her Brother, changes both their Fortunes from Despair to a happy Escape from the barbarous Altars of Taurica. But the Peripetie can neither be necessary nor probable (without which Qualities they are good for nothing) if they are not the natural Result, or at least the Effect of the previous Actions, or the Subject it self. The Oedipus and Electra of Sophocles are the most excellent in this kind, and ought to be thorowly studied by the Poets, who wou'd excel in their Art.

But not to give you Terms without a thorow Explanation; A Peripetie is a Change of one Fortune into another, either from Good to Bad, or from Bad to Good, contrary to our Expectations: and this Change (as I have observ'd) ought to happen either necessarily, or probably; as in the Oedipus of Sophocles: for he who comes to bring him agreeable News, which ought to deliver him from those Apprehensions, into which his fear of committing Incest with his Mother had thrown him, does quite the contrary, in making it out to him who, and what he is. The Matter lies thus—A Messenger from Corinth brings Oedipus word of the Death of Polybus, and invites him to go and take possession of that Kingdom: but Oedipus afraid to commit the Incest the Oracle had told him of, believing Polybus his Father, declar'd, that he never wou'd go to the Place where his Mother was. The Corinthian told him that he did not know himself, disturbing his Head about nothing; and thinking to do him a signal Piece of Service, in delivering him from his Fears, informs him, that Polybus and Merope were not his Father and Mother: which began the Discovery, that cast him into the most horrible of all his Misfortunes.

But because Discovery is here a Dramatic Term, and so signifies something more than in its vulgar Acceptation, I must inform the Reader, that here it means a Discovery, which is made by the principal Characters on remembering either one another, or something

of Importance to their Change of Fortune, and is thus defin'd by Aristotle—‘The Discovery is a Change, which causing us to pass from Ignorance to Knowledge, produces either Love or Hatred in those whom the Poet has a design to make happy, or miserable:’ that is, it ought not to be in vain, by leaving those, who remember one another, in the same Sentiments they were in before; it must produce either Love, or Hatred in the principal, not inferior Characters. But those Discoveries, which are immediately follow'd by the Peripetie, are the most beautiful, as that of Oedipus; for the Discovery of his being the Son of Jocasta and Laius, immediately makes him, of happy, the most miserable of Men. The Discovery in Electra is not near so fine, because their Condition and Fortune is not chang'd till some time after: but this, where the Peripetie and Discovery join, will always produce Terror or Pity, the End and Aim of Tragedy. What I have to add, of the several sorts of Discoveries, I shall defer till I have treated of the Manners, because those have some Interest in them.

The next thing that we are to consider, are the Characters. Those, which are to compose a perfect Tragedy, must not be either perfectly Virtuous and Innocent (as the Duke of Buckingham has observ'd) nor scandalously wicked. To make a perfectly virtuous and innocent Character unfortunate, excites Horror, not Pity, nor Terror. To punish the wicked, gives a sort of satisfaction indeed, but neither Pity nor Terror, the Business of Tragedy; for what we never think our selves capable of committing, we can never pity. But the Character of perfect Tragedy shou'd be the Mean betwixt both; but rather Good, than Bad. The Character, that has this Mean, shou'd not draw his Misfortunes on him by superlative Wickedness, or Crimes notoriously scandalous, but by involuntary Faults; that is, Frailties proceeding from the Excess of Passion; involuntary Faults, which have been committed either by Ignorance or Imprudence against the natural Temper of the Man, when he was transported by a violent Passion, which he cou'd not suppress; or by some greater, or external Force, in the Execution of such Orders, which he neither cou'd, nor ought to disobey. The Fault of Oedipus is of the first sort, tho he be likewise guilty of the second;

that of Thyestes is of the second only; those of Orestes and Alcmæon of the third; that is, in Obedience to the Oracle of the Gods: which clears Sophocles of the Fault laid to his charge by Mr. Rowe. In the Plays of the Antients, of this middle Character, were Oedipus, Thyestes, Alcmæon, Meleager, Telephus, &c. I shall only give a Draught of the first, being confin'd to great Brevity, since that Example will make the Precept plain.

Corneille, Mr. Dryden, and Lee have quite mistaken this Character: they have made him perfectly Good, whereas Sophocles does not praise him for any thing but his Courage, his good Fortune, and Judgment; Qualities equally common to the Good and the Bad, and to those, who are made up of Virtues and Vices. His Fault was his Curiosity; his being transported to Anger by the Insolence of a Coach-man for not giving him the way, which made him kill some Men two days after the Oracle had forewarn'd him, that he shou'd kill his Father. This Action alone sufficiently denotes his Character; but Sophocles has shown him by all his Manners so conformable to this, that he appears in every respect a Man that is neither Good nor Bad, having a Mixture of Virtue and Vice. His Vices are Pride, Violence, Anger, Temerity, and Imprudence; so that it is not for his Parricide, nor his Incest, that he is made unhappy: those, as they were the Effects of his Curiosity, and his Rashness, Violence, and Anger, were the Punishment of them; and those are the Vices that Sophocles wou'd correct in us by this Example of Oedipus.

From what has been said, it appears, that a Fable, with a single Catastrophe, is better than that which has one that is double; and that the Catastrophe, that is unhappy, is better than that which is happy; provided the Unhappiness be the Consequence of some of these Faults, or Frailties, which I have mention'd; and not the Effect of gross and remarkable Crimes: for these merit the Correction of the Axe, not the Muse.

The Fable that is of the next Excellence, is that which has a double Constitution, and Catastrophe, viz. one happy for the Good, and one unhappy for the Guilty. Tho this is more proper for Comedy; where the greatest Enemies go off reconcil'd.

Terror and Compassion being the chief End of Tragedy, and that being produc'd only by the Fable, let us consider what Incidents (which compose the Fable) are the most productive of these two Passions.

All Incidents are Events, that happen betwixt some body or other; and all Incidents, that are terrible or pitiful, happen between Friends, Relations, or the like; for what happens betwixt Enemies has no Tragical Effect. As when a Brother is going to kill, or kills his Brother; the Father his Son, or the Son his Father; the Mother the Son, or the Son the Mother. And these are the proper Incidents that a Poet shou'd employ all his Search and Study to find out.

Now all these Actions may be divided thus: into those, which the Actor performs with an entire Knowledge of what he does, or is going to do, as Medea when she kill'd her Children; Alcmæon, when he kill'd his Mother, and the like: And into those done, or about to be done, when the Heinousness of the Crime, which they are going to commit, or do commit, is not known to the Actors till after the Deed is done; when they, that did it, come to discover the Relation of the Persons they have destroy'd: as Alcmæon in the Astydamas, knew not that Eryphile was his Mother, whom he had kill'd, till after her Death; and Telegonus discover'd that it was his Father Ulysses he had mortally wounded, after the Fact was done. The third sort of Incident, and the most beautiful, is, when a Man or Woman is going to kill a Relation, who is not known to him or her, and is prevented by a Discovery of their Friendship and Relation. The first is the worst, the last the best, and the second next to the third in Excellence, because here is nothing flagitious and inhuman, but is the Sin of perfect Ignorance; for then the Discovery is very pathetic and moving, as that of Oedipus killing Laius.

In those Incidents of the third kind, to make them perfectly beautiful, like that of Merope and Iphigenia in Euripides, it will be necessary, that the Poet take care to let the Audience know the Relation of his Dramatic Persons, tho the Persons themselves must not know it till the Discovery. For those Stories of Merope

and Iphigenia were perfectly known to the Audience, which gave them all along a Concern for the Danger of the Brother and the Son; and rais'd their Joy and Satisfaction, when the Discovery came and prevented the Event. 'Tis true, that it is no easy matter to meet with such a Story, or indeed to form it without Obscurity and imperfect Beauty; yet if it be done, it answers the Labour and Pains of the Study and Search.

We come now to the Manners, which is the next thing to the Fable in Excellence and Consideration. The Manners distinguish the Characters; and if the Manners be ill express'd, we can never be acquainted with them, and consequently never be terrify'd by foreseeing the Dangers they will produce to the Characters, or Dramatic Persons; nor melt into Pity by feeling their Sufferings. All Dramatic therefore, as well as Epic Persons, ought to have the Manners; that is, their Discourse ought to discover their Inclinations, and what Resolutions they will certainly pursue. The Manners therefore shou'd have four Qualities; they must be, (1.) Good; (2.)Like; (3.)Convenient; (4.)Equal. Good is when they are mark'd; that is, when the Discourse of the Persons makes us clearly and distinctly see their Inclinations, and what good or evil Resolutions they are certain to take. Like relates only to known and publick Persons, whose Characters are in History, with which the Poetic Characters must agree; that is, the Poet must not give a Person any Quality contrary to any that History has given him. Convenient, that is, these must be agreeable to the Age, Sex, Climate, Rank, and Condition of the Person that has them.

Thus Horace advises to study Mankind, and from the Observation of them to draw the Proprieties of Characters or Manners. But a thorow Consideration of Ethicks, will be a very great help to the Observation: for when you have once got the true Knowledge of the various Habits of the Mind in their just Order, and the nature of their several Blendings, Mixtures, and Composition;

you will with much greater ease make an advantage of your Study of Men, in regard to that, of which we are now discoursing.

As to the Likeness, you must remember, that the evil Qualities, given by History to Princes and Great Men, ought to be omitted by the Poet, if they are contrary to the Character of a Prince, &c. but the Vertues opposite to those known Vices, ought not to be impos'd.

But if any Character be of unequal Manners, as in Nature, so in Poetry, which is an Imitation of Nature, the Variety and Inequality of the Manners must be equal. The Fearful must not be Brave, nor the Brave, Fearful; the Avaritious must not be Generous, and the like.

The Manners therefore of the principal Persons at least ought to be so clearly and fully mark'd, as to distinguish them from all other Men: for Nature has made as great a Distinction between every individual Man by the Turn of his Mind, as by the Form of his Countenance. In this Shakespear has excell'd all the Poets; for he has not only distinguish'd his principal Persons, but there is scarce a Messenger comes in, but is visibly different from all the rest of the Persons in the Play. So that you need not to mention the Name of the Person that speaks, when you read the Play; their Manners will sufficiently inform you who it is speaks; whereas in our modern Poets, if the Name of the Person speaking be not read, you can never by what he says, distinguish one from the other.

But besides these four Qualities of the Manners, there is a fifth essential to their Beauty, viz. that they be necessary: that is, that no vicious or base Quality or Inclination ought to be given to any Poetic Person, unless it appear to be absolutely necessary and requisite for the carrying on of the Action.

To make this a little plainer—There are three sorts of Qualities compose the Character of a Hero. First, Such as are absolutely

necessary for the Fable and Action; and those are most to appear, and evidently prevail above the rest, so that the Hero is to be known and distinguish'd by them. The Second are to imbellish the first, and the Third are to sustain both: but an Example will explain this. The first of these in Æneas is the transcendent Goodness of his Nature: The second, that beautifies this, is his solid Piety, and entire Resignation to the Will of the Gods: The third, that sustains both, is an Heroic Fortitude, which is absolutely necessary to the carrying on of any great Design. Thus in Ulysses we find Dissimulation set off by Prudence, and sustain'd by Valour: In Achilles, Rage set off by a noble Vehemence, and sustain'd by a wonderful Courage. This first Quality, as Goodness in Æneas, is to appear thro his whole Character; Rage thro Achilles, and Dissimulation thro Ulysses.

Having thus run thro the Manners, as briefly as I cou'd to give the Reader any just Idea of their Nature; I shall now conclude my Discourse on the several sorts of Discoveries, because, well manag'd, they add a wonderful Beauty to the Piece; tho it is a Beauty indeed almost entirely unknown to our Stage.

The first Sort of Discovery is, by certain Marks in the Body, either natural, or accidental, as some Families have Marks peculiar to them; as the Founders of Thebes and their Issue had a Lance naturally in their Bodies. Accidental, as the Wound Ulysses had formerly receiv'd in his Thigh by a Boar in Parnassus: Or Tokens, such as the Casket of Ion, which makes the Discovery of his Mother Creusa, whom he was going to kill. Tho this be the least beautiful and artful Discovery, yet it may be more or less artfully manag'd, as that of Ulysses is in the Odysses, where the Nurse washing his Feet, discovers the Wound, and by that Ulysses; but when he is oblig'd to shew it to the Shepherds, to confirm them that he was Ulysses, it is less artificial.

The second Sort of Discovery, and that likewise unartful, is when it is made by certain Tokens; as when Orestes had come to the knowledge of his Sister Iphigenia, by a Letter which she gave Pylades to carry to Orestes at Argos, and told him the Contents by word of mouth, lest the Letter shou'd be lost; he discovers himself

to her by mentioning her working a fine piece of Tapestry, that was in her Apartment, and the Lance of Pelops, &c. for these Tokens are no great matter of Invention, since it might have made them twenty other ways.

The third sort of Discoveries is what is made by Remembrance; that is, when the Sight or Hearing of any thing makes us remember our Misfortunes, &c. as when Ulysses heard Demodocus sing his Actions at Troy, the memory struck him, and drew Tears from him; which discover'd him to Alcinous.

The fourth sort of Discoveries are made by Reasoning. Thus Iphigenia argues in the Cœphores of Æschylus; Hither is a Man come like me; No body is like me but Orestes, it must therefore be Orestes. That of Polyides is beautiful and pathetic; for in the Iphigenia of that Poet (as we have it in Aristotle) Orestes kneeling at the Altar, and just opening his Bosom to receive the sacred Knife, cries out, 'Tis not sufficient that my Sister has been sacrific'd to Diana, but I must be so too.

The finest Sort is that which rises from the Subject, or the Incidents of the Fable; as that of Oedipus from his excessive Curiosity; and the Letter of Iphigenia, for it was very natural that she should write to her Brother.

Having thus consider'd the two main Points of the Theory, I shall say a word or two of the Practice. As the Duke of Buckingham has observ'd, the first business of a Tragic Poet, is to draw a Plan of his Design; and having plac'd it in a just Light, and in one View, he may best judge of its Probability. But then he must consider, that in this Plan must first be drawn the Fable in general, before he thinks of the Episodes that particularize and circumstantiate it. I'll give you that which is drawn up by Aristotle himself, because it may have the greater Authority with you—‘A young Princess is plac'd on the Altar to be sacrific'd, disappears of a sudden from the Eyes of the Spectators, and is carry'd into another Country, where the Custom is to sacrifice Strangers to the Guardian Goddess of that Country: They make her Priestess of that Temple. Some years after, the Brother of that Princess arrives at the same Place, in obedience to an

Oracle; he is no sooner arriv'd, but taken, and as he is going to be sacrific'd, the Discovery is made that he is Brother to the Priestess, which saves his Life.’

This is the general and universal Fable without Names, and which may yet receive any Names the Poet pleases; who, adding the Episodes circumstantiates, and makes it particular; as the adding the Madness of Orestes, and the like, makes it proper to that Story.

When the Poet comes to write and work up his Scenes, Aristotle advises, which Otway's Practice confirms, that he shou'd put himself into the same Passion he writes, and imitate the Gestures, and Actions of those whom he makes to speak.

The Poet ought to take care in the unravelling the Plot, in which many miscarry: the Plot is all the Play from the Beginning to the Discovery or Unravelling, which is best towards the last Scene of the Play; for if the Unravelling be in the fourth Act, the rest must be dull and heavy. But when the Peripetie and Discovery come together, and all at the End of the Play, the Audience go away with Pleasure and Satisfaction.

Having said so much of the Fable, Incidents, Manners, &c. I shall add a word or two on the Sentiments; in which we must follow the Advice of the Duke of Buckingham.

But then the Poet must not be content to look into his Mind, to see what he himself shou'd think on such an Occasion, but he must put himself into the Passion, Quality, and Temper of the Character he is to draw; that is, he must assume the Manners he gives his Dramatic Person, and then see what Sentiments or Thoughts such an Occasion, Passion, or the like, will produce. And the Poet must change his Person, as a different Person, and Character speaks: or he will make all speak alike, without any distinction of Character. Gaffarel gives you an Account of Campanella, which will illustrate this Place. He says, ‘That going

to see him when in the Inquisition, he found him making several odd Faces, which he took to be the Effect of the Pains he had endur'd there; but on his asking Gaffarel what sort of Man such a Cardinal was, and enquiring into his Features, he found that Campanella was framing himself by the force of Imagination to the Likeness of the Cardinal, to know what Answer he shou'd have to a Letter he had sent him.’

Now if the forming our outward Figure cou'd be of such Use, as to make us think like another, certainly when the Imagination proceeds by its own Strength and Force to liken the Soul as well as the Body, it must have a wonderful Effect: yet this cannot be done but by a great Genius.

I shall say no more of the Sentiments here, because they are to be learn'd from the Art of Rhetoric more than that of Poetry. For the Sentiments being all that make up the Discourse, they consist in proving, refuting, exciting and expressing the Passions, as Pity, Anger, Fear, and all the others; to raise, or debase the Value of any thing. The Reasons of Poets and Orators are the same when they would make things appear worthy of Pity, or terrible, or great, or probable; tho some things are render'd so by Art, and others by their own Nature.

The Diction or Language is that which next comes under our Consideration; which, tho made so considerable a Part by our modern Play-wrights, (who indeed have little else to value themselves upon) was by Aristotle thought of the least Importance; tho it is confess'd, when the Elocution is proper and elegant, and varies as it ought, it gives a great and very advantageous Beauty to a Play. The Fable, the Manners, and the Sentiments are without doubt the most considerable; for, as Aristotle observes, a Tragedy may be perfect without the Assistance of Elocution: for the Subject may be well manag'd, the Manners well mark'd, and the Sentiments may be just and fine, tho ill express'd. An ill Elocution renders the Discourse flat, but that destroys not the Beauty of the other Parts. Besides, a Tragedy may be written in Prose as well as Verse; that is, those other three Parts may be as well

express'd in Prose as Verse; but Verse is made use of, because more harmonious, and by consequence more agreeable.

But as we err as much in this part of Tragedy, as in the other three, it wou'd be necessary to give some Rules of Distinction on this Head: but that I have not room to do in this place; and Propriety and Elegance of Diction must be learn'd from Grammar and Rhetoric. However, I will not pass this entirely in silence, but shall lay down two or three Rules which are absolutely necessary to give any true Beauty to a Dramatic Diction.

Some have been betray'd by their Ignorance of Art and Nature to imagine, that because the Stile of Milton's Paradise Lost is admirable in the Epic Poem, it will be so in Tragedy; not considering that Milton himself has vary'd his Stile mightily in his Sampson Agonistes, from that of his Paradise. And Mr. Dryden's Criticism is very just, in his Epistle to the Marquiss of Normandy, (the late Duke of Buckingham) before the Æneis; where quoting from Segrais and Bossu—That the Stile of an Heroic Poem ought to be more lofty than that of the Drama—‘The Critick is in the right, says he, for the Reason already urg'd. The Work of Tragedy is on the Passions in Dialogue: both of them abhor strong Metaphors, in which the Epopee delights; a Poem cannot speak too plainly on the Stage, &c.’

And Boileau, a judicious Critic, as well as Poet, has Words to this effect—‘Wou'd you deserve the Applause of the Public? In writing, diversify your Stile incessantly: too equal, and too uniform a Manner shines to no purpose, and inclines us to sleep. Rarely are those Authors read, who are born to plague us, and who appear always whining in the same ingrateful Tone. Happy the Man, who can so command his Voice, as to pass without any Constraint from that which is Grave, to that which is Moving; and from that which is Pleasant, to that which is Severe, and Solemn.’ Every Passion has its proper way of speaking, which a Man of Genius will easily derive from the very Nature of the Passion he writes. Anger is proud, and utters haughty words, but speaks in words less fierce and fiery when it

debates: Grief is more humble, and speaks a Language like itself, dejected, plain, and sorrowful.

As Horace justly observes. From these few Observations it is evident how far from fine Language some of our Poets are, who have had Success even for that alone, in spight of all the Absurdities of the Fable, Manners, and Sentiments; tho in reality they were no more excellent in this, than in those.

Thus have we seen that Tragedy is an Imitation of an Action of a just Extent, i. e. that has a Beginning, Middle, and End, and which shall produce Pity, and Terrour. But this Action not being to be perform'd or represented without human Agents in that Action, it necessarily brings in an Under-Imitation of those Men in that Action; that is, of their Manners, as they contribute to that Action: and this makes a Necessity of imitating the Men that are introduc'd in the Drama.

We must not expect many Instances of Shakespear's Perfection in the Fable, tho perhaps we may find some extraordinary Strokes that way likewise; but the Beauties of the Manners we shall find every where, as I shall shew in my Examen of his Plays.

It may perhaps be expected, that I should say something of Comedy. But I have insensibly swell'd this Discourse to a greater Bulk than I at first design'd; so that I shall only say in general, that Comedy participates in many things of the Rules of Tragedy: that is, it is an Imitation both of Action and Manners; but those must both have a great deal of the Ridiculum in them, and indeed Humour is the Characteristic of this Poem, without which a Comedy looses its Name; as we have many of late who fall from the Ridiculum into a mere Dialogue, distinguish'd only by a pert sort of Chit-Chat, and little Aims at Wit. Ben Johnson is our best Pattern, and has given us this Advantage, that tho the English Stage has scarce yet been acquainted with

the Shadow of Tragedy, yet we have excell'd all the Antients in Comedy.

There is no Man has had more of this Vis Comica than our Shakespear in particular Characters; and in the Merry Wives of Windsor, he has given us a Play that wants but little of a perfect Regularity. Comedy in England has met with the Fate of Tragedy in Athens, for that only has yet been cultivated; whereas the polite Athenians took first care of Tragedy, and it was late e'er the Magistrate took any notice of Comedy, or thought it worthy their Inspection.

All Arts indeed improve as they find Encouragement; our Statesmen have never yet thought it worth their while to rescue the Drama from the Hands of the Ignorant, and the Benefit of private Persons, under which Load of Obstacles it can never rise to any Perfection; and place such Men in the Management of it, as may turn it to the Advantage of the Public. Whether this be any Proof of their good Politics or not, I shall not here determine; but I am sure, that very politic Nations, that is, the Greeks and the Romans, had far other Sentiments.

This naturally leads me to the Rise of the Sage in Greece, where it was entirely rais'd by Tragedy. For Thespis first made a moving Stage for that Poem, tho it was not then, as it is now, pure and unmix'd: for the ill Subjects that Thespis chose, threw him upon a sort of Tragi-Comedy; which Error Æschylus corrected, by chusing only noble Subjects, and an exalted Stile, that being before too burlesque. So that as far as we may guess, the Plays of Thespis were not unlike some of those of our Shakespear. For it was some time before the Stage came to its Magnificence and Purity, even in Greece it self, at least in Comedy: For the People are generally the same in all Countries, and obstinately retain licentious and obscene things; and it is the Property of Roughness and Barbarism to give place to Politeness with a great deal of difficulty. Nay, Sophocles was the first that purg'd Tragedy it self entirely, and brought it to its true Majesty and Gravity. For, as Dacier observes, the Changes that Tragedy and Comedy underwent, were brought about by little and little,

because it was impossible to discover what was proper for them at once; and new Graces were added to them, as the Nature of these Poems came better to be understood.

'Tis true, that the Idea of Tragedy was taken from the Iliads and Odysses of Homer; and of Comedy from his Poem call'd Margites: but that was after these Poems had been in use in a ruder manner; then indeed Homer inspir'd the Improvers and Reformers of the Stage with this noble Idea. Tragedy truly had a very advantageous Rise in Greece, falling immediately under the Inspection of the Magistrate, being founded on Religion: and this carry'd it so soon to Perfection, to which it wou'd never have arriv'd, had it been in the hands of private Persons, and mercenary Players, ignorant of its Beauties and Defects, and whose Thoughts reach no farther than what they are us'd to; which turning to a tolerable Advantage to their Pockets, they believe there is no greater Perfection. But Athens was too wise, too polite a State to let that fade, and remain useless in the hands of the Ignorant, which, by the care of the wise and knowing, might be turn'd to the Public Advantage, and Glory.

Tragedy, as I have said, had the Advantage of being grafted on the Goat-song, or Vintage-song, in the Honour of Bacchus; which, being a Recitation only, Thespis first made a Stage, and introduc'd one Actor. Æschylus added a second Actor, and fix'd his Stage, and adorn'd it in a more magnificent manner; but then the same Ornaments serv'd all Plays. Sophocles added a third Actor, and vary'd the Ornaments, and brought Tragedy to Perfection, and into such Esteem with the Athenians, that they spent more in the Decorations of the Theatre, than in all their Persian Wars; nay the Mony appropriated to that use, was look'd on as so sacred, that Demosthenes, with Difficulty and a great deal of Art, attempted to alienate some of it to the Defence of Greece against Philip of Macedon.

The Alterations that were made in this Poem in so little a time, were almost in every Part of it; in the very Numbers as well as in the Subject, Manners, and Diction: For the first Verse of the earliest Tragedies were Tetrameters, or a sort of

Burlesque, and fit for Countrymens Songs, and not unlike our Doggrel. But on the reforming the Stage, it was turn'd into Trimeter Iambics: For, as Dacier from Aristotle observes, those Numbers were fitted for Tragedy, which were most like our common Discourse, and consequently it was Trimeter Iambics, for that was most us'd in familiar Conversation: and Tragedy, says he, being an Imitation, ought to admit nothing but what is easy and natural.

But as this seems to relate chiefly to the Greek and Latin Diction, so it will not be amiss to give you something like it in the English, at the Rise of the Drama here. I shall take the Examples of both from Shakespear alone, to show this Error mended by himself, and brought to such a Perfection, that the highest Praise is to imitate his Stile.

What they call'd their Tetrameters may be answer'd by the Doggrel in the Comedy of Errours, and Love's Labour Lost.

But lest this shou'd be thought passable in the Mouths of the Dromios, and their Masters, we shall see, in those of Lords and Princes, in Love's Labour Lost; first Boyet, of the Retinue of the Princess of France, and the Princess her self.

Boyet.
No Sheep, sweet Lamb, unless we feed on your Lips. Princess.
Good Wits will be jangling, but Genteels agree—
The civil War of Wits were much better us'd
On Navarre, and his Book-men, for here 'tis abus'd.

In short, these false Numbers and Rhimes are almost thro the whole Play; which must confirm any one, that this was one of his first. But that Verse, which answers both the Latin and the Greek is our Blank Verse, which generally consists of Iambics, and so fit for the Drama, that tho Mr. Dryden had once brought rhiming on the Stage so much into fashion, that he told us plainly in one of his Prefaces, that we shou'd scarce see a Play take in this Age without it; yet as soon as The Rehearsal was acted, that violent and unnatural Mode vanish'd, and Blank Verse resum'd its place. A thousand beautiful Examples of this Verse might be taken out of Shakespear, there scarce being a Play of his which will not furnish us with many; I shall satisfy my self here with an Instance or two out of the Much Adoe about Nothing.

Comedy, on the other hand, lay long uncultivated in private Hands, among the Mob or Country Fellows, without any regard of the Government; till at last Epicharmus and some others taking the Idea from the Margites of Homer, and having purg'd the Country Railleries from their Licentiousness, the Magistrates of Athens took it into their Consideration, that it might be of

use to the State in the Hands, and under the Management of the Publick. And thus by the Encouragement and Inspection of the Government, the Drama of both kinds arriv'd to Perfection in not many Years after their Appearance in the World.

But it was not so in Rome, it was in the 399th Year of the City, when any thing like a Stage got into Rome; and tho it was introduc'd to appease a great Plague, which cou'd not be averted by any other Propitiation, yet they being originally perform'd by Strangers, the Romans had little regard to them. For on this Occasion they sent for Players out of Etruria, which in their Language they call Hister, from whence the Romans call'd their Actors Histriones. Nor did these make use of any Verse, but danc'd to the Tunes of their Pipes, with Measures not indecent, after the Thuscan manner. The young Sparks began to imitate them by rallying one another in undigested Verses. With their Voices their Motions agreed; so that the Matter was receiv'd, and by often Repetition came into a Mode. But the Players did not, as in the Fescennine Verses, rally one another with extempore Verses; but representing Pastorals, call'd Satires with Vocal Music, set to the Instrumental, and a regular Action, perform'd their Parts. But Livius Andronicus, a Greek by Nation, was the first (some Years after this) who ventur'd to mingle a Fable with these Songs, acting himself in these Performances, as then all the Poets did. This Livy tells us, and the same we find in Valerius Maximus, Lib. 2. Cap 4. ‘From which we see, from what small Beginnings the Scenic Plays arose: First, Players were sent for out of Etruria, who danc'd without either Verse or Piper: After this, rude and unpolish'd Verse came in, and Motions something agreeable to the Voice; but at last all things were improv'd by Art.’ Tho these two Accounts do not agree in every Particular, we easily see the low Rise of the Stage in this City; which tho brought in at first for the appeasing a raging Pestilence, yet the Players, who belong'd to the Drama, had their Names put out of the List of their Tribe, some say by way of Disgrace, and were never permitted to have the Honour to go to the Wars, but on the greatest Extremity;

yet this might be in respect to their Preservation, as the Athenians made a Law when Eupolis was kill'd in a Sea-Fight, that Poets shou'd go no more to the Wars. But be this as it will; yet in time, when it had work'd it self out of the Dreggs of the People, the State took notice of it, and no Play was permitted to be acted, which was not approv'd by the Ædile, who had the same Care of the Stage in Rome, as the Choragus had in Athens; Agrippa was Ædile in Rome, and the great Themistocles was Choragus in Athens.

But notwithstanding the Ædiles took Care at last of the Roman Stage, yet that never came to the Excellence of that of Athens; at least if we may judge of their Tragedies by those of Seneca, which are in nothing comparable to those of the Greek Poets. The Medea of Ovid, (had it been extant,) might perhaps have shown us something more perfect, for he was much better qualify'd for that, than the Philosopher.

In England Plays begun at the very bottom of the People, and mounted by degrees to the State we now see them in, the yet imperfect Diversion of Ladies, and Men of the first Quality. Queen Elizabeth first distinguish'd Actors, from Strollers and Vagabonds, by making them Gentlemen of her Bed-Chamber, as some say, at least her Domestic Servants: and then it was that Shakespear ennobled the rude Scene, giving it a Grace, which it knew not before, and sufficient to please so wise and good a Princess. But the Glory of giving it Perfection, yet remains for a no less excellent King; and the Muses have reason to hope, that He, that is so universal a Patron of Liberty, will not leave them in their old Bondage. For while the Poet's Success depends so much upon the injudicious Taste of the Managers, and the Whim of the unjudging Town, it is impossible that this glorious Art can ever be brought to that Excellence to which it arriv'd in Greece; Opinion or Chance, and the Address of the Players having given many of our modern Tragedies a sort of temporary Success. But because in a little time these Plays, which were cry'd up without Merit, lose ground, and grow neglected, some of our Play-wrights have pretended that

our Taste of Tragedy is lost, and that the Best will not do. But certainly that is a very ill Argument, for we see that The Orphan, Venice Preserv'd, and good Tragedies, increase in Esteem, and bring as good Audiences as any Comedies. But the same Argument will hold against Comedies; for after Opinion or Whim have given them a sort of Run at their first Appearance, they flag in a little time for want of innate Merit, and sink, so that in a year or two they will not bring ten Pounds. And tho an ingenious Gentleman has told us, that Tragi-Comedies will do better than Tragedies, I must say that the same Reason will hold against them; for I know scarce one of them, except Shakespear's, that bring any great Audiences. But I am confident, had we good Tragedies written, according to the Art I have laid down, and that they had fair Play at first from the Managers, the Diversion is so noble and great, they wou'd find another sort of Success than our Trifles have met with, and last for ever. At least we have Reason to think so, for all that we have yet seen to the contrary in Experience.

Thus have I given my Thoughts on Shakespear, laid down the Rules of true judging and judicious Writing, and given a View of the Rise and Progress of the Drama in Greece, Rome, and England; from whence it is plain, that the only way to make the Stage flourish, is to put it into the Hands of the Magistrate, and the Management of Men of Learning and Genius; which wou'd once again bring this admirable Art to its antient Perfection.

An Explanation of the Old Words us'd by Shakespear in his Works.

A Acknown. known, acknowledg'd, &c. Agnize. acknowledge, confess, avow, &c. Argosies. Ships, &c. Aroint. avant, be gone, stand off, &c. Assubjudicate. subdue, &c.

B Ballow. Pole, long Stick, Quarter-staff, &c. Betrims. adorns, decks, &c. Bevel. crooked, awry. Beteem. to bring forth, or breed, Besmirch'd. daub'd, &c. Biggen. a Child's Coif, or Quoif. Bisson-Rheum. blind Rheum. Blenches. Faults. To Blench. sin, fear. Blood-bolter'd. smear'd with dry Blood. Bourn. Limits, Bounds, &c. Bosky. fat, swell'd, &c. Busky. id. or woody. Braid. trim, finical, wove, &c. Brach. a kind of Hound, &c. A Broch. a Buckle, Bracelet, Noose, Spit, &c.

C Cleeps. calls, names, &c. Copesmate. Companion. Congest. heap'd together. Cautless. incautious. Canary'd to it. danc'd to it, or was joyful at it. To Carol. to sing. A Callet. a Whore. Cess. a Tax. Clake or Clack. to make an ingrateful Noise, &c. Congreeing. for agreeing, &c. Cleap, haunt, attend, brood on, &c. Clinquant. sounding, &c. The Cranks, Offices. Costard. Head, or Blockhead.

Cringes. Hinges. Chusherel. Whore-master, Debauchee, &c.

D Dank. moist, raw, &c. Dowle. A Feather, or rather the single Particles of the Down. To Daffe. to baffle, banter, cheat, &c. Dulcet. sweet. Down-gyved. turn'd or ty'd down with Fetters. Dearn. Solitude, &c. Dumps. Melancholy, fix'd Sadness, &c.

E Eld. Age, Antiquity, Fore-fathers, old Times, &c. Empleached. bound together, interwove, &c. Empatron'd. got a Patron. Enfeoffed himself. took possession of the Inheritance, &c. Exuflicate. blown.

F Foyzon. Plenty, Abundance, Strength, Heart-Juice, Moisture, &c. Fends. defends, guards, &c. Famoused. made famous. Frampol'd. troublesome, uneasy, &c. Foining Fence. masterly Defence. Flouriets or Flourets. small Flower, or Beds of Flowers. Franklin. a Freeman, or Gentleman, &c. To Fatigate. to tire, weary, &c. Foemen. Enemies. Fineless. without End.

G Guerdon'd. pay'd, rewarded with, given to, &c. Gawds. Bawbles, gawdy Things, or ridiculous Jests, &c. To Gleek. Jeer, &c. Glyke. id. Geck, or Gull. to cheat, defraud, &c. The Gest. a Bed, Couch, &c. Grimmals. a Ring of two Rounds. Garish. gay, glaring, &c. Gleeful. merry, laughing, &c. God-eyl'd us. God defend or do us good. Gouts of Blood. great Drops of Blood. To Gibber. to flout, chatter, &c. Gasted. frighted. To Gallow. to fright. Gastness. Fright.

Graff. Graft, &c. Gosemore. a little light Down, that flies about in the Air, by every Wind blown about.

H Hied, or Hyed. made haste to. Hests. commands. Hent. took hold of. Hight. call'd. Hefted. as tender-hefted, tenderly dispos'd, &c. Harried. daunted, scolded at, frighted, handled so roughly.

I Intendment. Intention. Ingirts. surrounds. An Incony Wit. a mimicking Wit, &c. Imbost him. noos'd him, circumvented him, &c. Immoment. of no value.

K Kam. awry, quite from the Matter. Clean Kam. quite from the purpose.

L Lush. Luxury, Lewdness, &c. Lass-lorn. depriv'd or deserted by his Lass or Mistress. Leaman. a Gallant, Stallion, &c. Lover'd. have a Lover. Lither-Sky. lower, lazy, plain. Liefest. Dearest, &c.

M Moody, or Mood. angry, and Anger, &c. Meed. Reward. Murky. obscure, dark, &c. A Maund. a Basket, Scrip, &c. Murk. dark, &c. To Mell. to meddle with, or mingle, &c. Manakin. a little Man. Mammering. Muttering.

N Nill. will not. Nole. an Asses Nole. Asses Head and Neck. Nay Word. a Word of Infamy or Contempt.

O Orts. Scraps, Leavings, &c. Orgillous. proud. Ourshutt. Escape.

P Palmers. Pilgrims, &c.

Poleclipt. clipt in the Head. Phraseless Hand. a Hand whose Beauty no Phrase can express. A Priser, one that fights Prizes, or wrestles for Prizes, &c. Pight upon or over. Pight to do it, prop'd, settled, cast, &c. Palliament. a Garment, Robe, &c. To Palter, to trifle, banter, &c. Paragon, Peer or Equal. Pannelled me. follow'd, attended me, &c.

Q Quern. Churn. Quarrellous. quarrelsome, full of Complaint, &c. A Quintine. a Measure.

R Rank. full, a River rank, full. Recketh, or wrecketh. values, thinks, reflects. Rigol. a Clavicord, or what makes merry, diverts, &c. Recheate. a manner of blowing the Horn to call the Dogs together. Rebato. or Head-dress. Reft. bereft, depriv'd of, &c. Raide. dress'd. Roisting. bullying, noisy &c. Ribald. crows, noisy, impudent, &c. Ronyon. a Rake, &c. The Romage of the Land, Disturbances, &c. To Reverb. repeat, return, reply, &c. To Renege. to deny. Riggish, rampant, ruttish, &c.

S Sneap'd Birds. beak'd, bill'd, &c. Siege. Excrement. Suggested, tempted, provoked, prompted. Sea-Marge. a Cliff, or the Banks of the Sea. Stell'd. stor'd, contain'd. To Shrive. to meet, revel, confess, or hear ones Confession, listed in a Roll, &c. Smoog'd. smoak'd. Sheen, Shine. To Square, to quarrel, &c. Saws. Maxims, Proverbs, Sayings, &c. A Bed-Swarver. one inconstant to his Bed, a Rover, a Debauchee, &c. Scath. Mischief, Loss, Wrong, Harm, Prejudice, &c. Scroyls. Corsairs. To Sker or Skir. to glide or move swiftly. Soilure. a Blot.

To Scale a thing. to weigh it in Scales, &c. To Sowle. to lugg one by the Ears. Shrift. Confession, &c. Siar. Decay. To Sag. to waver, be dismay'd, &c. Scar. Care, or Value, &c.

T To Trash, to lop, &c. Teen. Pain, Anguish, Wrath, Anger, &c. Totter'd. shaken, tottering, weak, tumbling, &c. To Tar. to set on, provoke, &c. Trenchant Sword. the Sword that cuts a gap, or wounds, indenture, &c. Tricksey. brisk, active, nimble, &c. Thewes. Sinews, or Modes, Manners, Customs, &c.

U Umberd Face. a Face smeer'd with Umber, or a yellowish Face. Unhosted. without the Sacrament. Unknell'd. without the Passing-Bell going for a dying Man. Unhoused. free, unconfin'd, &c. Unkin'd. without Children.

W Welkin. the Heavens, Sky, &c. Whileare. lately. Wend. go. Wrecks. thinks of, cares for, or values. Withers. the Shoulders of a Horse. Wother. Merit, Beauty, &c. With a Winnion. with a Vengeance, &c.

Y Ycliped. call'd.

VENUS AND ADONIS.
Vilia miretur vulgus, mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula castaliâ plena ministret aquâ. Ovid. Amor. l. 1. El. 15.

Right Honourable,

I know not how I shall offend, in Dedicating my unpolished Lines to your Lordship; nor how the World will censure me, for chusing so strong a Prop to support so weak a Burden: Only if your Honour seem but pleased, I account my

self highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle Hours, till I have honoured you with some graver Labour. But if the first Heir of my Invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a Godfather, and never after ear so barren a Land, for fear it yield me still so bad a Harvest. I leave it to your honourable Survey, and your Honour to your Heart's Content; which I wish may always answer your own Wish, and the World's hopeful Expectation.

Your Honour's in all Duty,
Will. Shakespear.

Volume 7: Venus and Adonis
Even as the Sun, with purple-colour'd Face,
Had ta'en his last Leave of the weeping Morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the Chase:
Hunting he lov'd, but Love he laugh'd to scorn.
  Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
  And like a bold-fac'd Suitor 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer than my self! (thus she began)
The Fields sweet Flower! sweet above compare!
Stain to all Nymphs! more lovely than a Man!
More white and red, than Doves or Roses are!
  Nature, that made thee, with her self at strife,
  Saith, that the World hath ending with thy Life.
Vouchsafe thou Wonder! to alight thy Steed,
And rein his proud Head to the Saddle-Bow;
If thou wilt deign this Favour, for thy Meed,
A thousand honey Secrets shalt thou know.
  Here come and sit, where Serpent never hisses,
  And being set, I'll smother thee with Kisses.
And yet not cloy thy Lips with loathed Satiety,
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 Sport.

With this she seizeth on his sweating Palm,
The President of Pith and Livelihood,
And trembling in her Passion calls its Balm;
Earth's Sovereign Salve to do a Goddess good.
  Being so enrag'd, Desire doth lend her Force,
  Courageously to pluck him from his Horse.
Over one Arm the lusty Courser's Rein,
Under the other 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!)
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, tho 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 of his Cheeks:
Then with her windy Sighs, and golden Hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
  He says she is immodest, blames her miss;
  What follows more, she smothers with a Kiss.

Even as an empty Eagle, sharp by Faste,
Tires with her Beak on Feathers, Flesh and Bone,
Shaking her Wings, devouring all in Haste,
Till either Gorge be stuft, or Prey be gone:
  Even so she kist his Brow, his Cheek, his Chin,
  And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forc'd to consent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her Face:
She feedeth on the Steam, as on a Prey,
And calls it heav'nly Moisture! Air of Grace!
  Wishing her Cheeks were Gardens full of Flowers,
  So they were dew'd with such distilling Showers.
Look how a Bird lies tangled in a Net,
So fasten'd in her Arms Adonis lies:
Pure Shame and aw'd 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 she tunes her Tale.
Still he is sullen, still he lowers and frets,
'Twixt crimson Shame, and Anger ashy Pale.
  Being red she loves him best, and being white,
  Her Breast is better'd with a more Delight.
Look how he can, she cannot chuse 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 peering thro a Wave,
Who being look'd on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what she did crave;
  But when his Lips were ready for his Pay,
  He winks and turns 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 baths in Water, yet in Fire must burn.
  Oh Pity, gan she cry, flint-hearted Boy!
  'Tis but a Kiss I beg, why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now,
Ev'n by the stern and direful God of War,
Whose sinewy Neck in Battel 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 have.
Over my Altars hath he hung his Lance,
His batter'd Shield, his uncontrolled Crest;
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To coy, 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 over-rul'd, I over-sway'd;
Leading him Prisoner in a red-Rose Chain.
Strong temper'd Steel, his stronger Strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy Disdain.
  Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy Might,
  For mastring her, that foil'd the God of Fight!

Touch but my Lips with those fair Lips of thine,
(Tho mine be not so fair, yet they are red)
The Kiss shall be thine own, as well, as mine;
What seest thou on the Ground? Hold up thy Head:
  Look in mine Eye-balls, where thy Beauty lies,
  Then why not Lips on Lips, since Eyes on Eyes?
Art thou asham'd to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink, so shall the Day seem Night,
Love keeps his Revels, where there be 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 they what we mean.
The tender Spring, upon thy tempting Lip,
Shews thee unripe; yet may'st thou well be tasted:
Make use of Time, let not Advantage slip,
Beauty within it self would not be wasted.
  Fair Flowers, that are not gather'd in their Prime,
  Rot and consume themselves in little time.
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-natur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in Voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking Juice:
  Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee,
  But, having no Defects, why dost abhor me?
Thou can'st 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 as soft and plump, my Marrow burning;
  My smooth moist Hand, were it with thy Hand felt,
  Would in thy Palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

Bid me discourse, I will inchant thine Ear,
Or, like a Fairy, trip upon the Green;
Or, like a Nymph, with long dishevel'd Hair,
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,
The forceless Flowers, like sturdy Trees, support me:
Two strengthless Doves will draw me thro the Sky
From Morn till 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 Love upon thy left?
Then wooe thy self, be of thy self rejected,
Steal thine own Freedom, and complain of Theft.
  Narcissus so himself, himself forsook,
  And dy'd 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 wert 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 thy self art dead:
  And so in spight 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 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 low'ring Brows o'erwhelming his fair Sight,
Like misty Vapours, when they blot the Sky;
  Souring his Cheeks, cries, Fie, no more of Love,
  The Sun doth burn my Face, I must remove.
Ah me! (quoth Venus) young, and so unkind!
What bare Excuses mak'st thou to be gone?
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,
  If they burn too, I'll quench them with my Tears.
The Sun that shines from Heaven shines but warm,
And, loe, I lie between the 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 Heav'nly, and this Earthly Sun.
Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as Steel?
Nay more than 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?
  Oh! had thy Mother born so bad a Mind,
  She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great Danger dwells upon my Suit?
What were thy Lips the worse for one poor Kiss!
Speak fair: But speak fair Words, or else be mute.
  Give me one Kiss, I'll give it thee again,
  And one for Int'rest, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, lifeless 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 bred.
  Thou art no Man, tho of a Man's Complection,
  For Men will kiss even by their own Direction.
This said, Impatience choaks her pleading Tongue,
And swelling Passion doth provoke a Pause;
Red Cheeks and fiery Eyes blaze forth her Wrong,
Being Judge in Love, she cannot right her Cause.
  And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
  And now her Sobs do her Intendments break.
Sometimes she shakes her Head, and then his Hand:
Now gazeth she on him, now on the Ground;
Sometimes her Arms infold him like a Band;
She would, he will not in her Arms be bound;
  And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
  She locks her Lilly Fingers one in one.
Fondling, saith she, since I have hemm'd thee here,
Within the Circuit of this Ivory Pale,
I'll be the Park, and thou shalt be my Deer,
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, and high delightful Plain,
Round rising Hillocks, Brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from Tempest and from Rain.
  Then be my Deer, since I am such a Park,
  No Dog shall rouze thee, tho a thousand bark.
At this Adonis smiles, as in Disdain,
That in each Cheek appears a pretty Dimple;
Love made those Hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a Tomb so simple:
  Foreknowing well if there he came to lie,
  Why there Love liv'd, and there he cou'd not die.
These loving Caves, these round enchanted Pits,
Open'd their Mouths to swallow Venus liking:
Being mad 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 with Scorn.
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, and hasteth to his Horse.
But, lo! from forth a Copp's that neighbours by,
A breeding Jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling Courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud:
  The strong-neck'd Steed, being ty'd unto a Tree,
  Breaketh his Rein, and to her strait goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven Girts he breaks asunder;
The bearing Earth with his hard Hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow Womb resounds like Heaven's Thunder:
  The Iron Bit he crushes 'tween his Teeth,
  Controlling what he was controlled with.
His Ears up-prick'd, his braided hanging Mane
Upon his compass'd Crest now stands an end:
His Nostrils drink the Air, and forth again,
As from a Furnace, Vapours doth he lend:
  His Eye, which glisters scornfully like Fire,
  Shews his hot Courage, and his high Desire.
Sometimes 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 try'd:
  And thus I do to captivate the Eye
  Of the fair Breeder, that is standing by.
What recketh he his Rider's angry Stir,
His flatt'ring Holla, or his Stand, I say?
What cares he now for Curb, or pricking Spur?
For rich Caparisons, or Trappings gay?
  He sees his Love, and nothing else he sees,
  For nothing else with his proud Sight agrees.
Look when a Painter wou'd surpass the Life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd Steed,
His Art, with Nature's Workmanship at Strife,
As if the Dead the Living should exceed:
  So did his Horse excell a common one,
  In Shape, in Courage, Colour, Pace, and Bone.

Round-hooft, short-jointed, Fetlocks shag and long,
Broad Breast, full Eyes, small Head, and Nostril wide,
High Crest, short Ears, strait 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.
Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a Feather.
To bid the Wind abase he now prepares,
And where he run, or fly, they know not whither.
  For thro his Mane and Tail the high Wind sings,
  Fanning the Hairs, which heave like feather'd 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 wooe her,
She puts on outward Strangeness, seems unkind,
  Spurns at his Love, and scorns the Heat he feels,
  Beating his kind Embracements with her Heels.
Then, like a melancholy Male-content,
He veils his Tail; that like a falling Plume
Cool Shadow to his melting Buttocks lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor Flies in his Fume:
  His Love perceiving how he is enrag'd,
  Grew kinder, and his Fury was asswag'd.
His testy Master goes 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 chasing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist'rous and unruly Beast.
And now the happy Season once more fits,
That Love-sick Love, 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 stop'd, or River staid,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more Rage:
So of concealed Sorrow may be said;
Free Vent of Words Love's Fire doth oft asswage:
  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 ascance 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,
How White and Red each other did destroy!
  But now her Cheek was pale, and by and by
  It flash'd forth Fire, as 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 Cheeks feels:
  His tender Cheeks, receive her soft Hand's Print,
  As apt, as new-fallen Snow takes any Dint.

Oh! 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 still, his Eyes disdain'd the Wooing:
  And all this dumb Play had his Acts made plain
  With Tears, which Chorus-like her Eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the Hand,
A Lilly prison'd in a Jail of Snow;
Or Ivory in an Alablaster Band,
So white a Friend ingirts so white a Foe!
  This beauteous Combat, wilful and unwilling,
  Shew'd like to 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 my Help I would assure thee,
  Tho nothing but my Body's Bane would cure thee.
Give me my Hand, (saith he) why dost thou feel it?
Give me thy Heart (saith 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 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.

Thus she replies: Thy Palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm Approach of sweet Desire:
Affection is a Coal, that must be cool'd;
Else suffer'd, it will set the Heart on Fire.
  The Sea hath Bounds, but deep Desire hath none;
  Therefore no marvel, tho thy Horse be gone.
How like a Jade he stood, ty'd to a Tree,
Servilely mastred with a leathern Rein!
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 his true Love in her naked Bed,
Teaching the Sheets a whiter Hue than white,
But when his glutton Eye so full hath fed,
His other Agents aim at like Delight?
  Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
  To touch the Fire, 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;
Tho 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 I 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,
  That laughs, and weeps, and all but in 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 his Pride, and never waxeth 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 Alarm it will not ope the Gate.
  Dismiss your Vows, your feigned Tears, your Flatt'ry;
  For where a Heart is hard, they make no Batt'ry.
What, can'st thou talk? (quoth she) hast thou a Tongue?
O! would thou had'st not, or I had no hearing!
Thy Mermaid's Voice hath done me double Wrong!
I had my Load before, now press'd with bearing.
  Melodious Discord! heavenly Tune harsh-sounding!
  Earth's deep sweet Musick! and Heart's deep sore-wounding!
Had I no Eyes, but Ears, my Ears would love
That inward Beauty, and invisible:
Or were I deaf, thy outward Parts would move
Each Part of me, that were but sensible.
  Tho neither Eyes, nor Ears, to hear, nor see,
  Yet should I be in Love, by touching thee.
Say, that the Sense of Reason 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 Stillatory of thy Face excelling
  Comes Breath perfum'd, that breedeth Love by Smelling.

But oh! what Banquet wert thou to the Taste,
Being Nurse and Feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the Feast should ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the Door?
  Lest Jealousy, that four unwelcome Guest,
  Should by his stealing in, disturb the Feast.
Once more the ruby-colour'd Portal open'd,
Which to his Speech did Honey Passage yield;
Like a red Morn, that ever yet betoken'd,
Wreck to the Seamen, Tempest to the Field,
  Sorrow to Shepherds, Woe unto the Birds,
  Gust and foul Flaws to Herdmen, 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 her, e'er 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 blessed Bankrupt, that by Love so thriveth!
  The silly Boy believing she is dead,
  Claps her pale Cheek, till clapping makes it red.
And in Amaze brake off his late Intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning Love did wittily prevent,
Fair fall the Wit, that can so well defend her:
  For on the Grass she lies, as she were slain,
  Till his Breath breathed 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,
  Would 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 World relieveth:
  And as the bright Sun glorifies the Sky,
  So is her Face illumin'd with her Eye.
Whose Beams upon his hairless Face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine:
Were never four such Lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with his Brows repine.
  But hers, which thro 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 liv'd, and Life was Death's Annoy:
  But now I dy'd, and Death was lively Joy.
O! thou didst kill me, kill me once again:
Thy Eyes, shrewd Tutor, that hard Heart of thine
Has taught them scornful Tricks, and such Disdain,
That they have murder'd this poor Heart of mine:
  And these mine Eyes, 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 wear!
And as they last, their Verdure 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 imprinted,
What Bargains may I make still to be sealing?
To sell my self, 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 one by one.
What is ten hundred Kisses unto thee?
Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone?
  Say for Non-payment that the Debt should double,
  Is twenty hundred Kisses such a trouble?
Fair Queen (quoth he) if any Love you owe me,
Measure my Strangeness with my unripe Years,
Before I know my self, seek not to know me.
No Fisher but the ungrown Fry forbears;
  The mellow Plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
  Or being early pluck'd, is sour to taste.
Look, the World's Comforter with weary Gate,
His Day's hot Task hath ended in the West!
The Owl (Night's Herald) shrieks, 'tis very late,
The Sheep are gone to Fold, Birds to their Nest:
  The cole-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) and e'er he says adieu,
The honey Fee of parting tendred is.
  Her Arms do lend his Neck a sweet Embrace,
  Incorp'rate then they seem, Face grows to Face.
Till breathless he disjoin'd, and backward drew
The heavenly Moisture, that sweet Coral Mouth,
Whose precious Taste her thirsty Lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on Drowth:
  He with her Plenty press'd, she faint with Dearth,
  Their Lipps together glu'd, fall to the Earth.
Now quick Desire hath caught her yielding Prey,
And Glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;
Her Lipps are Conquerors, his Lipps obey,
Paying what Ransom the Insulter willeth:
  Whose Vultur Thought doth pitch the Prize so high,
  That she will draw his Lipps rich Treasure dry.
And having felt the Sweetness of the Spoil,
With blindfold Fury she begins to forage;
Her Face doth reek and smoke, her Blood doth boil,
And careless Lust stirs up a desperate Courage:
  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 tam'd with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot Roe, that's tir'd 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 tempting
And yields at last to every light Impression?
Things out of Hope are compass'd oft with vent'ring,
Chiefly in Love, whose Leave exceeds Commission.
  Affection faints not, like a pale-fac'd Coward,
  But then wooes best, when most his Choice is froward.
When he did frown, O had she then gave over!
Such Nectar from his Lipps she had not suckt:
Foul Words and Frowns must not repel a Lover,
What tho' the Rose have Pricks; yet it is pluckt.
  Were Beauty under twenty Locks kept fast,
  Yet Love breaks thro, 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 farewel, and look well to her Heart,
  The which by Cupid's Bow she doth protest,
  He carries thence engaged 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, Loves Master, shall we meet to Morrow?
Say, shall we, shall we, wilt thou make the Match?
  He tells her no, to Morrow he intends
  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 Cheeks, she trembles at his Tale,
And on his Neck her yoking Arms she throws,
  She sinketh down still hanging on 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 altho he mount her:
  That worse than Tantalus is her Annoy,
  To clip Elysium, and to lack her Joy.
Even as poor Birds deceiv'd with painted Grapes,
Do surfeit by the Eye, and pine the Maw;
Even so she languisheth in her Mishaps,
As those poor Birds, that helpless Berries saw,
  The warm Effects 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 prov'd,
Her Pleading hath deserved a greater Fee,
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd!
  Fie, fie, he says, you crush me, let me go,
  You have no Reason to with-hold me so.
Thou had'st been gone (quoth she) sweet Boy, e'er this,
But that thou told'st me thou would'st hunt the Boar.
O! be advis'd, thou know'st not what it is,
With Javelins Point a Churlish Swine to gore,
  Whose Tushes never sheath'd, he whetteth still,
  Like to a mortal Butcher, bent to kill.
On his Bow-back he hath a Battel set
Of bristly Pikes, that ever threat his Foes;
His Eyes, like Glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His Snout digs Sepulchres where e'er he goes;
  Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his Way;
  And whom he strikes, his crooked Tushes slay.

His brawny Sides with hairy Bristles armed,
Are better Proof, than thy Spears Point can enter;
His short thick Neck cannot be easily harmed,
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 esteems that Face of thine,
To which Love's Eye pays tributary Gazes;
Nor thy soft Hand, sweet Lipps, and Christal Eyne,
Whose full Perfection all the World amazes;
  But having thee at Vantage (wondrous Dread!)
Would root these Beauties, as he roots the Mead.
O! let him keep his loathsome Cabin still!
Beauty hath nought 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,
  I fear'd thy Fortune, and my Joynts did tremble.
Didst thou not mark my Face? Was it not white?
Saw'st thou not Signs of Fear lurk in mine Eye?
Grew I not faint? And fell I not down right?
Within my Bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
  My boding Heart pants, beats, and takes no Rest,
  But like an Earth-quake shakes thee on my Breast.
For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's Centinel;
Gives false Alarms, suggesteth Mutiny,
And in a peaceful Hour doth cry, kill, kill,
  Distempring gentle Love with his Desire,
  As Air and Water doth abate the Fire.

This sour Informer, this bate-breeding Spy,
This Canker, that eats up Love's tender Spring,
This Carry-tale, Dissentious Jealousy,
That sometime true News, sometime false doth bring,
  Knocks at my Heart, and whispers in mine Ear,
  That if I love thee, I thy Death should fear.
And more than so, presenteth to mine Eye
The Picture of an angry chafing Boar,
Under whose sharp Fangs, on his Back doth lie
An Image like thy self, all stain'd with Gore;
  Whose Blood upon the fresh Flowers being shed,
  Doth make 'em drop with Grief, and hang the Head.
What should I do? seeing thee so indeed?
That trembling at th' Imagination,
The Thought of it doth make my faint Heart bleed,
And Fear doth teach it Divination.
  I prophecy thy Death, my living Sorrow,
  If thou encounter with the Boar to-morrow.
But if thou needs will hunt, be rul'd by me,
Uncouple at the timorous flying Hare;
Or at the Fox, which lives by Subtilty;
Or at the Roe, which no Encounter dare,
  Pursue these fearful Creatures o'er the Downs,
  And on thy well-breath'd Horse keep with thy Hounds.
And when thou hast on Foot the purblind Hare,
Mark the poor Wretch, to overshut his Troubles,
How he out-runs the Wind, and with what Care,
He cranks and crosses with a thousand Doubles.
  The many Umsits through the which he goes,
  Are like a Labyrinth t' amaze his Foes.

Sometime he runs among the Flock of Sheep,
To make the cunning Hounds mistake their Smell;
And sometime, where Earth-delving Conies keep,
To stop the loud Pursuers in their Yell;
  And sometime sorteth with a Herd of Deer:
  Danger deviseth Shifts, Wit waits on Fear.
For there his Smell with others being mingled.
The hot-scent-snuffing Hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous Cry, till they have singled,
With much ado, the cold Fault cleanly out:
  Then do they spend their Mouths; Eccho replies,
  As if another Chase were in the Skies.
By this poor Watt far off, upon a Hill,
Stands on his hinder Legs with list'ning Ear,
To hearken if his Foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud Alarums he doth hear,
  And now his Grief may be compared well
  To one sore sick, that hears the passing Bell.
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled Wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the Way.
Each envious Brier his weary Legs doth scratch,
Each Shadow makes him stop, each Murmur stay.
  For Misery is trodden on by many;
  And being low, never reliev'd 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 my self, 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, Oh, then imagine this,
The Earth in Love with thee, thy Footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a Kiss.
Rich Preys make rich Men Thieves, so do thy Lips
  Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
  Lest she should steal a Kiss, and die forsworn.
Now of this dark Night I perceive the Reason,
Cynthia for Shame obscures her Silver Shrine,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of Treason,
For stealing Moulds from Heaven, that were divine,
  Wherein she fram'd thee in high Heaven's Despite,
  To shame the Sun by Day, and her by Night.
And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies
To cross the curious Workmanship of Nature;
To mingle Beauty with Infirmities,
And pure Perfection with impure Defeature;
  Making it subject to the Tyranny
  Of sad Mischances, and much Misery.
As burning Fever, Agues pale and Faint,
Life-poisoning Pestilence, and Frenzies Woad,
The Marrow-eating Sickness, whose Attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the Blood:
  Surfeits, Imposthumes, Grief, and damn'd Despair,
  Swear Nature's Death for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these Maladies,
But in one Minute's Sight brings Beauty under:
Both Favour, Savour, Hue and Qualities,
Whereat th' imperial Gazer late did wonder,
  Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done,
  As mountain Snow melts with the Mid-day Sun.
Therefore, despite of fruitless Chastity,
Love-lacking Vestals, and self-loving Nuns,
Thus on the Earth would breed a Scarcity,
And barren Dearth of Daughters and of Sons,
  Be prodigal. The Lamp that burns by Night,
  Dries up his Oil, to lend the World his Light.
What is thy Body, but a swallowing Grave,
Seeming to bury that Posterity,
Which by the Rights of Time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in their Obscurity?
  If so, the World will hold the in disdain,
  Sith in thy Pride so fair a Hope is slain.
So in thy self, thy self art made away,
A Mischief worse, than civil home-bred Strife,
Or theirs, whose desperate Hands themselves do slay,
Or Butchers Sire, that raves his Son of Life.
  Foul-cankering Rust the hidden Treasure frets;
  But Gold, that's put to Use, more Gold begets.
Nay then, quoth Adon, you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled Theam;
The Kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the Stream.
  For by this black-fac'd Night, Desires foul Nurse,
  Your Treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

If Love hath lent you twenty thousand Tongues,
And every Tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton Mermaids Songs,
Yet from mine Ear the tempting Tune is blown.
  For know, my Heart stands armed in my Ear,
  And will not let a false Sound enter there:
Lest the deceiving Harmony should run
Into the quiet Closure of my Breast;
And then my little Heart were quite undone,
In his Bed-chamber to be barr'd of Rest.
  No, Lady, no, my Heart longs not to groan,
  But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
What have you urg'd, that I cannot reprove?
The Path is smooth, that leadeth unto Danger.
I hate not Love, but your Device in Love,
That lends Embracements unto every Stranger.
  You do it for Increase. O strange Excuse!
  When Reason is the Bawd to Lust's Abuse.
Call it not Love, for Love to Heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on Earth usurps his Name;
Under whose simple Semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh Beauty, blotting it with Blame:
  Which the hot Tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
  As Caterpillars do the tender Leaves.
Love comforteth like Sun-shine after Rain;
But Lust's Effect is Tempest after Sun:
Love's gentle Spring doth always fresh remain;
Lust's Winter comes, e'er Summer half be done.
  Love surfeits not; Lust like a Glutton dies:
  Love is all Truth; Lust full of forged Lyes.

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 Calls 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 thro the dark Lanes runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
  Look how a bright Star shooteth from the Sky,
  So glides he in the Night from Venus' Eye.
Which after him she darts, as One on shore
Gazing upon a late embarked Friend,
Till the wild Waves will have him seen no more,
Whose Ridges with the meeting Clouds contend:
  So did the merciless and pitchy Night,
  Fold in the Object, that did feed her Sight.
Whereat amaz'd, as One that unaware
Hath dropt a precious Jewel in the Flood;
Or stonish'd, as Night-Wanderers often are,
Their Light blown out in some mistrustful Wood:
  E'en so confounded in the dark she lay,
  Having lost the fair Discovery of her Way.
And now she beats her Heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour Caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal Repetition of her Moans:
Passion on Passion deeply is redoubled.
  Ay me! she cries, and twenty times, Woe! Woe!
  And twenty Eccho's twenty times cry so.

She marking them, begins a waiting Note,
And sings extemp'rally a woful Ditty:
How Love makes young Men thrall, and old Men dote;
How Love is wise in Folly, foolish witty:
  Her heavy Anthem still concludes in Woe!
  And still the Choir of Eccho's answers so.
Her Song was tedious, and out-wore the Night,
For Lovers Hours are long, tho seeming short:
If pleas'd themselves, others they think delight
In such-like Circumstance, with such-like Sport.
  Their copious Stories, oftentimes begun,
  End without Audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the Night withal,
But idle Sounds, resembling Parasites?
Like shrill-tongu'd Tapsters answering every Call,
Soothing the Humour of fantastic Wits.
  She said, 'tis so: They answer all, 'tis so,
  And would say after her, if she said no.
Loe! 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,
  The Cedar-Tops and Hills seem burnish'd Gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair Good-morrow:
O! thou clear God, and Patron of all Light!
From whom each Lamp, and shining Star doth borrow
The beauteous Influence, that makes him bright:
  There lives a Son, that suck'd an earthly Mother,
  May lend thee Light, as thou dost lend to other.

This said, she hasteth to a Myrtle Grove,
Musing the Morning is so much o'er-worn;
And yet she hears no Tidings of her Love:
She hearkens for his Hounds, and for his Horn.
  Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily,
  And all in haste she coasteth to the Cry.
And as she runs, the Bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the Neck, some kiss her Face,
Some twine about her Thigh to make her stay;
She wildly breaketh from their strict Embrace,
  Like a milch Doe, whose swelling Dugs do ake,
  Hasting to feed her Fawn, hid in some Brake.
By this, she hears the Hounds are at a Bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an Adder,
Wreath'd up in fatal Folds, just in his way,
The Fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder:
  E'en so the timorous Yelping of the Hounds,
  Appalls her Senses, and her Sp'rits 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 Curt'sy, who shall cope him first.
This dismal Cry rings sadly in her Ear,
Thro which it enters, to surprize her Heart;
Who overcome by Doubt, and bloodless Fear,
With cold pale Weakness numbs each feeling Part:
  Like Soldiers, when their Captain once doth yield,
  They basely fly, and dare not stay the Field.

Thus stands she in a trembling Extasy,
Till cheering up her Senses sore dismaid,
She tells them 'tis a causless Fantasy,
And childish Error, that they are afraid;
  Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more:
  And with that Word, she spy'd the hunted Boar.
Whose frothy Mouth bepainted all with red,
Like Milk and Blood being mingled both together,
A second Fear thro 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, to rate the Boar for Murder.
A thousand Spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the Paths that she untreads again;
Her more than Haste is marred with Delays:
Like the Proceedings of a drunken Brain,
  Full of Respect, yet not at all respecting;
  In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennel'd in a Brake she finds an Hound,
And asks the weary Caitiff for his Master;
And there another licking of his Wound,
'Gainst venom'd Sores the only sovereign Plaister:
  And here she meets another sadly scolding,
  To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding Noise,
Another flap-mouth'd Mourner black and grim,
Against the Welkin vollies out his Voice;
Another, and another, answer him,
  Clapping their proud Tails to the Ground below,
  Shaking their scratcht Ears, bleeding as they go.

Look! how the World's poor People are amaz'd
At Apparitions, Signs, and Prodigies;
Whereon with fearful Eyes they long have gaz'd,
Infusing them with dreadful Prophecies:
  So she, at these sad Signs, draws up her Breath,
  And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
Hard-favour'd Tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful Divorce of Love (thus chides she Death)
Grim-grinning Ghost, Earth's Worm, what dost thou mean?
To stifle Beauty, and to steal his Breath?
  Who when he liv'd, his Breath and Beauty set
  Gloss on the Rose, Smell to the Violet.
If he be dead, O no! it cannot be
Seeing his Beauty, thou 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 spoke,
And hearing him, thy Power had lost his Power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this Stroke,
They bid thee crop a Weed, thou pluck'st a Flower:
  Love's golden Arrow at him should have fled,
  And not Death's Ebon-Dart to strike him dead.
Dost thou drink Tears, that thou provok'st such 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 veil'd her Eye-lids, which like Sluices stop'd
The crystal Tide, that from her two Cheeks fair
In the sweet Channel of her Bosom drop'd.
  But thro the Flood-Gates breaks the silver Rain,
  And with his strong Course opens them again.
O! how her Eyes and Tears did lend, and borrow!
Her Eyes seen in her Tears, Tears in her Eye;
Both Crystals, where they view'd each other's Sorrow:
Sorrow, that friendly Sighs sought still to dry.
  But like a stormy Day, now Wind, now Rain;
  Sighs dry her Cheeks, Tears make them wet again.
Variable Passions throng her constant Woe,
As striving which should best become her Grief:
All entertain'd, each Passion labours so,
That every present Sorrow seemeth Chief.
  But none is best, then join they all together,
  Like many Clouds consulting for foul Weather.
By this, far off she hears some Huntsman hollow:
A Nurse's Song ne'er pleas'd her Babe so well.
The dire Imagination she did follow,
This Sound of Hope doth labour to expell:
  For now reviving Joy bids her rejoice,
  And flatters her, it is Adonis' Voice.
Whereat her Tears began to turn their Tide,
Being prison'd in her Eye, like Pearls in Glass:
Yet sometime falls an Orient Drop beside,
Which her Cheek melts, as scorning it should pass
  To wash the foul Face of the sluttish Ground,
  Who is but drunken, when she seemeth drown'd.

O hard-believing Love! how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too Credulous!
Thy Weal, and Woe are both of them Extremes,
Despair and Hope make thee ridiculous!
  The one doth statter thee, in Thoughts unlikely,
  With likely Thoughts, the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the Web that she had wrought,
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame:
It was not she that call'd him all to nought,
Now she adds Honour to his hateful Name:
  She 'cleeps him King of Graves, and Grave for Kings,
  Imperial Supreme of Mortal things.
No, no, (quoth she) sweet Death! I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of Fear,
When as I met the Boar that bloody Beast,
Which knows no Pity, but is still severe.
  Then, gentle Shadow! (Truth I must confess)
  I rail'd on thee, fearing my Love's Decease.
'Tis not my Fault: the Boar provok'd my Tongue:
Be wreak'd on him (invisible Commander!)
'Tis he, foul Creature, that hath done thee Wrong,
I did but act, he's Author of thy Slander.
  Grief hath two Tongues, and never Woman yet
  Cou'd 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, and Stories,
  His 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 is Beauty slain,
  And Beauty dead, black Chaos comes again.
Fye! fye! fond Love, thou art so full of Fear,
As one with Treasure laden, hem'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 Faulcon 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 with the View,
  Like Stars asham'd of Day, themselves withdrew.
Or as the Snail, whose tender Horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly Cave with Pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in Shade doth sit,
Long after fearing, to creep forth again:
  So at his bloody View her Eyes are fled,
  Into the deep dark Cabins of her Head.
Where they resign'd their Office and their Light
To the disposing of her troubled Brain:
Who bids them still consort with ugly Night,
And never wound the Heart with Looks again:
  Who like a King perplexed in his Throne,
  By their Suggestions gives a deadly Groan.

Whereat each Tributary Subject quakes,
As when the Wind imprison'd in the Ground,
Struggling for Passage, Earth's Foundation shakes,
Which with cold Terrors doth Mens Minds confound,
  This Mutiny each Part doth so surprize,
  That from their dark Beds once more leap her Eyes.
And, being open'd threw unwilling Sight
Upon the wide Wound, that the Boar had trench'd
In his soft Flank; whose wonted Lilly white
With purple Tears, that his Wound wept, was 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, frantickly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead.
  Her Voice is stop'd, her Joints forget to bow,
  Her Eyes are mad that they have wept till now.
Upon his Hurt she looks so stedfastly,
That her Sight dazling, makes the Wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling Eye,
That makes more Gashes where no Breach should be:
  His Face seems twain, each several Limb 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 melt at mine Eyes as Fire,
  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 is Musick now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?
  The Flowers are sweet, their Colours fresh and trim,
  But true sweet Beauty liv'd, and dy'd in him.
Bonnet, or Veil, henceforth no Creature wear;
Nor Sun, nor Wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no Fair to lose, you need not fear;
The Sun doth scorn you, and the Wind doth hiss you.
  But when Adonis liv'd, Sun and sharp Air
  Lurk'd like two Thieves, to rob him of his Fair.
And therefore wou'd he put his Bonnet on,
Under whose Brim the gaudy Sun wou'd peep;
The Wind wou'd blow it off, and being gone
Play with his Locks, then wou'd Adonis weep:
  And strait in Pity of his tender Years,
  They both wou'd strive who first shou'd dry his Tears.
To see his Face the Lion walks along
Behind some Hedge, because he wou'd not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The Tyger wou'd be tame, and gently hear him:
  If he had spoke, the Wolf wou'd leave his Prey,
  And never fright the silly Lamb that Day.
When he beheld his Shadow in a Brook,
There 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 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, true, true, thus was Adonis slain,
He ran upon the Boar with his sharp Spear,
Who wou'd not whet his Teeth at him again,
But by a Kiss thought to persuade him there:
  And nousling in his Flank, the loving Swine
  Sheath'd unaware his Tusk in his soft Groin.
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him, I shou'd have kill'd him first.
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My Mouth with his; the more am I accurs'd.
  With this she falleth in the Place she stood,
  And stains her Face with his congealed Blood.
She looks upon his Lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the Hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his Ear a heavy Tale,
As if he heard the woful Words she told:
  She lifts the Coffer-lids that close his Eyes,
  Where, lo! two Lamps burnt out in Darkness lies.
Two Glasses, where her self her self beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their Virtue lost, wherein they late excel'd,
And every Beauty robb'd of his Effect.
  Wonder of time! (quoth she) this is my Spight,
  That, you being dead, the Day shou'd 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 too high, or low;
  That all Love's Pleasures shall not match his Woe.
It shall be fickle, false, and full of Fraud,
And shall be blasted in a breathing-while,
The Bottom Poison, and the Top o'er-straw'd
With Sweets, that shall the sharpest Sight beguile.
  The strongest Body shall it make most weak,
  Strike the Wise dumb, 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, inrich the Poor with Treasures;
  It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,
  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,
And most deceiving when it seems most just:
  Perverse it shall be, when it seems most toward,
  Put Fear to Valour, Courage to the Coward.
It shall be the Cause of War and dire Events,
And set Dissention 'twixt the Son and Sire;
Subject and servile to all Discontents,
As dry combustious Matter is to Fire.
  Sith in his Prime, Death doth my Love destroy,
  They that love best, their Love 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 up chequer'd 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 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 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 is my Breast,
Thou art the next of Blood, and 'tis thy Right;
Low in this hollow Cradle take thy Rest,
My throbbing Heart shall rock thee Day and Night:
  There shall not be one Minute of 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, thro the empty Skies
In her light Chariot quickly is convey'd;
  Holding their Course to Paphos, where their Queen
  Means to immure her self, and not be seen.

TARQUIN AND LUCRECE.

Right Honourable,

The Love I dedicate to your Lordship, is without end: whereof this Pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous Moiety. The Warrant I have of your Honourable Disposition, not the Worth of my

untutor'd Lines, makes it assur'd of Acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my Worth greater, my Duty should shew greater: mean time, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship: To whom I wish long Life, still lengthen'd with all Happiness.

Your Lordship's in all Duty,
Will. Shakespear.

Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive Pride surnam'd Superbus) after he had caus'd his Father-in-Law, Servius Tullius to be cruelly murder'd, and contrary to the Roman Laws and Customs, not requiring or staying for the People's Suffrages, had possess'd himself of the Kingdom; went, accompany'd 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 Colatinus extoll'd the incomparable Chastity of his Wife Lucrece. 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 avouch'd, only Colatinus finds his Wife (tho it were late in the Night) spinning amongst her Maids, the other Ladies were found all Dancing and Revelling, or in several Disports. Whereupon the Noblemen yielded Colatinus the Victory, and his Wife the Fame. At that time, Sextus Tarquinius being inflam'd with Lucrece's Beauty, yet smothering his Passion for the present, departed with the rest back to the Camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was (according

to his State) Royally entertain'd, and lodg'd by Lucrece at Colatium. The same Night, he treacherously stealing into her Chamber, violently ravish'd her; and early in the Morning speeded away. Lucrece, in this lamentable Plight, hastily dispatcheth Messengers, one to Rome for her Father, another to the Camp for Colatine. They came, the one accompany'd with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius: and finding Lucrece attir'd in a mourning Habit, demanded the Cause of her Sorrow. She first taking an Oath of them for her Revenge, reveal'd the Actor, and whole matter of his Dealing, and withal suddenly stabb'd her self. Which done, with one Consent, they all vow'd 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 mov'd, that with one Consent, and a general Acclamation, that the Tarquins were all Exil'd, and the State-Government chang'd, from Kings, to Consuls.

Volume 7: The Rape of Lucrece
From the besieg'd Ardea all in Post,
Born by the trustless Wings of false Desire,
Lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman Host,
And to Colatium bears the lightless Fire,
Which in pale Embers hid, lurks to aspire,
  And girdle with imbracing Flames, the Waste
  Of Colatine's fair Love, Lucrece the chaste.
Haply that Name of Chaste unhaply set,
This bateless Edge on his keen Appetite:
When Colatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched Red and White;
Which triumph'd in that Sky of his Delight;
  Where mortal Star, 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 prizeless Wealth the Heavens had him lent,
In the Possession of his beauteous Mate;
Reckoning his Fortune at so high a rate,
  That Kings might be espoused to more Fame,
  But King, nor Prince to such a peerless Dame.
O Happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done!
As is the Morning's silver melting Dew,
Against the golden Splendor of the Sun:
A Date expir'd and cancel'd e'er begun.
  Honour and Beauty in the Owner's Arms,
  Are weakly fortrest from a World of Harms.
Beauty it self doth of it self persuade
The Eyes of Men without an Orator;
What needed then Apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Colatine the Publisher
  Of that rich Jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish Cares, because it is his own?
Perchance his Boast of Lucrece' Sov'reignty
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-pitcht Thoughts, that meaner Men should vant
  The Golden Hap, which their Superiors want.
But some untimely Thought did instigate
His all too timeless speed, if none of those.
His Honour, his Affairs, his Friends, his State,
Neglected all, with swift Intent he goes
To quench the Coal, which in his Liver glows.

  O! rash false Heat wrapt in repentant Cold!
  Thy hasty Spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old.
When at Colatium this false Lord arriv'd,
Well was he welcom'd by the Roman Dame,
Within whose Face, Beauty, and Virtue striv'd,
Which of them both should underprop her Fame.
When Virtue brag'd, Beauty would blush for Shame;
  When Beauty boasted Blushes, in despight
  Virtue would stain that o'er 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 guild
Her silver Cheeks, and call'd it then her Shield;
  Teaching them thus to use it in the Fight,
  When Shame assail'd, the Red should fence the White.
This Heraldry in Lucrece' Face was seen,
Argu'd by Beauty's Red, and Virtue's White;
Of either's Colour was the other Queen,
Proving from World's Minority their Right;
Yet their Ambition makes them still to fight:
  The Sov'reignty of either being so great,
  That oft they interchange each other's Seat.
This silent War of Lillies and of Roses,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair Face's Field,
In their pure Ranks his Traitor Eye incloses,
Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd,
The Coward Captive vanquished doth yield
  To those two Armies, that would let him go,
  Rather than triumph o're so false a Foe.

Now thinks he, that her Husband's shallow Tongue,
The niggard Prodigal, that prais'd her so,
In that high Task hath done her Beauty wrong,
Which far exceeds his barren Skill to show.
Therefore that Praise, which Colatine doth owe,
  Inchanted Tarquin answers with Surmise,
  In silent Wonder of still gazing Eyes.
This earthly Saint, adored by this Devil,
Little suspected the false Worshipper.
&plquo;For Thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream of Evil,
&plquo;Birds never limb'd, no secret Bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good Chear,
  And reverend Welcome to her Princely Guest,
  Whose inward Ill no outward Harm exprest.
For that he colour'd with his high Estate,
Hiding base Sin in Pleats of Majesty,
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime too much Wonder of his Eye:
Which having all, all could not satisfy;
  But poorly rich so wanteth in his Store,
  That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she that never cop'd with stranger-Eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling Looks;
Nor read the subtle shining Secresies
Writ in the glassy Margents of such Books.
She touch'd no unknown Baits, nor fear'd no Hooks;
  Nor could she moralize his wanton Sight
  More than his Eyes were open'd to the Light.
He stories to her Ears her Husband's Fame,
Won in the Fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with Praises Colatine's high Name,
Made glorious by his manly Chivalry,
With bruised Arms and Wreaths of Victory.

  Her Joy with heav'd-up Hand she doth express,
  And wordless, so greets Heav'n for his Success.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes Excuses for his being there;
No cloudy Show of stormy blustring Weather,
Doth yet in his fair Welkin once appear,
Till sable Night, sad Source of Dread and Fear,
  Upon the World dim Darkness doth display,
  And in her vaulty Prison shuts the Day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his Bed,
Intending Weariness with heavy Sprite;
For after Supper long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the Night.
Now leaden Slumber with Life's Strength doth fight,
  And every one to Rest themselves betake,
  Save Thieves, and Cares, and troubled Minds that wake.
As one of which, doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry Dangers of his Will's obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his Will resolving,
Tho weak-built Hopes persuade him to abstaining;
Despair to gain doth traffick oft for gaining:
  And when great Treasure is the Meed propos'd;
  Tho Death be adjunct, there's no Death suppos'd.
Those that much covet are of Gain so fond,
That oft they have not that, which they possess;
They scatter and unloose it from their Bond,
And so by hoping more, they have but less;
Or gaining more, the Profit of Excess
  Is but to surfeit, and such Griefs sustain,
  That they prove bankrupt in this poor, rich, Gain.

The Aim of all, is but to nurse the Life
With Honour, Wealth and Ease in waining Age:
And in this Aim there is such thwarting Strife,
That one for all, or all for one we gage:
As Life for Honour, in fell Battels rage,
  Honour for Wealth, and oft that Wealth doth cost
  The Death of all, and alltogether lost.
So that in venturing all, we leave to be
The things we are, for that which we expect:
And this ambitious foul Infirmity,
In having much, torments us with Defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
  The Thing we have, and, all for want of Wit,
  Make something, nothing by augmenting it.
Such Hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his Honour to obtain his Lust:
And for himself, himself he must forsake;
Then where is Truth, if there be no Self-Trust?
When shall he think to find a Stranger just,
  When he himself, himself confounds, betrays
  To sland'rous Tongues the wretched hateful Lays?
Now stole upon the Time the Dead of Night,
When heavy Sleep had clos'd up mortal Eyes;
No comfortable Star did lend his Light,
No Noise but Owls, and Wolves Death-boding Cries:
Now serves the Season, that they may surprize
  The silly Lambs; pure Thoughts are dead and still,
  Whilst Lust and Murder wakes to stain, and kill.
And now this lustful Lord leapt from his Bed,
Throwing his Mantle rudely o'er his Arm,
Is madly tost between Desire and Dread;
Th' one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm:
But honest Fear, bewitch'd with Lust's foul Charm,

  Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
  Beaten away by brainsick rude Desire.
His Fauchion on a Flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold Stone Sparks of Fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen Torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be Load-star to his lustful Eye,
And to the Flame thus speaks advisedly;
  &plquo;As from this cold Flint I enforc'd this Fire,
  &plquo;So Lucrece must I force to my Desire.
Here pale with Fear, he doth premeditate
The Dangers of his loathsome Enterprize;
And in his inward Mind he doth debate
What following Sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully, he doth despise
  His naked Armour of still slaughter'd Lust,
  And justly thus controuls his Thoughts unjust.
&plquo;Fair Torch burn out thy Light, and lend it not
&plquo;To darken her, whose Light excelleth thine:
&plquo;And die unhallow'd Thoughts, before you blot
&plquo;With your Uncleanness, that which is Divine.
&plquo;Offer pure Incense to so pure a Shrine:
  &plquo;Let fair Humanity abhor the Deed,
  &plquo;That spots and stains Love's modest snow-white Weed.
&plquo;O Shame to Knighthood, and to shining Arms!
&plquo;O foul Dishonour to my Houshold's Grave!
&plquo;O impious Act, including all foul Harms!
&plquo;A martial Man to be soft Fancy's Slave!
&plquo;True Valour still a true Respect should have.
  &plquo;Then my Digression is so vile, so base,
  &plquo;That it will live engraven in my Face.

&plquo;Yes, tho I die, the Scandal will survive,
&plquo;And be an Eye-sore in my Golden Coat:
&plquo;Some loathsome Dash the Herald will contrive,
&plquo;To cipher me how fondly I did dote:
&plquo;That my Posterity shamed with the Note,
  &plquo;Shall curse my Bones, and hold it for no Sin,
  &plquo;To wish that I their Father had not been.
&plquo;What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
&plquo;A Dream, a Breath, a Froth of fleeting Joy.
&plquo;Who buys a Minute's Mirth, to wail a Week?
&plquo;Or sells Eternity, to get a Toy?
&plquo;For one sweet Grape, who will the Vine destroy?
  &plquo;Or what fond Beggar, but to touch the Crown,
  &plquo;Would with the Scepter strait be strucken down?
&plquo;If Colatinus dream of my Intent,
&plquo;Will he not wake, and in a desperate Rage
&plquo;Post hither, this vile Purpose to prevent?
&plquo;This Siege, that hath ingirt his Marriage,
&plquo;This Blur to Youth, this Sorrow to the Sage,
  &plquo;This dying Virtue, this surviving Shame,
  &plquo;Whose Crime will bear an ever-during Blame.
&plquo;O what Excuse can my Invention make,
&plquo;When thou shalt charge me with so black a Deed!
&plquo;Will not my Tongue be mute, my frail Joints shake?
&plquo;Mine Eyes forgo their Light, my false Heart bleed?
&plquo;The Guilt being great; the Fear doth still exceed,
  &plquo;And extreme Fear can neither fight nor fly,
  &plquo;But Coward-like with trembling Terror die.
&plquo;Had Colatinus kill'd my Son or Sire,
&plquo;Or lain in ambush to betray my Life;
&plquo;Or were he not my dear Friend, this Desire
&plquo;Might have excuse to work upon his Wife,
&plquo;As in Revenge or Quital of such Strife:

  &plquo;But as he is my Kinsman, my dear Friend,
  &plquo;The Shame and Fault finds no Excuse, nor End.
&plquo;Shameful it is, if once the Fact be known;
&plquo;Hateful it is; there is no Hate in loving.
&plquo;I'll beg her Love; but she is not her own:
&plquo;The worst is but Denial, and reproving.
&plquo;My Will is strong, past Reason's weak removing.
  &plquo;Who fears a Sentence, or an old Man's Saw,
  &plquo;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, and doth so far proceed,
  That what is vile shews like a virtuous Deed.
Quoth he, she took me kindly by the Hand,
And gaz'd for Tidings in my eager Eyes,
Fearing some bad News from the warlike Band,
Where her beloved Colatinus 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 now her Hand in my Hand being lock'd,
Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal Fear:
Which strook her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her Husband's Welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a Chear,
  That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
  Self-love had never drown'd him in the Flood.

Why hunt I then for Colour, or Excuses?
All Orators are dumb, when Beauty pleads.
Poor Wretches have remorse in poor Abuses;
Love thrives not in the Heart, that Shadows dreads.
Affection is my Captain, and he leads;
  And when his gaudy Banner is display'd,
  The Coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.
Then childish Fear avant! Debating die!
Respect and Reason wait on wrinkled Age!
My Heart shall never countermand mine Eye,
Sad Pause, and deep Regard beseems the Sage;
My part is Youth, and beats these from the Stage.
  Desire my Pilot is, Beauty my Prize;
  Then who fears sinking where such Treasure lies?
As Corn o'er-grown by Weeds, so heedful Fear
Is almost cloak'd by unresisted Lust.
Away he steals with open list'ning 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 Colatine:
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 up his servile Powers,
Who flatter'd by their Leaders 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 doth march to Lucrece' Bed.
The Locks between her Chamber and his Will,
Each one by him enforc'd, recites 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-wandring Weezels shreek to see him there,
  They fright him, yet he still pursues his Fear.
As each unwilling Portal yields him way,
Thro little Vents and Crannies of the Place,
The Wind wars with his Torch to make him stay,
And blows the Smoke of it into his Face,
Extinguishing his Conduct in this Case.
  But his hot Heart, which fond Desire doth scorch,
  Puffs forth another Wind that fires the Torch.
And being lighted by the Light, he spies
Lucrecia's Glove, wherein the Needle sticks;
He takes it from the Rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the Needle his Finger pricks:
As who should say, this Glove to wanton Tricks
  Is not inur'd; return again in haste,
  Thou seest our Mistress' Ornaments are chaste.
But all these poor Forbiddings could not stay him,
He in the worst Sense construes their Denial:
The Doors, the Wind, the Glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental Things of Trial,
Or as those Bars, which stop the hourly Dial;
  Which with a lingring 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 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, e'er 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 to pray he doth begin,
  As if the Heavens should countenance his Sin.
But in the midst of his unfruitful Prayer,
Having sollicited th' Eternal Power,
That his foul Thoughts might compass his fair Fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the Hour;
Even there he starts, quoth he, I must deflour!
  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,
My Will is back'd with Resolution:
Thoughts are but Dreams till their Effects be try'd,
Black Sin is cleared 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, the 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 works e'er Traitors be espy'd.
Who sees the lurking Serpent, steps aside;

  But she sound-sleeping, 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 Eye-balls in his Head,
By their high Treason in his Heart misled;
  Which gives the Watch-word to his Hand too soon,
  To draw the Cloud that hides the silver Moon.
Look as the fair, and fiery-pointed Sun,
Rushing from forth a Cloud, bereaves our Sight;
Even so the Curtain drawn, his Eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater Light:
Whether it is, that she reflects so bright,
  That dazleth them, or else some Shame suppos'd;
  But blind they are, and keep themselves inclos'd.
O had they in that darksome Prison died!
Then had they seen the Period of their Ill;
Then Colatine 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 lilly Hand her rosy Cheeks lies under,
Cozening the Pillow of a lawful Kiss;
Which therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either Side to want his Bliss:
Between whose Hills, her Head intombed is;
  Where like a virtuous Monument she lies,
  To be admir'd of leud unhallow'd Eyes.

Without the Bed her other fair Hand was,
On the green Coverlet, whose perfect White
Shew'd like an April Daizy on the Grass,
With pearly Sweat, resembling Dew of Night.
Her Eyes like Marigolds had sheath'd their Light,
  And canopy'd in Darkness sweetly lay,
  Till they might open to adorn the Day.
Her Hair like golden Threds plaid with her Breath;
O modest Wantons! wanton Modesty!
Showing Life's Triumph in the Map of Death,
And Death's dim Look in Life's Mortality.
Each in her Sleep themselves so beautify,
  As if between them twain there were no Strife,
  But that Life liv'd in Death, and Death in Life.
Her Breasts like Ivory Globes circled with Blue,
A pair of maiden Worlds unconquered,
Save of their Lord, no bearing Yoke they knew,
And him by Oath they truly honoured.
These Worlds in Tarquin, new Ambition bred,
  Who like a foul Usurper went about,
  From this fair Throne to have the Owner out.
What could he see, but mightily he noted?
What did he note, but strongly he desir'd?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his Will his wilful Eye he tir'd.
With more than Admiration he admir'd
  Her Azure Veins, her Alabaster Skin,
  Her Coral Lips, her Snow-white dimpled Chin.
As the grim Lion fawneth o'er his Prey,
Sharp Hunger by the Conquest satisfy'd:
So o'er this sleeping Soul doth Tarquin stay,
His Rage of Lust by gazing qualify'd,
Slack'd, not supprest; 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,
In bloody Death and Ravishment delighting,
Nor Childrens Tears, nor Mothers Groans respecting,
Swell in their Pride, the Onset still expecting.
  Anon his beating Heart alarum striking,
  Gives the hot Charge, and bids them do their Liking.
His drumming Heart chears up his burning Eye;
His Eye commends the leading to his Hand;
His Hand, as proud of such a Dignity,
Smoaking with Pride, march'd on to make his Stand
On her bare Breasts, the Heart of all her Land;
  Whose Ranks of blue Veins, as his Hand did scale,
  Left their round Turrets destitute and pale.
They must'ring 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 amaz'd, breaks ope her lock'd-up Eyes;
  Who peeping forth, this Tumult to behold,
  Are by his flaming Torch dim'd and controul'd.
Imagine her as one in dead of Night,
Forth from 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? but she in worser taking,
  From Sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
  The Sight, which makes supposed Terror true.

Wrapt and confounded in a thousand Fears,
Like to a new-kill'd Bird she trembling lies:
She dares not look, yet winking there appear
Quick-shifting Anticks ugly in her Eyes,
Such Shadows are the weak Brain's 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!) distrest,
Wounding it self 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, and enter this sweet City.
First like a Trumpet doth his Tongue begin
To sound a Parley to his heartless Foe,
Who o'er the white Sheet peers her whiter Chin,
The Reason of this Alarum to know,
Which he by dumb Demeanor seeks to show;
  But she with vehement Prayers urgeth still,
  Under what Colour he commits this Ill.
Thus he replies: The Colour in thy Face,
That ev'n for Anger makes the Lilly pale,
And the Red-Rose blush at her own Disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving Tale.
Under that Colour am I come to scale
  Thy never-conquer'd Fort, the Fault is thine,
  For those thine Eyes betray thee unto mine.
Thus I forestal thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy Beauty hath insnar'd 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 it was newly bred.
I see what Crosses my Attempts will bring;
I know what Thorns the growing Rose defends;
I think the Honey guarded with a Sting.
All this before-hand 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 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 controul,
Or stop the headlong Fury of his Speed.
I know repentant Tears insue the Deed,
  Reproach, Disdain, and deadly Enmity;
  Yet strive I to imbrace mine Infamy,
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman Blade,
Which like a Faulcon tow'ring in the Skies,
Coucheth the Fowl below with his Wings Shade,
Whose crooked Beak threats, if he mount he dies:
So under his insulting Fauchion lies
  Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells,
  With trembling Fear, as Fowls hear Faulcon's 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 Decay;
  And in thy dead Arms do I mean to place him,
  Swearing I slew him, seeing thee imbrace him.

So thy surviving Husband shall remain
The scornful Mark of every open Eye;
Thy Kinsmen hang their Heads at this Disdain,
Thy Issue blur'd with nameless Bastardy;
And thou the Author of their Obloquy,
  Shalt have thy Trespass cited up in Rhimes,
  And sung by Children in succeeding Times.
But if thou yield, I rest thy secret Friend,
The Fault unknown is, as a Thought unacted;
A little Harm done to a great good End
For lawful Policy remains enacted.
The poisonous Simple sometimes is compacted
  In purest Compounds; being so apply'd,
  His Venom in effect is purify'd.
Then for thy Husband, and thy Children's sake,
Tender my Suit, bequeath not to their Lot
The Shame, that from them no Device can take,
The Blemish that will never be forgot,
Worse than a slavish Wipe, or birth-hour's Blot:
  For Marks describ'd in Mens Nativity,
  Are Nature's Faults, not their own Infamy.
Here with a Cockatrice dead-killing Eye,
He rouseth up himself, and makes a Pause;
While she, the Picture of true Piety,
Like a white Hind beneath the Gripe's sharp Claws,
Pleads in a Wilderness, where are no Laws,
  To the rough Beast, that knows no gentle Right,
  Nor ought obeys but his foul Appetite.
As when a black-fac'd Cloud the World does threat,
In his dim Mist th' aspiring Mountain hiding,
From Earth's dark Womb some gentle Gust does get,
Which blow these pitchy Vapours from their biding,
Hindring their present Fall by this dividing.

  So his unhallow'd haste her Words delays,
  And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.
Like foul night-waking Cat he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast Foot the weak Mouse panteth;
Her sad Behaviour feeds his Vulture Folly,
A swallowing Gulf, that e'en in Plenty wanteth.
His Ear her Prayers admits, but his Heart granteth
  No penetrable Entrance to her plaining;
  Tears harden Lust, tho Marble wears with raining.
Her Pity-pleading Eyes are sadly fix'd
In the remorseless Wrinkles of his Face:
Her modest Eloquence with Sighs is mix'd,
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, e'er 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 of both:
  That to his borrow'd Bed he make 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 be ended.
  He is no Wood-man that doth bend his Bow,
  To strike a poor unseasonable Doe.

My Husband is thy Friend, for his sake spare me;
Thy self art mighty, for thy own sake leave me;
My self a Weakling do not then insnare me;
Thou look'st not like Deceit, do not deceive me;
My Sighs like Whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee.
  If ever Man was mov'd 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-threatning Heart,
To soften it with their continual Motion;
For Stones dissolv'd to Water do convert.
O! 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 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 in thine Age,
When thus thy Vices bud before thy Spring?
If in thy Hope thou dar'st do such Outrage,
What dar'st thou not, when once thou art a King?
O! be remembred, no outrageous thing
  From Vassal Actors can be wip'd away,
  Then Kings Misdeeds cannot be hid in Clay.
This Deed shall make thee only lov'd for Fear,
But happy Monarchs still are fear'd for Love:
With foul Offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like Offences prove:
If but for fear of this, thy Will remove.

  For Princes are the Glass, the School, the Book,
  Where Subjects 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,
  Thou back'st Reproach against long-living Laud,
  And mak'st fair Reputation but a Bawd.
Hast thou commanded? by Him that gave it thee
From a pure Heart command thy rebel Will:
Draw not thy Sword to guard Iniquity,
For it was lent thee all that Brood to kill.
Thy Princely Office how canst thou fulfil,
  When pattern'd by thy Fault, foul Sin may say,
  He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way.
Think but how vile a Spectacle it were,
To view thy present Trespass in another:
Mens 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 wrapt in with Infamies,
  That from their own Misdeeds askaunce their Eyes!
To thee, to thee, my heav'd-up Hands appeal,
Not to seducing Lust's outrageous Fire;
I sue for exil'd 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,
  That thou shalt see thy State, and pity mine.

Have done, quoth he, my uncontrouled Tide
Turns not, but swells the higher by this Let;
Small Lights are soon blown out, huge Fires abide,
And with the Wind in greater Fury fret:
The petty Streams that pay a daily Debt
  To their salt Sovereign with their fresh false haste,
  Add to his Flow, but alter not the 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 to stain the Ocean of thy Blood.
If all these petty Ills should change thy Good,
  Thy Sea within a puddle Womb is burs'd,
  And not the Puddle in thy Sea dispers'd.
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 thy 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 wither at the Cedar's Root.
So lett thy Thoughts low Vassals to thy State.—
No more, quoth he, by Heav'n I will not hear thee:
Yield to my Love; if not, enforced Hate,
Instead of Love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee:
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee
  Unto the 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 Night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The Wolf has seiz'd his Prey, the poor Lamb cries,

  Till with her own white Fleece her Voice controul'd,
  Intombs her Outcry in her Lips sweet Fold.
For with the nightly Linnen 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 foul 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 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 alltogether balk
The Prey wherein by Nature they delight:
So sufeit-taking Tarquin fears this Night;
  His Taste delicious, in Digestion souring,
  Devours his Will, that liv'd by foul devouring.
O! deeper Sin, than bottomless Conceit
Can comprehend in still Imagination!
Drunken Desire must vomit his Receit,
E'er he can see his own Abomination.
While Lust is in his Pride, no Exclamation
  Can curb his Heat, or rein his rash Desire,
  Till, like a Jade, Self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discolour'd Cheek,
With heavy Eye, knit Brow, and strengthless Pace,
Feeble Desire all recreant, poor and meek,
Like to a Bankrupt Beggar wails his Case:
The Flesh being proud, Desire does fight with Grace.
  For there it revels, and when that decays,
  The guilty Rebel for Remission prays.
So fares it with this fault-full Lord of Rome,
Who this Accomplishment so hotly chas'd;
For now against himself he sounds this Doom,
That thro the length of time he stands disgrac'd:
Besides, his Soul's fair Temple is defac'd;
  To whose weak Ruins muster Troops of Cares,
  To ask the spotted Princess how she fares.
She says, her Subjects with foul Insurrection
Have batter'd down her consecrated Wall,
And by their mortal Fault brought in subjection
Her Immortality, and made her thrall
To living Death, and Pain perpetual:
  Which in her Prescience she controuled still,
  But her Foresight could not fore-stall their Will.
E'en in this Thought thro the dark Night he stealeth,
A Captive Victor, that hath lost in Gain:
Bearing away the Wound, that nothing healeth,
The Scar that will, despite of Cure, remain:
Leaving his Spoil perplex'd in greater Pain.
  She bears the Load of Lust he left behind,
  And he the Burden of a guilty Mind.
He like a thievish Dog creeps sadly thence,
She like a weary'd Lamb lies panting there:
He scowls and hates himself for his Offence,
She desperate, with her Nails her Flesh doth tear:
He faintly flies, sweating with guilty Fear;

  She stays exclaiming on the direful Night,
  He runs and chides his vanish'd loath'd Delight.
He thence departs a heavy Convertite;
She there remains a hopeless Cast-away:
He in his speed looks for the Morning-Light;
She prays she never may behold the Day:
For Day (quoth she) Night-Scapes doth open lay;
  And my true Eyes have never practis'd how
  To cloake 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 lie,
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 their Cheeks what helpless Shame they 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
Some purer Chest to close so pure a Mind.
  Frantick with Grief, thus breathes she forth her Spight
  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 of Defame!
  Grim Cave of Death! whispering Conspirator
  With close-tongued Treason, and the Ravisher!

O hateful, vaporous, 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 e'er he go to bed,
  Knit poisonous Clouds about his golden Head.
With rotten Damps ravish the Morning Air,
Let their exhal'd unwholesome Breaths make sick
The Life of Purity, the supreme Fair,
E'er he arrive his weary Noon-tide Prick:
And let thy misty Vapours march so thick,
  That in their smoaky Ranks his smother'd Light
  May set at Noon, and make perpetual Night.
Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's Child,
The silver-shining Queen him would disdain;
Her twinkling Handmaids too (by him defil'd)
Thro Night's black Bosom should not peep again.
So should I have Copartners in my Pain:
  And Fellowship in Woe doth Woe asswage,
  As Palmers that make short their Pilgrimage.
Where now? have I no one to blush with me?
To cross their Arms, and hang their Heads with mine;
To mask their Brows, and hide their Infamy.
But I alone, alone must sit and pine;
Seasoning the Earth with Showers of Silver Brine;
  Mingling my Talk with Tears, my Grief with Groans,
  Poor wasting Monuments of lasting Moans.
O Night! thou Furnace of foul-recking Smoke!
Let not the jealous Day behold that Face,
Which underneath thy black all-hiding Cloke
Immodestly lies martyr'd 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 shall shew, character'd in my Brow,
The Story of sweet Chastity's Decay,
The Impious Breach of holy Wedlock's Vow.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
  To cipher what is writ in learned Books,
  Will quote 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 tye the Hearers to attend each Line,
  How Tarquin wronged me, I Colatine.
Let my good Name, that sensless Reputation,
For Colatine's dear Love be kept unspotted;
If that be made a Theme for Disputation,
The Branches of another Root are rotted,
And undeserv'd Reproach to him allotted,
  That is as clear from this Attaint of mine,
  As I, e'er this, was pure to Colatine.
O unseen Shame! invisible Disgrace!
O unfelt Sore! crest-wounding private Scar!
Reproach is stampt in Colatinus' Face,
And Tarquin's Eye may read the Mote afar,
How he in Peace is wounded, not in War.
  Alas! how many bear such shameful Blows,
  Which not themselves, but he that gives them, knows?

If, Colatine, 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 wandring Wasp hath crept,
  And suck'd the Honey which thy chaste Bee kept.
Yet am I guilty of thy Honour's Wreck?
Yet for thy Honour did I entertain him;
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been Dishonour to disdain him.
Besides, of Weariness he did complain him,
  And talk'd of Virtue: O unlook'd for Evil!
  When Virtue is profan'd in such a Devil!
Why should the Worm intrude the maiden Bud?
Or hateful Cuckows 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 doth not pollute.
The aged Man, that coffers up his Gold,
Is plagu'd with Cramps, and Gouts, and painful Fits;
And scarce hath Eyes his Treasure to behold:
But still like pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless bans the Harvest 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 Fortune long.

  The Sweets we wish for turn to loathed Sours,
  E'en in the Moment, that we call them ours.
Unruly Blasts wait on the tender Spring;
Unwholesom Weeds take root with precious Flowers;
The Adder hisseth where the sweet Birds sing;
What Vertue breeds, Iniquity devours:
We have no good, that we can say is ours;
  But ill-annexed Opportunity,
  Or kills his Life, or else his Quality.
O! Opportunity! thy Guilt is great;
'Tis thou, that execut'st the Traitor's Treason:
Thou set'st the Wolf where he the Lamb may get;
Whoever plots the Sin, thou point'st the Season:
'Tis thou that spurn'st at Right, at Law, at Reason;
  And in thy shady Cell, where none may spy her,
  Sits Sin to seize the Souls, that wander by her.
Thou mak'st the Vestal violate her Oath;
Thou blow'st the Fire when Temperance is thaw'd:
Thou smother'st Honesty, thou murder'st Troth;
Thou foul Abettor, thou notorious Bawd!
Thou plantest Scandal, and displacest Laud:
  Thou Ravisher, thou Traitor, thou false Thief!
  Thy Hony turns to Gall, thy Joy to Grief.
Thy secret Pleasure turns to open Shame;
Thy private Feasting to a publick Fast;
Thy smothering Titles to a ragged Name;
Thy sugar'd Tongue to bitter Worm-wood 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 Friend,
And bring him where his Suit may be obtain'd?
When wilt thou sort an Hour great Strifes to end?
Or free that Soul, which Wretchedness hath chain'd?
Give Physick to the sick, Ease to the pain'd?
  The Poor, Lame, Blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
  But they ne'er met with Opportunity.
The Patient dies while the Physician sleeps;
The Orphan pines while the Oppressor feeds:
Justice is feasting while the Widow weeps;
Advice is sporting while Infection breeds:
Thou grant'st no Time for charitable Deeds.
  Wrath, Envy, Treason, Rape, and Murder rages;
  Thy heinous Hours wait on them, as their Pages.
When Truth and Vertue have to do with thee,
A thousand Crosses keep them from thy Aid;
They buy thy Help: but Sin ne'er gives a Fee;
He gratis comes, and thou art well apaid,
As well to hear, as grant what he hath said:
  My Colatine would else have come to me,
  When Tarquin did; but he was staid by Thee.
Guilty thou art of Murder, and of Theft;
Guilty of Perjury, and Subornation;
Guilty of Treason, Forgery and Shift;
Guilty of Incest, that Abomination;
An Accessary by thine Inclination
  To all Sins past, and all that are to come,
  From the Creation to the General Doom.
Mishapen Time, Copesemate of ugly Night;
Swift subtil Post, Carrier of grisly Care;

Eater of Youth, false Slave to false Delight,
Base Watch of Woes, Sin's Pack-horse, Vertue's Snare:
Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are.
  O! hear me then, injurious shifting Time!
  Be guilty of my Death, since of my Crime.
Why hath thy Servant Opportunity
Betray'd the Hours, thou gav'st me to repose?
Cancel'd my Fortunes, and inchained me
To endless Date of never-ending Woes?
Time's Office is to find the Hate of Foes,
  To eat up Error by Opinion bred;
  Not spend the Dowry of a lawful Bed.
Time's Glory is to calm contending Kings;
To unmask Falshood, and bring Truth to light;
To stamp the Seal of Time on aged things;
To wake the Morn, and centinel the Night;
To wrong the Wronger till he render Right;
  To ruinate proud Buildings with thy Hours,
  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 their Contents;
To pluck the Quills from antient Ravens Wings;
To dry the old Oak's Sap, and cherish Springs;
  To spoil Antiquities of hammer'd Steel,
  And turn the giddy Round of Fortune's Wheel:
To shew the Beldame Daughters of her Daughter;
To make the Child a Man, the Man a Child;
To slay the Tyger, that doth live by Slaughter;
To tame the Unicorn, and Lion wild;
To mock the Subtle, in themselves beguil'd;
  To chear the Plowman with increaseful Crops,
  And waste huge Stones with little Water-drops.

Why work'st thou Mischief in thy Pilgrimage,
Unless thou could'st return to make amends?
One poor retiring Minute in an Age,
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand Friends;
Lending him Wit, that to bad Debtors lends.
  O! this dread Night! wouldst thou one Hour come back,
  I could prevent this Storm, and shun this Wrack.
Thou ceaseless Lacky to Eternity,
With some Mischance cross Tarquin in his Flight;
Devise Extremes beyond Extremity,
To make him curse this cursed crimeful Night:
Let ghastly Shadows his lewd Eyes affright;
  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 Groans:
Let there bechance him pitiful Mischances,
To make him moan; but pity not his Moans:
Stone him with harden'd Hearts harder than Stones;
  And let mild Women to him lose their Mildness;
  Wilder to him than Tygers 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 does 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 Time
  Have time to wail th' abusing of his Time.
O! Time! thou Tutor both to Good, and Bad!
Teach me to curse him, that thou taught'st 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 Deaths-man to so base a Slave?
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.
  The Moon being clouded presently is mist;
  But little Stars may hide them, when they list.
The Crow may bathe his cole-black Wings in Mire,
And unperceiv'd fly with the Filth away;
But if the like the snow-white Swan desire,
The Stain upon his silver Down will stay.
Poor Grooms are sightless Night, Kings glorious Day.
  Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,
  But Eagles gaz'd upon with every Eye.
Oh! idle Words, Servants to shallow Fools!
Unprofitable Sounds, weak Arbitrators!
Busy your selves in skill-contending Schools;
Debate, where Leisure serves, with dull Debators:
To trembling Clients be their Mediators:
  For me, I force not Argument a straw,
  Since that my Case is past all Help of Law.

In vain I rail at Opportunity,
At Time, at Tarquin, and unsearchful Night!
In vain I cavil with mine Infamy,
In vain I spurn at my confirm'd Despight:
This helpless Smoke of Words doth me no Right.
  The Remedy indeed to do me good,
  Is to let forth my foul defiled Blood.
Poor Hand! why quiver'st thou at this Decree?
Honour thy self to rid me of this Shame:
For if I die, my Honour lives in thee;
But if I live, thou liv'st in my Defame;
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal Dame,
  And wast afraid to scratch her wicked Foe,
  Kill both thy self, and Her for yielding so.
This said, from her betumbled Coach she starts,
To find some desperate Instrument of Death;
But this no Slaughter-house, no Tool imparts,
To make more Vent for Passage of her Breath,
Which thronging thro her Lips so vanisheth,
  As Smoke from Ætna, that in Air consumes,
  Or that which from discharged Cannon 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 Fauchion 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: Oh no! that cannot be;
  Of that true Type hath Tarquin rifled me.
Oh! 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 Colatine! 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 Grass shall never come to Growth.
  He shall not boast, who did thy Stock pollute,
  That thou art doating Father of his Fruit.
Nor shall he smile at Thee in secret Thought,
Nor laugh with his Companions at thy State:
But thou shalt know thy Interest was not bought,
Basely with Gold, but stoln 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 first Offence.
I will not poison Thee with my Attaint,
Nor fold my Fault in cleanly coin'd Excuses;
My sable Ground of Sin I will not paint,
To hide the Truth of this false 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-tun'd Warble of her nightly Sorrow;
And solemn Night with slow sad Gate descended
To ugly Hell; when lo! the blushing Morrow
Lends Light to all fair Eyes, that Light would borrow:
  But cloudy Lucrece shames her self to see,
  And therefore still in Night would cloister'd 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 thro 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 way-ward once, his Mood with nought agrees.
Old Woes, not infant Sorrows bear them mild;
Continuance tames the one, the other wild
  Like an unpractis'd Swimmer plunging still,
  With too much Labour drowns for want of Skill.
So she deep-trenched in a Sea of Care,
Holds Disputation with each thing she views;
And to her self all Sorrow doth compare,
No Object but her Passions Strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues.
  Sometimes her Grief is dumb, and hath no Words;
  Sometime 'tis mad, and too much Talk affords.
The little Birds, that tune their Mornings 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 pleas'd with Grief's Society.
  True Sorrow then is feelingly surpriz'd,
  When with like Semblance it is sympathiz'd.
'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 ake more;
Great Grief grieves most at that will do it good;
Deep Woes roll forward like a gentle Flood,
  Which, being stopt, the bounding Banks o'erflows:
  Grief dallied with, nor Law, nor Limit knows.
You mocking Birds, quoth she, your Tunes intomb
Within your hollow swelling feather'd Breasts;
And in my hearing be you ever dumb;
My restless Discord loves no Stops nor Rests:
A woeful Hostess brooks not merry Guests.
  Relish your nimble Notes to pleasing Ears,
  Distress likes Dumps, when Time is kept with Tears.
Come Philomel, that sing'st of Ravishment,
Make thy sad Grove in my dishevel'd Hair:
As the dank Earth weeps at thy Languishment,
So I at each sad Strain will strain my Tear,
And with deep Groans the Diapason bear.
  For Burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
  While thou on Tereus descant'st better Skill.
And while against a Thorn thou bear'st thy Part,
To keep thy sharp Woes waking; wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my Heart
Will fix a sharp Knife, to affright mine Eye,
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.
  These Means, as Frets upon an Instrument,
  Shall tune our Heartstrings to true Languishment.
And for, poor Bird, thou sing'st not in the Day,
As shaming any Eye should thee behold;
Some dark deep Desart seated from the Way,
That knows nor parching Heat, nor freezing Cold,
We will find out; and there we will unfold
  To Creatures stern, sad Tunes to change their Kinds:
  Since Men prove Beasts, let Beasts bear gentle Minds.

As the poor frighted Deer, that stands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly;
Or one incompast with a winding Maze,
That cannot tread the Way out readily:
So with her self is she in mutiny,
  To live or die, which of the twain were better,
  When Life is sham'd, and Death reproaches Debtor.
To kill my self, quoth she, alack! what were it,
But with my Body my poor Soul's Pollution?
They that lose half, with greater Patience bear it,
Than they whose whole is swallowed in Confusion.
That Mother tries a merciless Conclusion,
  Who having two sweet Babes, when Death takes one,
  Will slay the other, and be Nurse to none.
My Body, or my Soul, which was the dearer,
When the one pure, the other made divine?
Whose Love of either to my self was nearer,
When both were kept from Heaven, and Colatine?
Ay me! the Bark peal'd from the lofty Pine,
  His Leaves will wither, and his Sap decay;
  So must my Soul, her Bark being peal'd away.
Her House is sack'd, her Quiet interrupted;
Her Mansion batter'd by the Enemy;
Her sacred Temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted,
Grosly ingirt with daring Infamy.
Then let it not be call'd Impiety,
  If in this blemish'd Fort I make some Hole,
  Thro which I may convey this troubled Soul.
Yet die I will not, till my Colatine
Have heard the Cause of my untimely Death;

That he may vow, in that sad Hour of mine,
Revenge on him, that made me stop my Breath.
My stained Blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath,
  Which by him tainted shall for him be spent,
  And as his due, writ in my Testament.
My Honour I'll bequeath unto the Knife,
That wounds my Body so dishonoured:
'Tis Honour to deprive dishonour'd Life;
The one will live, the other being dead:
So of Shame's Ashes shall my Fame be bred.
  For in my Death I murder shameful Scorn;
  My Shame so dead, my Honour is new born.
Dear Lord of that dear Jewel I have lost!
What Legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My Resolution, Love, shall be thy Boast,
By whose Example thou reveng'd may'st be:
How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me.
  My self thy Friend, will kill my self thy Foe;
  And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
This brief Abridgment of my Will I make:
My Soul and Body to the Skies, and Ground;
My Resolution (Husband) do you take;
My Honour be the Knife's, that makes my Wound;
My Shame be his, that did my Fame confound;
  And all my Fame that lives, disbursed be
  To those that live, and think no Shame of me.
When Colatine shall oversee this Will,
How was I overseen, that thou shalt see it?
My Blood shall wash the Slander of mine Ill;
My Life's foul Deed, my Life's fair End shall free it.
Faint not, faint Heart, but stoutly say, so be it;

  Yield to my Hand, and that shall conquer thee;
  Thou dead, that dies, and both shall Victors be.
This Plot of Death when sadly she had laid,
And wip'd the brinish Pearl from her bright Eyes;
With untun'd Tongue she hoarsly call'd her Maid,
Whose swift Obedience to her Mistress hies;
For fleet-wing'd Duty with Thought's Feathers flies.
  Poor Lucrece' Cheeks unto her Maid seem so,
  As Winter Meads, when Sun does melt their Snow.
Her Mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
With soft slow Tongue, true Marks of Modesty;
And sorts a sad Look to her Lady's Sorrow,
(For why, her Face wore Sorrow's Livery)
But durst not ask of her audaciously,
  Why her two Suns were cloud-eclipsed so;
  Nor why her fair Cheeks over-wash'd with Woe.
But as the Earth doth weep, the Sun being set,
Each Flower moisten'd like a melting Eye:
E'en so the Maid with swelling Drops 'gan wet
Her circled Eyne, enforc'd by Sympathy
Of those Fair Suns, set in her Mistress' Sky;
  Who in a salt-wav'd Ocean quench their Light,
  Which makes the Maid weep like the dewy Night.
A pretty while these pretty Creatures stand,
Like Ivory Conduits Coral Cisterns filling:
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No Cause, but Company, of her Drops spilling;
Their gentle Sex to weep are often willing;
  Grieving themselves to ghess at other Smarts;
  And then they drown their Eyes, or break their Hearts.

For Men have marble, Women waxen Minds,
And therefore they are form'd as Marble will:
The Weak opprest, th' Impression of strange Kinds
Is form'd in them by Force, by Fraud, or Skill.
Then call them not the Authors of their Ill;
  No more than Wax shall be accounted evil,
  Wherein is stampt the Semblance of a Devil.
Their Smoothness, like an even Champain Plain,
Lays open all the little Worms that creep.
In Men, as in a rough-grown Grove remain
Cave-keeping Evils, that obsurely sleep;
Thro' Chrystal Walls each little Mote will peep.
  Tho' Men can cover Crimes with bold stern Looks,
  Poor Womens Faces are their own Faults Books.
No Man inveighs against the wither'd Flower,
But chides rough Winter, that the Flower has kill'd:
Not that's devour'd, but that, which doth devour,
Is worthy Blame: O let it not be held
Poor Womens Faults, that they are so fulfill'd
  With Mens Abuses; those proud Lords to blame,
  Make weak-made Women Tenants to their Shame.
The Precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Assail'd by Night with Circumstances strong
Of present Death and Shame that might ensue,
By that her Death to do her Husband Wrong;
Such danger to Resistance did belong.
  The dying Fear thro' all her Body spread,
  And who cannot abuse a Body dead?
By this mild Patience did fair Lucrece speak
To the poor Counterfeit of her Complaining.

My Girl, quoth she, on what occasion break
Those Tears from thee, that down thy Cheeks are raining?
If thou dost weep for Grief of my sustaining,
  Know, gentle Wench, it small avails my Mood;
  If Tears cou'd help, mine own would do me good.
But tell me, Girl, when went (and there she staid,
Till after a deep Groan) Tarquin from hence?
Madam, e'er I was up (reply'd the Maid)
The more to blame my sluggard Negligence:
Yet with the Fault I thus far can dispense;
  My self was stirring e'er the break of Day,
  And e'er I rose was Tarquin gone away.
But Lady, if your Maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your Heaviness.
O peace! (quoth Lucrece) if it should be told,
The Repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is than I can well express:
  And that deep Torture may be call'd a Hell,
  When more is felt, than one hath power to tell.
Go, get me hither Paper, Ink, and Pen;
Yet save that Labour, for I have them here:
(What should I say?) one of my Husband's Men
Bid thou be ready by and by, to bear
A Letter to my Lord, my Love, my Dear;
  Bid him with speed prepare to carry it,
  The Cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.
Her Maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the Paper with her Quill;
Conceit and Grief an eager Combat fight,
What Wit sets down is blotted still with Will;
This is too curious good, this blunt and ill:
  Much like a Press of People at a Door,
  Throng her Inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: Thou, worthy Lord
Of that unworthy Wife, that greeteth thee;
Health to thy Person, next vouchsafe t'afford
(If ever, Love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)
Some present speed to come, and visit me.
  So I commend me from our House in Grief;
  My Woes are tedious, tho' my Words are brief.
Here folds she up the Tenor of her Woe,
Her certain Sorrow writ uncertainly:
By this short Schedule Colatine may know
Her Grief, but not her Grief's true Quality;
She dares not therefore make discovery,
  Lest he should hold it her own gross Abuse,
  E'er she with Blood had stain'd her strain'd Excuse.
Besides, the Life and Feeling of her Passion
She hords, to spend when he is by to hear her;
When Sighs, and Groans, and Tears may grace the fashion
Of her Disgrace, the better so to clear her
From that Suspicion, which the World might bear her:
  To shun this Blot she wou'd not blot the Letter
  With Words, till Action might become them better.
To see sad Sights moves more, than hear them told;
For then the Eye interprets to the Ear
The heavy Motion, that it doth behold:
When every Part a Part of Woe doth bear,
'Tis but a Part of Sorrow that we hear.
  Deep Sounds make lesser Noise, than shallow Fords;
  And Sorrow ebbs being blown with Wind of Words.
Her Letter now is seal'd, and on it writ,
At Ardea to my Lord with more than Haste;
The Post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-fac'd Groom to hie as fast,
As lagging Souls before the Northern Blast.

  Speed more than Speed, but dull and slow she deems;
  Extremity still urgeth such Extremes.
The homely Villain curtsies to her low,
And blushing on her with a stedfast Eye,
Receives the Scroll without or Yea, or No,
For outward bashful Innocence doth flie.
But they, whose Guilt within their Bosoms lie,
  Imagine every Eye beholds their Blame;
  For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her Shame.
When, silly Groom (God wot) it was Defect
Of Spirit, Life, and bold Audacity;
Such harmless Creatures have a true Respect
To talk in Deeds, while others saucily
Promise more Speed, but do it leisurely:
  Even so this Pattern of the worn-out Age
  Pawn'd honest Looks, but laid no Words to gage.
His kindled Duty kindled her Mistrust,
That two red Fires in both their Faces blaz'd.
She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's Lust,
And blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd;
Her earnest Eye did make him more amaz'd:
  The more she saw the Blood his Cheeks replenish,
  The more she thought he spy'd in her some Blemish.
But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous Vassal scarce is gone;
The weary Time she cannot entertain,
For now tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan;
So Woe hath wearied Woe, Moan tired Moan,
  That she her Plaints a little while doth stay,
  Pausing for Means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a Piece
Of skilful Painting made for Priam's Troy;
Before the which is drawn the Power of Greece,
For Helen's Rape the City to destroy,
Threatning cloud-kissing Ilion with Annoy;
  Which the conceited Painter drew so proud,
  As Heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the Turrets bow'd.
A thousand lamentable Objects there,
In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless Life:
Many a dire Drop seem'd a weeping Tear
Shed for the slaughter'd Husband by the Wife.
The red Blood reek'd to shew the Painter's Strife,
  And dying Eyes gleam'd forth their ashy Lights,
  Like dying Coals burnt out in tedious Nights.
There might you see the labouring Pioneer
Begrim'd with Sweat, and smeared all with Dust;
And from the Towers of Troy there wou'd appear
The very Eyes of Men thro' Loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little Lust.
  Such sweet observance in this Work was had,
  That one might see those far-off Eyes look sad.
In great Commanders, Grace and Majesty
You might behold triumphing in their Faces:
In Youth Quick-bearing and Dexterity:
And here and there the Painter interlaces
Pale Cowards marching on with trembling Paces;
  Which heartless Peasants did so well resemble,
  That one wou'd swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax, and Ulysses, O! what Art
Of Physiognomy might one behold!
The Face of either cipher'd either's Heart;

Their Face, their Manners most expresly told.
In Ajax' Eyes blunt Rage and Rigor roll'd.
  But the mild Glance that she Ulysses lent,
  Shew'd deep Regard, and smiling Government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere incouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober Actions with his Hand,
That it beguil'd Attention, charm'd the Sight:
In Speech it seem'd, his Beard all silver white,
  Wagg'd up and down, and from his Lips did fly
  Thin winding Breath, which purl'd up to the Sky.
About him were a Press of gaping Faces,
Which seem'd to swallow up his sound Advice;
All jointly listning, but with several Graces,
As if some Mermaid did their Ears intice;
Some high, some low, the Painter was so nice.
  The Scalps of many almost hid behind,
  To jump up higher seem'd to mock the Mind.
Here one Man's Hand lean'd on another's Head,
His Nose being shadow'd by his Neighbour's Ear;
Here one being throng'd bears back all swoln and red;
Another smother'd, seems to pelt and swear;
And in their Rage (such Signs of Rage they bear,)
  As but for loss of Nestor's Golden Words,
  It seems they would debate with angry Swords.
For much imaginary Work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' Image stood his Spear,
Grip'd in an armed Hand, himself behind
Was left unseen, save in the Eye of Mind;
  A Hand, a Foot, a Face, a Leg, a Head,
  Stood for the whole to be Imagined.

And from the Walls of strong-besieged Troy,
When their brave Hope, bold Hector, march'd to Field,
Stood many Trojan Mothers, sharing Joy
To see their youthful Sons bright Weapons wield;
And to their Hope they such odd Action yield,
  That thro' their Light Joy seemed to appear,
  (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy Fear.
And from the Strond of Dardan, where they fought,
To Simois' reedy Banks, the red Blood ran;
Whose Waves to imitate the Battel sought
With swelling Ridges; and their Ranks began
To break upon the galled Shore, and then
  Retire again, till meeting greater Ranks
  They join, and shoot their Fome at Simois' Banks.
To this well-painted Piece is Lucrece come
To find a Face where all Distress is stell'd.
Many she sees, where Cares have carved some,
But none where all Distress and Dolour dwell'd,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
  Staring on Priam's Wounds with her old Eyes,
  Who bleeding under Pirrhus' proud Foot lies.
In her the Painter had anatomiz'd
Time's Ruin, Beauty's Wrack, and grim Cares Reign;
Her Cheeks with Chops and Wrinkles were disguis'd;
Of what she was, no Semblance did remain;
Her blue Blood chang'd to black in every Vein.
  Wanting the Spring, that those shrunk Pipes had fed,
  Shew'd Life imprison'd in a Body dead.
On this sad Shadow Lucrece spends her Eyes,
And shapes her Sorrow to the Beldam's Woes;
Who nothing wants to answer her but Cries,

And bitter Words to ban her cruel Foes.
The Painter was no God to lend her those;
  And therefore Lucrece swears he did her Wrong,
  To give her so much Grief, and not a Tongue.
Poor Instrument (quoth she) without a Sound!
I'll tune thy Woes with my lamenting Tongue;
And drop sweet Balm in Priam's painted Wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus, that hath done him Wrong,
And with my Tears quench Troy, that burns so long;
  And with my Knife scratch out the angry Eyes
  Of all the Greeks, that are thine Enemies.
Shew me this Strumpet, that began this Stir,
That with my Nails her Beauty I may tear.
Thy Heat of Lust, fond Paris, did incur
This Load of Wrath, that burning Troy did bear;
Thy Eye kindled the Fire that burneth here:
  And here in Troy, for Trespass of thine Eye,
  The Sire, the Son, the Dame, and Daughter die.
Why should the private Pleasure of some one
Become the publick Plague of many moe?
Let Sin alone committed, light alone
Upon his Head, that hath transgressed so.
Let guiltless Souls be freed from guilty Woe.
  For one's Offence why should so many fall,
  To plague a private Sin in General?
Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies!
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sounds!
Here Friend by Friend in bloody Channel lies!
And Friend to Friend gives unadvised Wounds!
And one Man's Lust these many Lives confounds!
  Had doting Priam check'd his Son's Desire,
  Troy had been bright with Fame, and not with Fire.

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted Woes:
For Sorrow, like a heavy hanging Bell,
Once set a ringing, with his own Weight goes;
Then little Strength rings out the doleful Knell.
So Lucrece set awork, sad Tales doth tell
  To pencil'd Pensiveness, and colour'd Sorrow;
  She lends them Words, and she their Looks doth borrow.
She throws her Eyes about the painted Round,
And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament.
At last she sees a wretched Image bound,
That piteous Looks to Phrygian Shepherds lent;
His Face, tho full of Cares, yet shew'd Content.
  Onward to Troy with these blunt Swains he goes,
  So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his Woes.
In him the Painter labour'd with his Skill,
To hide Deceit, and give the harmless Show,
An humble Gate, calm Looks, Eyes wailing still,
A Brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome Woe;
Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but mingled so,
  That blushing Red no guilty Instance gave,
  Nor ashy Pale, the Fear that false Hearts have.
But, like a constant and confirmed Devil,
He entertain'd a Show so seeming just;
And therein so insconc'd this secret Evil,
That Jealousy it self could not mistrust,
False creeping Craft and Perjury should thrust
  Into so bright a Day such black-fac'd Storms,
  Or blot with Hell-born Sin such Saint-like Forms.
The well-skill'd Woman this wild Image drew
For perjur'd Sinon, whose inchanting Story
The credulous old Priam after slew;

Whose Words like Wild-fire burnt the shining Glory
Of rich-built Ilion, thar the Skies were sorry,
  And little Stars shot from their fixed Places,
  When their Glass fell wherein they view'd their Faces.
This Picture she advisedly perus'd,
And chid the Painter for his wondrous Skill:
Saying, some Shape in Sinon's was abus'd,
So fair a Form lodg'd not a Mind so ill.
And still on him she gaz'd, and gazing still,
  Such Signs of Truth in his plain Face she spied,
  That she concludes, the Picture was belied.
It cannot be (quoth she) that so much Guile,
She would have said, can lurk in such a Look;
But Tarquin's Shape came in her Mind the while,
And from her Tongue, can lurk, from cannot, took:
It cannot be, she in that Sense forsook,
  And turn'd it thus, It cannot be I find,
  But such a Face should bear a wicked Mind.
For e'en as subtle Sinon here is painted,
So sober sad, so weary and so mild,
(As if with Grief or Travel he had fainted)
To me came Tarquin armed, so beguil'd
With outward Honesty, but yet defil'd
  With inward Vice; as Priam him did cherish,
  So did I Tarquin, so my Troy did perish.
Look, look how listning Priam wets his Eyes
To see those borrow'd Tears, that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise?
For every Tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds:
His Eyes drop Fire, no Water thence proceeds.
  Those round clear Pearls of his that move thy Pity,
  Are Balls of quenchless Fire to burn thy City.

Such Devils steal Effects from lightless Hell;
For Sinon in his Fire doth quake with cold,
And in that cold hot-burning Fire doth dwell;
These Contraries such Unity do hold,
Only to flatter Fools and make them bold:
  So Priam's Trust false Sinon's Tears doth flatter,
  That he finds Means to burn his Troy with Water.
Here all inrag'd such Passion her assails,
That Patience is quite beaten from her Breast;
She tears the sensless Sinon with her Nails,
Comparing him to that unhappy Guest,
Whose Deed hath made her self, her self detest.
  At last she smilingly with this gives o'er,
  Fool! Fool! quoth she, his Wounds will not be sore.
Thus ebbs and flows the Current of her Sorrow,
And Time doth weary Time with her Complaining.
She looks for Night, and then she longs for Morrow,
And both she thinks too long with her remaining;
Short time seems long, in Sorrows sharp sustaining.
  Tho Woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps,
  And they that watch, see Time how slow it creeps.
Which all this Time hath over-slipt her Thought,
That she with painted Images hath spent,
Being from the feeling of her own Grief brought,
By deep surmise of others Detriment,
Loosing her Woes in shews of Discontent.
  It easeth some, tho none it ever cur'd,
  To think their Dolour others have endur'd.
But now the mindful Messenger comes back,
Brings home his Lord, and other Company;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning Black,

And round-about her tear-distained Eye
Blue Circles stream'd, like Rainbows in the Sky.
  These Watergalls in her dim Element,
  Foretell new Storms to those already spent.
Which when her sad-beholding Husband saw,
Amazedly in her sad face he stares:
Her Eyes, tho sod in Tears, look red, and raw,
Her lively Colour kill'd with deadly Cares.
He has no Power to ask her how she fares;
  But stood like old Acquaintance in a Trance,
  Met far from Home, wondring each other's Chance.
At last he takes her by the bloodless Hand,
And thus begins: What uncouth ill Event
Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet Love! what Spite hath thy fair Colour spent?
Why art thou thus attir'd in Discontent?
  Unmask, dear Dear! this moody Heaviness,
  And tell thy Grief, that we may give Redress.
Three times with Sighs she gives her Sorrow Fire,
E'er once she can discharge one Word of Woe:
At length address'd, to answer his Desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her Honour is ta'en Prisoner by the Foe;
  While Colatine and his consorted Lords
  With sad Attention long to hear her Words.
And now this pale Swan, in her wat'ry Nest,
Begins the sad Dirge of her certain Ending.
Few Words, quoth she, shall fit the Trespass best,
Wherein no Excuse can give the Fault amending;
In me more Woes than Words are now depending:
  And my Laments would be drawn out too long,
  To tell them all with one poor tired Tongue.

Then be this all the Task it hath to say,
Dear Husband, in the Interest of thy Bed
A Stranger came, and on that Pillow lay,
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary Head;
And what Wrong else may be imagined
  By foul Inforcement might be done to me,
  From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.
For in the dreadful Dead of dark Midnight,
With shining Fauchion in my Chamber came
A creeping Creature with a flaming Light,
And softly cry'd, Awake thou Roman Dame!
And entertain my Love, else lasting Shame
  On thee and thine this Night I will inflict,
  If thou my Love's Desire do contradict.
For some hard-favour'd Groom of thine, quoth he,
Unless thou yoak thy Liking to my Will,
I'll murder streight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
The loathsome Act of Lust; and so did kill
  The Leachers in their Deed: this Act will be
  My Fame, and thy perpetual Infamy.
With this I did begin to start and cry,
And then against my Heart he sets his Sword,
Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
I should not live to speak another Word:
So should my Shame still rest upon Record,
  And never be forgot in mighty Rome,
  Th' Adult'rate Death of Lucrece, and her Groom.
Mine Enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
(And far the weaker with so strong a Fear)
My bloody Judge forbad my Tongue to speak:

No rightful Plea might plead for Justice there:
His scarlet Lust came Evidence to swear,
  That my poor Beauty had purloin'd his Eyes;
  And when the Judge is robb'd, the Prisoner dies.
O! teach me how to make mine own Excuse,
Or, at the least this Refuge let me find;
Tho' my gross Blood be stain'd with this Abuse,
Immaculate and spotless is my Mind:
That was not forc'd, that never was inclin'd
  To accessary Yieldings; but still pure,
  Doth in her poison'd Closet yet indure.
Lo! here the hopeless Merchant of this Loss,
With Head inclin'd, and Voice damm'd up with Woe,
With sad set Eyes, and wretched Arms across,
From Lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
The Grief away, that stops his Answer so.
  But wretched as he is, he strives in vain;
  What he breathes out, his Breath drinks up again.
As thro' an Arch the violent roaring Tide
Out-runs the Eye, that doth behold his Haste;
Yet in the Eddie boundeth in his Pride
Back to the Strait, that forc'd him on so fast,
In Rage sent out, recall'd in Rage being past:
  Even so his Sighs, his Sorrows make a Saw,
  To push Grief on, and back the same Grief draw.
Which speechless Woe of his, Poor She attendeth,
And his untimely Frenzy thus awaketh:
Dear Lord! thy Sorrow to my Sorrow lendeth
Another Power, no Flood my Raining slacketh;
My Woe too sensible, thy Passion maketh
  More feeling painful; let it then suffice
  To drown one Woe, one Pair of weeping Eyes.

And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she, that was thy Lucrece—now attend me;
Be suddenly revenged on my Foe,
Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past, the Help that thou shalt lend me
  Comes all too late; yet let the Traitor die;
  For sparing Justice feeds Iniquity.
But e'er I name him, you fair Lords, quoth she,
(Speaking to those, that came with Colatine)
Shall plight your honourable Faiths to me,
With swift Pursuit to venge this Wrong of mine:
For 'tis a meritorious fair Design,
  To chase Injustice with revengeful Arms;
  Knights by their Oaths should right poor Ladies Harms.
At this Request, with noble Disposition,
Each present Lord began to promise Aid,
As bound in Knighthood to her Imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful Foe bewray'd:
But she that yet her sad Task hath not said,
  The Protestation stops. O speak! quoth she,
  How may this forced Stain be wip'd from me?
What is the Quality of my Offence,
Being constrain'd with dreadful Circumstances?
May my pure Mind with the foul Act dispense,
My low declined Honour to advance?
May any Terms acquit me from this Chance?
  The poison'd Fountain clears it self again;
  And why not I from this compelled Stain?
With this they all at once began to say,
Her Body's Stain the Mind untainted clears;
While with a joyless Smile she turns away

The Face, that Map, which deep Impression bears
Of hard Misfortune carved in with Tears.
  No, no, quoth she, no Dame hereafter living,
  By my Excuse shall claim Excuses giving.
Here with a Sigh, as if her Heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin's Name. He, he, she says:
But more than he, her poor Tongue could not speak,
Till after many Accents and Delays,
Untimely Breathings, sick and short Assays,
  She utters this, He, he, fair Lord, 'tis He
  That guides this Hand to give this Wound to me.
Even here she sheathed in her harmless Breast
A harmful Knife, that thence her Soul unsheathed;
That Blow did bail it from the deep Unrest
Of that polluted Prison where it breathed:
Her contrite Sighs unto the Clouds bequeathed
  Her winged Spright, and thro' her Wounds doth fly
  Life's lasting Date from cancel'd Destiny.
Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly Deed,
Stood Colatine and all his Lordly Crew,
Till Lucrece' Father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd Body threw:
And from the purple Fountain Brutus drew
  The murd'rous Knife; and as it left the Place,
  Her Blood in pure Revenge held it in Chase.
And bubbling from her Breast, it doth divide
In two slow Rivers, that the crimson Blood
Circles her Body in on every Side,
Who like a late sack'd Island vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful Flood.
  Some of her Blood still pure and red remain'd,
  And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd.

About the mourning and congealed Face
Of that black Blood, a watry Rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted Place;
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' Woes,
Corrupted Blood some wat'ry Token shows,
  And Blood untainted still doth red abide,
  Blushing at that which is so putrify'd.
Daughter! dear Daughter! old Lucretius cries,
That Life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd;
If in the Child the Father's Image lies,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd?
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd.
  If Children prædecease Progenitors,
  We are their Off-spring, and they none of ours.
Poor broken Glass! I often did behold
In thy sweet Semblance my old Age new-born;
But now that fair fresh Mirror, dim and cold,
Shews me a barebon'd Death by Time out-worn.
O! from my Cheeks my Image thou hast torn!
  And shiver'd all the Beauty from my Glass,
  That I no more can see, what once I was.
O! Time, cease thou thy Course, and haste no longer,
If thou surcease to be, that should survive:
Shall rotten Death make Conquest of the Stronger,
And leave the faltring feeble Souls alive?
The old Bees die, the young possess their Hive:
  Then live sweet Lucrece, live again, and see
  Thy Father die, and not thy Father thee.
By this starts Colatine as from a Dream,
And bids Lucretius give his Sorrow place;
And then in Clay-cold Lucrece' bleeding Stream

He falls, and bathes the pale Fear in his Face,
And counterfeits to die with her a Space;
  Till manly Shame bids him possess his Breath,
  And live to be revenged on her Death.
The deep Vexation of his inward Soul
Hath serv'd a dumb Arrest upon his Tongue:
Who made that Sorrow should his use controul,
Or keep him from heart-easing Words so long
He 'gins to talk; but thro' his Lips do throng
  Weak Words, so thick come in his poor Heart's Aid,
  That no Man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
But thro' his Teeth, as if his Name he tore.
This windy Tempest, till it blow up Rain,
Held back his Sorrow's Tide to make it more.
At last it rains, and busy Winds give o'er:
  Then Son and Father weep with equal Strife,
  Who should weep most for Daughter, or for Wife.
The one doth call her his, the other his;
Yet neither may possess the Claim they lay.
The Father says, she's mine; O mine she is,
Replies her Husband; do not take away
My Sorrow's Interest; let no Mourner say,
  He weeps for her; for she was only mine,
  And only must be wail'd by Colatine.
O! quoth Lucretius, I did give that Life,
Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.
Woe! woe! quoth Colatine, she was my Wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.
My Daughter and my Wife with Clamours fill'd
  The disperst Air, who holding Lucrece' Life,
  Answer'd their Cries, my Daughter, and my Wife.

Brutus, who pluck'd the Knife from Lucrece' Side,
Seeing such Emulation in their Woe,
Began to cloath his Wit in State and Pride,
Burying in Lucrece' Wound his Folly's Show:
He with the Romans was esteemed so,
  As silly jeering Idiots are with Kings,
  For sportive Words, and uttering foolish Things.
But now he throws that shallow Habit by,
Wherein true Policy did him disguise;
And arm'd his long-hid Wits advisedly,
To check the Tears in Colatinus' Eyes.
Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise;
  Let my unsounded Self, suppos'd a Fool,
  Now set thy long-experienc'd Wit to School.
Why Colatine, is Woe the Cure for Woe?
Do Wounds help Wounds, or Grief help grievous Deeds?
Is it Revenge to give thy self a Blow
For his foul Act, by whom thy fair Wife bleeds?
Such childish Humour from weak Minds proceeds.
  Thy wretched Wife mistook the matter so,
  To slay her self, that should have slain her Foe.
Couragious Roman! do not steep thy Heart
In such lamenting Dew of Lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy Part,
To rouse our Roman Gods with Invocations,
That they will suffer these Abominations
  (Since Rome her self in them doth stand disgrac'd)
  By our strong Arms from forth her fair Streets chas'd.
Now by the Capitol, that we adore!
And by this chaste Blood so unjustly stain'd!
By Heaven's fair Sun, that breeds the fat Earth's Store!

By all our Country Rites in Rome maintain'd,
And by chaste Lucrece' Soul, that late complain'd
  Her Wrongs to us, and by this bloody Knife!
  We will revenge the Death of this true Wife.
This said, he stroke his Hand upon his Breast,
And kiss'd the fatal Knife to end his Vow;
And to his Protestation urg'd the rest,
Who wondring at him did his Words allow:
Then jointly to the ground their Knees they bow,
  And that deep Vow which Brutus made before,
  He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advised Doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To shew the bleeding Body throughout Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul Offence.
Which being done, with speedy Diligence,
  The Romans plausibly did give consent
  To Tarquin's everlasting Banishment.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. Volume 7: Sonnet LXVII
Ah wherefore with Infection shou'd he live,
And with his Presence grace Impiety?
That Sin by him advantage shou'd atchieve,
And lace it self with his Society?
Why shou'd false Painting imitate his Cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hew?
Why shou'd poor Beauty indirectly seek
Roses of Shadow, since his Rose is true?
Why shou'd he live, now Nature Bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of Blood to blush through lively Veins?
For she hath no Exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his Gains.
  O! him she stores, to show what Wealth she had,
  In Days long since, before these last so bad.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXVIII
Thus is his Cheek the Map of Days out-worn,
When Beauty liv'd and dy'd as Flowers do now;
Before these bastard Signs of Fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living Brow.
Before the Golden Tresses of the Dead,
The Right of Sepulchers, were shorn away,
To live a second Life on second Head,
E'er Beauty's dead Fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique Hours are seen,
Without all Ornament, it self, and true,
Making no Summer of another's Green,
Robbing no old to dress his Beauty new;
  And him as for a Map doth Nature store,
  To show false Art what Beauty was of yore. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIX
Those Parts of thee that the World's Eye doth view,
Want nothing, that the thought of Hearts can mend:
All Tongues (the Voice of Souls) give thee that End,
Uttering bare Truth, even so as Foes commend,
Their outward thus with outward Praise is crown'd:
But those same Tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other Accents do this Praise confound
By seeing farther than the Eye hath shown.
They look into the Beauty of thy Mind,
And that in ghess they measure by thy Deeds,
Then churls their Thoughts (altho their Eyes were kind)
To thy fair Flower add the rank Smell of Weeds.
  But why? thy Odor matcheth not thy show,
  The Toil is this, that thou dost common grow.

Volume 7: Sonnet LX
Like as the Waves make towards the pibled Shore,
So do our Minutes hasten to their End.
Each changing Place, with that which goes before,
In sequent Toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the Main of Light,
Crawles to Maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked Eclipses 'gainst his Glory fight,
And Time that gave, doth now his Gift confound.
Time doth transfix the Flourish set on Youth,
And delves the Parallels in Beauty's Brow,
Feeds on the Rarities of Nature's Truth,
And nothing stands but for his Sithe to mow.
  And yet to Times in hope my Verse shall stand,
  Praising thy Worth, despight his cruel Hand. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIII
Against my Love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious Hand crush'd and o'er-worn,
When Hours have drain'd his Blood and fill'd his Brow
With Lines and Wrinkles, when his youthful Morn
Hath travail'd on to Age's steepy Night,
And all those Beauties, whereof now he's King,
Are vanishing, or vanish'd out of Sight,
Stealing away the Treasure of his Spring.
For such a Time do I now Fortify,
Against confounding Age's cruel Knife,
That he shall never cutt from Memory
My sweet Love's Beauty, tho my Lover's Life.
  His Beauty shall in these black Lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them, still green. Volume 7: Sonnet LXIV
When I have seen by Time's fell Hand defac'd
The rich proud Cost of out-worn buried Age;
When sometimes lofty Towers I see down raz'd,

And Brass eternal Slave to mortal Rage;
When I have seen the hungry Ocean gain
Advantage on the Kingdom of the Shoar,
And the firm Soil win of the watry Main,
Increasing Store with Loss, and Loss with Store;
When I have seen such Interchange of State,
Or State it self confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my Love away.
  This Thought is as a Death, which cannot choose
  But weep to have that which it fears to loose. Volume 7: Sonnet LXV
Since Brass, nor Stone, nor Earth, nor boundless Sea,
But sad Mortality o'er-sways their Power,
How with this Rage shall Beauty hold a Plea,
Whose Action is no stronger than a Flower?
O! how shall Summer's hungry Breath hold out,
Against the wrackful Siege of battering Days,
When Rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor Gates of Steel so strong, but Time decays?
O! fearful Meditation, where a-lack
Shall Time's best Jewel from Time's Chest lie hid?
Or what strong Hand can hold this swift Foot back,
Or who his Spoil on Beauty can forbid?
  O! none, unless this Miracle have might,
  That in black Ink my Love may still shine bright. Volume 7: Sonnet LXVI
Tyr'd with all these for restful Death I cry,
As to behold Desert a Beggar born,
And needy Nothing trim'd in Jolity,
And purest Faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded Honour shamefully misplac'd,
And Maiden Virtue rudely Strumpeted,
And right Perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And Strength by limping Sway disabled,

And Art made Tongue-ty'd by Authority,
And Folly (Doctor-like) controuling Skill,
And simple Truth miscall'd Simplicity,
And Captive good attending Captain Ill.
  Tyr'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
  Save that to die, I leave my Love alone. Volume 7: Sonnet LIII
What is your Substance? whereof are you made,
That Millions of strange Shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one Shade,
And you but one, can every Shadow lend;
Describe Adonis, and the Counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you,
On Helen's Cheek all Art of Beauty set,
And you in Grecian Tires are painted new.
Speak of the Spring and Foyzen of the Year,
The one doth shadow of your Beauty show,
The other as your Bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessed Shape we know.
  In all external Grace you have some Part,
  But you like none, none you for constant Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet LIV
O! how much more doth Beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet Ornament which Truth doth give?
The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet Odour, which doth in it live.
The Canker-blooms have full as deep a Die,
As the perfumed Tincture of the Roses,
Hang on such Thorns, and play as wantonly,
When Summer's breath their masked Buds discloses.
But for their Vertue's only in their show,
They live unmov'd, and unrespected fade,

Die to themselves: Sweet Roses do not so,
Of their sweet Deaths, are sweetest Odours made.
  And so of you, beauteous and lovely Youth,
  When that shall fade, by Verse distills your Truth. Volume 7: Sonnet LVII
Being your Slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the Hours and Times of your Desire?
I have no precious Time at all to spend,
Nor Services to do till you require.
Nor dare I chide the World-without-end-Hour,
Whilst I (my Soveraign) watch the Clock for you;
Nor think the Bitterness of Absence sour,
When you have bid your Servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous Thought,
Where you may be, or your Affairs suppose,
But like a sad Slave stay and think of nought,
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
  So true a Fool is Love, that in your Will,
  (Tho you do any thing) he thinks no ill. Volume 7: Sonnet LVIII
That God forbid that made me first your Slave,
I should in Thought controul your times of Pleasure,
Or at your Hand the Account of Hours to crave,
Being your Vassal bound to stay your Leisure.
Oh! let me suffer, (being at your Beck)
Th' imprison'd Absence of your Liberty,
And Patience tame, to Sufferance bide each Check,
Without accusing you of Injury!
Be where you list, your Charter is so strong,
That you your self may privilege your Time
To what you will; to you it doth belong,
Your self to pardon of self-doing Crime.

  I am to wait, tho waiting so be Hell,
  Not blame your Pleasure, be it ill or well. Volume 7: Sonnet LIX
If there be nothing new, but that which is,
Hath been before, how are our Brains beguil'd,
Which labouring for Invention bear amiss
The second Burthen of a former Child?
O! that Record could with a backward Look,
Even of five hundred Courses of the Sun,
Show me your Image in some antique Book,
Since mine at first in Character was done:
That I might see what the old World could say,
To this composed Wonder of your Frame,
Whether we are mended, or where better they,
Or whether Revolution be the same.
  Oh! sure I am, the Wits of former Days,
  To Subjects worse have given admiring Praise. Volume 7: Sonnet I
From fairest Creatures we desire Increase,
That thereby Beauty's Rose may never die;
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender Heir might bear his Memory.
But thou contracted to thine own bright Eyes,
Feed'st thy Light's Flame with self-substantial Fuel,
Making a Famine where Abundance lies,
Thy self thy Foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the World's fresh Ornament,
And only Herald to the gaudy Spring,

Within thine own Bud buriest thy Content,
And tender Churle mak'st waste in niggarding.
  Pity the World, or else this Glutton be
  To eat the World's due, by the Grave and thee. Volume 7: Sonnet II
When forty Winters shall besiege thy Brow,
And dig deep Trenches in thy Beauty's Field,
Thy Youth's proud Livery so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd Weed of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy Beauty lies,
Where all the Treasure of thy lusty Days;
To say within thine one deep-sunken Eyes,
Were an all-eating Shame, and thriftless Praise.
How much more Praise deserv'd thy Beauty's Use,
If thou couldst answer, This fair Child of mine
Shall sum my Count, and make my old Excuse,
Proving his Beauty by succession thine.
  This were to be new made when thou art old,
  And see thy Blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold. Volume 7: Sonnet III
Look in thy Glass, and tell the Face thou viewest,
Now is the time that Face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou do'st beguile the World, unbless some Mother.
For where is she so fair, whose un-eard Womb
Disdains the tillage of thy Husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the Tomb
Of his self Love, to stop Posterity?
Thou art thy Mother's Glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her Prime.
So thou thro Windows of thine Age shalt see,
Despight of Wrinkles, this thy golden Time.
  But if thou live, remember not to be,
  Die single, and thine Image dies with thee.

Volume 7: Sonnet XIII
O that you were your self, but Love, you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live;
Against this coming End you should prepare,
And your sweet Semblance to some other give.
So shou'd that Beauty, which you hold in Lease,
Find no Determination; then you were
Your self again after your self's Decease,
When your sweet Issue your sweet Form shou'd bear.
Who lets so fair a House fall to decay,
Which Husbandry in Honour might uphold,
Against the stormy Gusts of Winter's Day,
And barren Rage of Death's eternal Cold?
  O! none but Unthrifts, dear my Love, you know,
  You had a Father, let your Son say so. Volume 7: Sonnet XIV
Not from the Stars do I my Judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have Astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil Luck,
Of Plagues, of Dearths, or Seasons quality:
Nor can I Fortune to brief Minutes tell,
Pointing to each his Thunder, Rain, and Wind;
Or say with Princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict, that I in Heaven find.
But from thine Eyes my Knowledge I derive,
And constant Stars; in them I read such Art,
As Truth and Beauty shall together thrive,
If from thy self, to Store thou wouldst convert:
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
  Thy End is Truth's, and Beauty's Doom, and Date. Volume 7: Sonnet XV
When I consider every thing that grows,
Holds in Perfection but a little Moment;

That this huge Stage presenteth nought but Shows,
Whereon the Stars in secret influence comment:
When I perceive, that Men as Plants increase,
Cheared and check'd even by the self-same Sky,
Vaunt in their youthful Sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave State out of Memory:
Then the Conceit of this inconstant Stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my Sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your Day of Youth to sullied Night;
  And all in war with Time, for love of you,
  As he takes from you, I ingraft you new. Volume 7: Sonnet XVI
But wherefore do not you a mightier Way
Make war upon this bloody Tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your Decay
With Means more blessed, than my barren Rhime?
Now stand you on the Top of happy Hours;
And many maiden Gardens yet unset,
With vertuous Wish would bear you living Flowers,
Much liker than your painted Counterfeit.
So shou'd the Lines of Life, that Life repair,
Which this (Time's Pensil, or my Pupil Pen)
Neither in inward Worth, nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in Eyes of Men,
  To give away your self, keeps your self still,
  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet Skill. Volume 7: Sonnet XVII
Who will believe my Verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high Deserts?
Tho yet Heaven knows it is but as a Tomb,
Which hides your Life, and shows not half your Parts:

If I cou'd write the Beauty of your Eyes,
And in fresh Numbers number all your Graces;
The Age to come wou'd say this Poet lies,
Such heavenly Touches ne're touch'd earthly Faces.
So should my Papers (yellow'd with their Age)
Be scorn'd, like old Men of less Truth, than Tongue,
And your true Rights be term'd a Poet's Rage,
And stretched Metre of an Antick Song.
  But were some Child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice in it, and in my Rhime. Volume 7: Sonnet VII
Loe! in the Orient when the gracious Light
Lifts up his burning Head, each under Eye
Doth Homage to his new appearing Sight,
Serving with Looks his sacred Majesty:
And having clim'd the steep-up heavenly Hill,
Resembling strong Youth in his middle Age,
Yet mortal Looks adore his Beauty still,
Attending on his golden Pilgrimage.
But when from high-most Pitch, with weary Care,
Like feeble Age he reeleth from the Day,
The Eyes (fore-dutious) now converted are
From his low Tract, and look another way.
  So thou, thy self out-going in thy Noon,
  Unlook'd on dy'st, unless thou get a Son.

Volume 7: Sonnet IV
Unthrifty Loveliness! why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy Beauty's Legacy?
Nature's Bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous Nigard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous Largess given thee, to give?
Profitless Usurer, why dost thou use
So great a Sum of Sums, yet can'st not live?
For having Traffick with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive;
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable Audit canst thou leave?
  Thy unus'd Beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
  Which used lives th' Executor to be. Volume 7: Sonnet V
Those Hours, that with gentle Work did frame
The lovely Gaze where every Eye doth dwell,
Will play the Tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel.
For never-resting Time leads Summer on
To hideous Winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checkt with Frost, and lusty Leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snow'd, and Bareness every where.
Then were not Summer's Distillation left,
A liquid Prisoner pent in Walls of Glass,
Beauty's Effect with Beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no Remembrance what it was.
  But Flowers distill'd, tho they with Winter meet,
  Lose but their Show, their Substance still lives sweet. Volume 7: Sonnet VI
Then let not Winter's ragged Hand deface
In thee thy Summer, e'er thou be distill'd:

Make sweet some Vial, Treasure thou some Place
With Beauty's Treasure, e'er it be self-kill'd:
That Use is not forbidden Usury,
Which happies those, that pay the willing Loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one:
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee;
Then what could Death do if thou should'st depart,
Leaving thee living in Posterity?
  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
  To be Death's Conquest, and make Worms thine Heir. Volume 7: Sonnet VIII
Musick to hear, why hear'st thou Musick sadly?
Sweets with Sweets war not, Joy delights in Joy:
Why lov'st thou that, which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with Pleasure thine Annoy?
If the true Concord of well-tuned Sounds,
By Unions married do offend thy Ear;
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In Singleness the Parts, that thou should'st bear.
Mark how one string sweet Husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling Sire and Child, and happy Mother,
Who all in one, one pleasing Note do sing;
  Whose speechless Song being many, seeming one,
  Sings this to thee, Thou single wilt prove none. Volume 7: Sonnet IX
Is it for fear to wet a Widow's Eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single Life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The World will wail thee like a makeless Wife;

The World will be thy Widow and still weep,
That thou no Form of thee hast left behind;
When every private Widow well may keep,
By Childrens Eyes, her Husband's Shape in Mind:
Look what an Unthrift in the World doth spend,
Shifts but his Place, for still the World enjoys it;
But Beauty's waste hath in the World an End,
And kept unus'd, the Us'rer so destroys it.
  No Love towards others in that Bosom sits,
  That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. Volume 7: Sonnet X
For shame! deny that thou bear'st Love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident;
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possest with murd'rous Hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous Roof to ruinate,
Which to repair should be thy chief Desire.
O! change thy Thought, that I may change my Mind:
Shall Hate be fairer lodg'd, than gentle Love?
Be, as thy Presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thy self at least kindhearted prove.
  Make thee another self for love of me,
  That Beauty still may live in thine, or thee. Volume 7: Sonnet XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh Blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou maist call thine, when thou from Youth convertest:
Herein lives Wisdom, Beauty, and Increase;
Without this, Folly, Age, and cold Decay;
If all were minded so, the Times should cease,
And threescore Years would make the World away:
Let those, whom Nature hath not made for Store,
Harsh, featurless, and rude, barrenly perish:

Look whom she best indow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous Gift thou shouldst in Bounty cherish:
  She carv'd thee for her Seal, and ment thereby
  Thou shouldst print more, not let that Copy die. Volume 7: Sonnet XII
When I do count the Clock, that tells the Time,
And see the brave Day sunk in hidious Night;
When I behold the Violet past Prime,
And sable Curls are silver'd o'er with White;
When lofty Trees I see barren of Leaves,
Which erst from Heat did canopy the Herd,
And Summer's Green all girded up in Sheaves,
Born on the Bier with white and bristly Beard:
Then of thy Beauty do I question make,
That thou among the Wastes of Time must go;
Since Sweets and Beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow,
  And nothing 'gainst Time's Sithe can make Defence,
  Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence. Volume 7: Sonnet CXXXVIII
When my Love swears that she is made of Truth,
I do believe her (tho I know she lyes)
That she might think me some untutor'd Youth,
Unskilful in the World's false Forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking, that she thinks me young,
Altho I know my Years be past the best:
I smiling, credit her false-speaking Tongue,
Outfacing Faults in Love with Love's ill Rest.
But wherefore says my Love, that she is Young?
And wherefore say not I, that I am old?
O! Love's best Habit is a smoothing Tongue,
And Age (in Love) loves not to have Years told.

Therefore I'll lye with Love, and Love with me;
Since that our Faults in Love thus smother'd be. Volume 7: Sonnet CXLIV
Two Loves I have, of Comfort, and Despair,
That like two Spirits do suggest me still;
My better Angel is a Man (right fair)
My worser Spirit a Woman (colour'd ill.)
To win me soon to Hell, my Female Evil
Tempteth my better Angel from my Side;
And would corrupt my Saint to be a Devil,
Wooing his Purity with her fair Pride.
And whether, that my Angel be turn'd Fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each Friend,
I ghess one Angle in another's Hell.
  The Truth I shall not know, but live in Doubt,
  Till my bad Angel fire my good one out. Volume 7: Poem III
Did not the heavenly Rhetorick of thine Eye,
'Gainst whom the World could not hold Argument,
Perswade my Heart to this false Perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not Punishment.
A Woman I forswore: But I will prove,
Thou being a Goddess, I forswore not thee;
My Vow was earthly, thou a heavenly Love,
Thy Grace being gain'd, cures all Disgrace in me.
My Vow was Breath, and Breath a Vapour is;
Then thou fair Sun, that on this Earth doth shine,

Exhale this Vapour Vow, in thee it is:
If broken, then it is no Fault of mine.
  If by me broke, what Fool is not so wise
  To break an Oath to win a Paradise? Volume 7: Sonnet XXI
So is it not with me, as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by a painted Beauty to his Verse,
Who Heaven it self for Ornament doth use,
And every Fair with his Fair doth rehearse,
Making a Complement of proud Compare
With Sun and Moon, with Earth and Seas rich Gems,
With April's first-born Flowers, and all things rare,
That Heaven's Air in this huge Rondure hems.
O! let me true in Love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my Love is as fair
As any Mother's Child, tho not so bright
As those Gold Candels fix'd in Heaven's Air.
  Let them say more, that like of Hear-say well;
  I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIII
As an unperfect Actor on the Stage,
Who with his Fear is put besides his Part;
Or some fierce Thing repleat with too much Rage,
Whose Strength abundant weakens his own Heart;
So I, for fear of Trust forget to say,
The perfect Ceremony of Love's Right,
And in mine own Love's Strength seem to decay,
O'er-charg'd with Burthen of mine own Love's Might.

O! let my Looks be then the Eloquence,
And dumb Presagers of my speaking Breast,
Who plead for Love, and look for Recompence,
More than that Tongue, that more hath more exprest.
  O! learn to read what silent Love hath writ;
To hear with Eyes belongs to Love's fine Wit. Volume 7: Sonnet XXII
My Glass shall not perswade me I am Old,
So long as Youth and thou art of one Date;
But when in thee Time's Sorrows I behold,
Then look I Death my Days should expiate.
For all that Beauty, that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly Rayment of my Heart,
Which in thy Breast doth live, as thine in me;
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore, Love, be of thy self so wary,
As I not for my self, but for thee, will,
Bearing thy Heart, which I will keep so chary,
As tender Nurse her Babe from faring ill.
  Presume not on thy Heart when mine is slain,
  Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again. Volume 7: Poem IV
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a Brook,
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the Lad with many a lovely Look;
Such Looks, as none could look but Beauty's Queen.
She told him Stories, to delight his Ears;
She show'd him Favours, to allure his Eye;

To win his Heart, she toucht him here and there;
Touches so soft still conquer Chastity.
But whether unripe Years did want Conceit,
Or he refus'd to take her figur'd Proffer;
The tender Nibbler wou'd not touch the Bait,
But smile, and jest, at every gentle Offer.
  Then fell she on her back, fair Queen! and toward;
  He rose and ran away, ah Fool! too froward. Volume 7: Poem V
If Love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O! never Faith cou'd hold, if not to Beauty vow'd:
Tho to my self forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts to me like Oaks, to thee like Osiers bow'd.
Study his byas Leaves, and makes his Book thine Eyes,
Where all those Pleasures live, that Art can comprehend.
If Knowledge be the Mark, to know Thee shall suffice:
Well learned is that Tongue, that well can thee commend!
All ignorant that Soul, that sees thee without Wonder,
Which is to me some Praise, that I thy Parts admire.
Thine Eye Jove's Lightning seems, thy Voice his dreadful Thunder,
Which (not to Anger bent) is Musick, and sweet Fire.
  Celestial as thou art, O! do not love that Wrong!
  To sing Heaven's Praise with such an earthly Tongue. Volume 7: Sonnet XX
A woman's Face, with Nature's own Hand painted,
Hast thou the Master, Mistress of my Passion;
A Woman's gentle Heart, but not acquainted
With shifting Change, as is false Womens Fashion;

An Eye more bright than theirs, less false in rowling,
Gilding the Object whereupon it gazeth.
A Man in hew all Hews in his controuling,
Which steals Mens Eyes, and Womens Souls amazeth:
And for a Woman wer't thou first created,
Till Nature as she wrought thee, fell a doating,
And by Addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing, to my Purpose nothing.
  But since she prick'd thee out for Womens Pleasure,
  Mine, be thy Love, and thy Love's Use, their Treasure. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVII
Weary with Toil, I haste me to my Bed,
The dear Repose for Limbs with Travail tired;
But then begins a Journey in my Head
To work my Mind, when Bodies Work's expired.
For then my Thoughts (far from where I abide)
Intend a zealous Pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping Eye-lids open wide,
Looking on Darkness, which the Blind doe see.
Save that my Soul's imaginary Sight
Presents their Shadow to my sightless View;
Which like a Jewel (hung in ghastly Night)
Makes black Night beauteous, and her old Face new.
  Lo! thus by Day my Limbs, by Night my Mind,
  For thee, and for my self no Quiet find. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVIII
How can I then return in happy Plight,
That am debar'd the Benefit of Rest?
When Days Oppression is not eas'd by Night,
But Day by Night, and Night by Day opprest?

And each (tho Enemies to others reign)
Do in Consent shake Hands to torture me;
The one by Toil, the other to complain,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the Day, to please him, thou art bright,
And do'st him grace when Clouds do blot the Heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd Night,
When sparkling Stars tweer out, thou guild'st the Even.
  But Day doth daily draw my Sorrows longer,
  And Night doth nightly make Grief's length seem stronger. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIX
When in Disgrace with Fortune and Mens Eyes,
I all alone beweep my out-cast State,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless Cries,
And look upon my self, and curse my Fate;
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with Friends possest;
Desiring this Man's Art, and that Man's Scope,
With what I most enjoy, contented least.
Yet in these Thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my State,
(Like to the Lark at break of Day arising)
From sullen Earth sings Hymns at Heaven's Gate.
  For thy sweet Love remembred, such Wealth brings,
  That then I scorn to change my State with Kings. Volume 7: Poem VI
Scarce had the Sun dry'd up the dewy Morn,
And scarce the Herd gone to the Hedge for Shade;
When Cytherea (all in Love forlorn)
A longing Tarriance for Adonis made,
Under an Osier growing by a Brook,
A Brook, where Adon us'd to cool his Spleen.

Hot was the Day, she hotter that did look
For his Approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his Mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the Brook's green Brim:
The Sun lookt on the World with glorious Eye,
Yet not so wistly, as this Queen on him.
  He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
  Oh! Jove (quoth she) why was not I a Flood? Volume 7: Poem VII
Fair is my Love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a Dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than Glass, and yet as Glass is brittle;
Softer than Wax, and yet as Iron rusty:
  A Lilly Pale, with Damask Dye to grace her;
  None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her Lips to mine how often hath she join'd,
Between each Kiss her Oaths of true Love swearing?
How many Tales to please me hath she coin'd,
Dreading my Love, the Loss thereof still fearing?
  Yet in the midst of all her pure Protestings,
  Her Faith, her Oaths, her Tears, and all were Jestings.
She burnt with Love, as Straw with Fire flaming;
She burnt out Love, as soon as Straw out burning:
She fram'd the Love, and yet she foil'd the Framing;
She bad Love last, and yet she fell a turning.
  Was this a Lover, or a Letcher whether?
  Bad at the best, though excellent in neither.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXX
When to the Sessions of sweet silent Thought
I summon up Remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a Thing I sought,
And with old Woes new wail my dear Time's waste.
Then can I drown an Eye (unus'd to flow)
For precious Friends hid in Death's dateless Night,
And weep afresh Love's long-since cancell'd Woe,
And moan th' Expence of many a vanish'd Sight.
Then can I grieve at Grievances foregone,
And heavily from Woe to Woe tell o'er
The sad Account of fore-bemoaned Moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
  But if the while I think on thee (dear Friend)
  All Losses are restor'd, and Sorrows end. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXI
Thy Bosom is indeared with all Hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love and all Love's loving Parts,
And all those Friends, which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious Tear
Hath dear religious Love stolen from mine Eye,
As Interest of the Dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie:
Thou art the Grave where buried Love doth live,
Hung with the Trophies of my Lovers gone,
Who all their Parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many, now is thine alone.
  Their Images I lov'd, I view in thee,
  And Thou (all they) hast all the all of Me. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented Day,
When that Churl Death my Bones with Dust shall cover;

And shalt by Fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude Lines of thy deceased Lover:
Compare them with the bett'ring of the Time,
And though they be out-stript by every Pen,
Reserve them for my Love, not for their Rhime,
Exceeded by the height of happier Men.
Oh! then vouchsafe me but this loving Thought,
Had my Friend's Muse grown with this growing Age,
A dearer Birth than this his Love had brought
To march in Ranks of better Equipage:
  But since he died, and Poets better prove,
  Theirs for their Stile I'll read, His for His Love. Volume 7: Poem VIII
If Musick and sweet Poetry agree,
As they must needs (the Sister and the Brother)
Then must the Love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Dowland to thee is Dear, whose heavenly Touch
Upon the Lute, doth ravish human Sense:
Spencer to me, whose deep Conceit is such,
As passing all Conceit, needs no Defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious Sound,
That Phœbus' Lute (the Queen of Musick) makes;
And I in deep Delight am chiefly drown'd,
When as himself to Singing he betakes.
  One God is God of both (as Poets fain)
  One Knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

Volume 7: Poem IX
Fair was the Morn, when the fair Queen of Love,
Paler for Sorrow than her milkwhite Dove,
For Adon's sake, a Youngster proud and wild,
Her Stand she takes upon a steep-up Hill.
Anon Adonis comes with Horn and Hounds;
She, silly Queen, with more than Love's good Will,
Forbad the Boy he should not pass those Grounds:
Once (quoth she) did I see a fair sweet Youth
Here in these Brakes, deep wounded with a Boar,
Deep in the Thigh a Spectacle of Ruth;
See in my Thigh (quoth she) here was the Sore:
  She shewed hers, he saw more Wounds than one,
  And blushing fled, and left her all alone. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVIII
How can my Muse want Subject to invent,
While thou dost breath, that pour'st into my Verse
Thine own sweet Argument, too excellent,
For every vulgar Paper to rehearse.
Oh! give thy self the Thanks if ought in me,
Worthy Perusal, stand against thy sight;
For who's so dull, that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give Invention Light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth,
Than those old Nine, which Rhimers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal Numbers to out-live long Date.
  If my slight Muse do please these curious Days,
  The Pain be mine, but thine shall be the Praise.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIX
Oh! how thy Worth with Manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better Part of me?
What can mine own Praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear Love lose Name of single one;
That by this Separation I may give
That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone.
Oh Absence! what a Torment wouldst thou prove!
Were't not that thy sour Leisure gave sweet Leave,
To entertain the Time with Thoughts of Love,
Who Time and Thoughts so sweetly dost deceive;
  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
  By praising him here, who doth hence remain. Volume 7: Sonnet XL
Take all my Loves, my Love, yea take them all,
What hast thou then more, than thou hadst before?
No Love, my Love, that thou may'st true Love call,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my Love, thou my Love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my Love thou usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful Taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy Robb'ry, gentle Thief,
Although thou steal thee all my Poverty;
And yet Love knows it is a greater Grief
To bear Love's Wrong, than Hate's known Injury.
  Lascivious Grace, in whom all Ill well shows,
  Kill me with Spight, yet we must not be Foes.

Volume 7: Sonnet XLI
Those pretty Wrongs that Liberty commits,
When I am sometimes absent from thy Heart,
Thy Beauty, and thy Years full well befits,
For still Temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beautious thou art, and therefore to be assailed;
And when a Woman woos, what Woman's Son
Will sourely leave her till he have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou might'st my Seat forbear,
And chide thy Beauty and thy straying Youth,
Who lead thee in their Riot even there,
Where thou art forc'd to break a twofold Truth;
  Hers by thy Beauty tempting her to thee,
  Thine by thy Beauty being false to me. Volume 7: Sonnet XLII
That thou hast her, it is not all my Grief,
And yet it may be said, I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wayling Chief,
A Loss in Love that touches me more nearly.
Loving Offenders, thus I will excuse ye;
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my Friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my Loss is my Love's Gain,
And losing her, my Friend hath found that Loss:
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this Cross.
  But here's the Joy, my Friend and I are one,
  Sweet Flattery, then she loves but me alone.

Volume 7: Poem XI
Venus with Adonis sitting by her,
Under a Mirtle Shade began to woo him:
She told the Youngling how God Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, she fell to him.
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike God embrac'd me,
And then she clipt Adonis in her Arms;
Even thus (quoth she) the warlike God unlac'd me,
As if the Boy should use like loving Charms.
Even thus (quoth she) he seized on my Lips,
And with her Lips on his did act the Seizure:
And as she fetched Breath away he skips,
And would not take her Meaning, nor her Pleasure.
  Ah! that I had my Lady at this Bay,
  To kiss and clip me, till I run away. Volume 7: Poem XII
Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together;
Youth is full of Pleasance, Age is full of Care;
Youth like Summer Morn, Age like Winter Weather;
Youth like Summer brave, Age like Winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, Age's Breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold, Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
  Age, I do abhor thee; Youth, I do adore thee;
    O! my Love, my Love is young:
  Age, I do defie thee, Oh! sweet Shepherd, hie thee;
    For methinks thou stayst too long.

Volume 7: Poem XIII
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful Good,
A shining Gloss, that fadeth suddenly;
A Flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud,
A brittle Glass, that's broken presently;
  A doubtful Good, a Gloss, a Glass, a Flower,
  Lost, faded, broken, dead within an Hour.
And as Goods lost are seld or never found;
As faded Gloss no rubbing will refresh;
As Flowers dead lie withered on the Ground;
As broken Glass no Cement can redress:
  So Beauty blemisht once, for ever's lost,
  In spite of Physick, Painting, Pain and Cost. Volume 7: Sonnet XLIV
If the dull Substance of my Flesh were Thought,
Injurious Distance should not stop my Way;
For then, despight of Space, I would be brought
To Limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then, although my Foot did stand
Upon the farthest Earth remov'd from thee,
For nimble Thought can jump both Sea and Land,
As soon as think the Place where he would be.
But ah! Thought kills me, that I am not Thought,
To leap large Lengths of Miles when thou art gone;
But that so much of Earth and Water wrought,
I must attend Time's Leisure with my Moan;
  Receiving nought by Elements so slow,
  But heavy Tears, Badges of either's Woe.

Volume 7: Sonnet XLV
The other two, slight Air, and purging Fire,
Are both with thee, where ever I abide;
The first my Thought, the other my Desire;
These present, absent, with swift Motion slide
For when these quicker Elements are gone
In tender Embassy of Love to thee,
My Life being made of Four, with two alone
Sinks down to Death, opprest with Melancholy;
Until Life's Composition be recured,
By those swift Messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again assured
Of their fair Health, recounting it to me.
  This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
  I send them back again, and straight grow sad, Volume 7: Poem X
Sweet Rose, fair Flower, untimely pluck'd, soon faded,
Pluck'd in the Bud, and faded in the Spring;
Bright orient Pearl, alack! too timely shaded,
Fair Creature, kill'd too soon by Death's sharp Sting;
  Like a green Plumb, that hangs upon a Tree,
  And falls, thro' Wind, before the Fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no Cause I have,
For why? Thou lefts me nothing in thy Will;
And yet thou lefts me more than I did crave,
For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
  O yes (dear Friend) I Pardon crave of thee,
  Thy Discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIII
Full many a glorious Morning have I seen,
Flatter the Mountain Tops with soveraign Eye,
Kissing with golden Face the Meadows green,
Gilding pale Streams with heavenly Alchumy;
Anon permit the basest Clouds to ride,
With ugly Rack on his celestial Face,
And from the forlorn World his Visage hide,
Stealing unseen to West with this Disgrace.
Even so my Sun one early Morn did shine,
With all triumphant Splendor on my Brow;
But out, alack! he was but one Hour mine,
The Region Cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
  Yet him for this my Love no whit disdaineth,
  Suns of the World may stain, when Heaven's Sun staineth. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXIV
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous Day,
And make me travail forth without my Cloak,
To let base Clouds o'er-take me in my Way,
Hiding thy Bravery in their rotten Smoke?
'Tis not enough, that thro' the Cloud thou break,
To dry the Rain on my storm-beaten Face;
For no Man well of such a Salve can speak,
That heals the Wound, and cures not the Disgrace:
Nor can thy Shame give Physick to my Grief,
Tho thou repent, yet I have still the Loss;
Th' Offender's Sorrow lends but weak Relief
To him, that beareth strong Offences Loss.
  Ah! but those Tears are Pearl which thy Love sheds,
  And they are rich. and ransom all ill Deeds.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXV
No more be griev'd at that, which thou hast done;
Roses have Thorns, and silver Fountains Mud,
Clouds and Eclipses stain both Moon and Sun,
And loathsom Canker lives in sweetest Bud.
All Men make Faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy Trespass with Compare,
My self corrupting salving thy Amiss,
Excusing their Sins more, than their Sins are:
For to my sensual Fault I bring in Sense,
Thy adverse Party is thy Advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful Plea commence;
Such civil War is in my Love and Hate,
  That I an Accessary needs must be
  To that sweet Thief, which sorely robs from me. Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVI
Let me confess, that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided Loves are one;
So shall those Blots, that do with me remain,
Without thy Help, by me be born alone.
In our two Loves there is but one Respect,
Though in our Lives a separable Spight,
Which though it alter not Love's sole Effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet Hours from Love's Delight.
I may not ever-more acknowledge thee,
Least my bewailed Guilt should do thee Shame;
Nor thou with publick Kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that Honour from thy Name.
  But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
  As thou being mine, mine is thy good Report.

Volume 7: Sonnet XXXVII
As a decrepit Father takes Delight
To see his active Child do Deeds of Youth,
So I made lame by Fortune's dearest Spight,
Take all my Comfort of thy Worth and Truth.
For whether Beauty, Birth, or Wealth, or Wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Intitled in their Parts, do crowned sit,
I make my Love ingrafted to this Store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this Shadow doth such Substance give,
That I in thy Abundance am suffic'd,
And by a Part of all thy Glory live:
  Look what is best, that best I wish in thee,
  This Wish I have, then ten times happy Me. Volume 7: Poem XIV
Good Night, good Rest, ah! neither be my Share!
She bad good Night, that kept my Rest away;
And daft me to a Cabben hang'd with Care,
To descant on the Doubts of my Decay.
  Farewel (quoth she) and come again to Morrow:
  Farewel I could not, for I supt with Sorrow.
Yet at my Parting sweetly did she smile,
In Scorn, or Friendship, nill I conster whether:
It may be she joy'd to jest at my Exile;
It may be again to make me wander thither.
  Wander (a Word) for Shadows like my self,
  As take the Pain, but cannot pluck the Pelf.
Lord! how mine Eyes throw Gazes to the East!
My Heart doth charge the Watch; the Morning Rise

Doth scite each moving Sense from idle Rest,
Not daring trust the Office of mine Eyes.
  While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark,
  And wish her Lays were tuned like the Lark.
For she doth welcome Day-light with her Ditty,
And drives away darkdreaming Night:
The Night so packt, I post unto my Pretty;
Heart hath his Hope, and Eyes their wished Sight;
  Sorrow chang'd to Solace, and Solace mixt with Sorrow,
  For why, she sigh'd, and bad me come to morrow.
Were I with her, the Night would post too soon;
But now are Minutes added to the Hours:
To spite me now, each Minute seems an Hour,
Yet not for me, shine Sun to succour Flowers.
  Pack Night, peep Day, good Day, of Night now borrow,
  Short Night, to Night, and length thy self to Morrow. Volume 7: Sonnet XXIV
Mine Eye hath play'd the Painter, and hath steel'd
Thy Beauty's Form in Table of my Heart:
My Body is the Frame, wherein 'tis held,
And Perspective it is best Painters Art.
For thro the Painter must you see his Skill,
To find where your true Image pictur'd lies,
Which in my Bosom's Shop is hanging still,
That hath his Windows glazed with thine Eyes.
Now see what good Turns Eyes for Eyes have done,
Mine Eyes have drawn thy Shape, and thine for me
Are Windows to my Breast, where thro the Sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

  Yet Eyes this Cunning want to grace their Art,
  They draw but what they see, know not the Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet XXV
Let those, who are in Favour with their Stars,
Of publick Honour, and proud Titles boast;
Whilst I, whom Fortune of such Triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joye in that, I honour most.
Great Princes Favourites their fair Leaves spread;
But as the Marigold at the Sun's Eye,
And in themselves their Pride lies buried;
For at a Frown they in their Glory die.
The painful Warriour famoused for Worth,
After a thousand Victories once foil'd,
Is from the Book of Honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot, for which he toil'd.
  Then happy I that love, and am beloved,
  Where I may not remove, nor be removed. Volume 7: Sonnet XXVI
Lord of my Love, to whom in Vassalage
Thy Merit hath my Duty strongly knit;
To thee I send this written Ambassage,
To witness Duty, not to shew my Wit.
Duty so great, with Wit so poor as mine,
May make seem bare, in wanting Words to shew it;
But that I hope some good Conceit of thine
In my Soul's Thought (all naked) will bestow it.

Till whatsoever Star, that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair Aspect,
And puts Apparrel on my tattered Loving,
To show me worthy of their sweet Respect.
  Then may I dear to boast how I do love thee,
  Till then, not show my Head, where thou may'st prove me. Volume 7: Sonnet L
How heavy do I journey on the Way,
When that I seek (my weary Travels End)
Doth teach that Ease and that Repose to say,
Thus far the Miles are measur'd from thy Friend?
The Beast, that bears me, tired with my Wo,
Plods dully on, to bear that Weight in me,
As if by some Instinct the Wretch did know
His Rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody Spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes Anger thrusts into his Hide;
Which heavily he answers with a Groan,
More sharp to me, than spurring to his Side:
  For that same Groan doth put this in my Mind,
  My Grief lies onward, and my Joy behind. Volume 7: Sonnet LI
Thus can my Love excuse the slow Offence
Of my dull Bearer, when from thee I speed.
From where thou art, why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what Excuse will my poor Beast then find,
When swift Extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur tho mounted on the Wind,
In winged Speed no Motion shall I know.
Then can no Horse with my Desire keep Pace,
Therefore Desire (of perfect Love being made)

Shall neigh no dull Flesh in his fiery Race,
But Love for Love, thus shall excuse my Jade.
  Since from thee going, he went wilful slow,
  Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVI
Mine Eye and Heart are at a mortal War,
How to divide the Conquest of thy Sight:
Mine Eye, my Heart their Pictures Sight would bar,
My Heart, mine Eye the Freedom of that Right;
My Heart doth plead, that thou in him dost lye?
(A Closet never pierc'd with Christal Eyes)
But the Defendant doth that Plea deny,
And says in him their fair Appearance lies.
To side this Title, is impannelled
A Quest of Thoughts, all Tenants to the Heart,
And by their Verdict is determined
The clear Eyes Moiety, and the dear Heart's Part:
  As thus; mine Eyes due is their outward Part,
  And my Heart's Right their inward Love of Heart. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVII
Betwixt mine Eye and Heart a League is took,
And each doth good Turns now unto the other:
When that mine Eye is famisht for a Look,
Or Heart in love with Sighs himself doth smother;
With my Love's Picture then my Eye doth feast,
And to the painted Banquet bids my Heart:
Another Time mine Eye is my Heart's Guest,
And in his Thoughts of Love doth share a Part.
So either by the Picture of my Love,
Thy self away, are present still with me,
For thou not farther than my Thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee.

  Or if they sleep, thy Picture in my Sight
  Awakes my Heart, to Heart's and Eyes Delight. Volume 7: Sonnet XLVIII
How careful was I, when I took my Way,
Each Trifle under truest Bars to thrust,
That to my Use it might unused stay
From Hands of Falshood, in sure Wards of Trust?
But thou, to whom my Jewels Trifles are,
Most worthy Comfort, now my greatest Grief;
Thou best of Dearest, and mine only Care,
Art left the Prey of every vulgar Thief.
Thee have I not lockt up in any Chest,
Save where thou art not (though I feel thou art)
Within the gentle Closure of my Breast,
From whence at Pleasure thou maist come and part;
  And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear;
  For Truth proves thievish for a Prize so dear. Volume 7: Sonnet XLIX
Against that time (if ever that time come)
When I shall see thee frown on my Defects,
When as thy Love hath cast his utmost Sum,
Call'd to that Audit by advis'd Respects;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that Sun, thine Eye,
When Love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall Reasons find of settled Gravity:

Against that time do I insconce me here
Within the Knowledge of mine own Desert,
And this my Hand against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful Reasons on thy Part;
  To leave poor me thou hast the Strength of Laws,
  Since why to love, I can alledge no Cause. Volume 7: Poem XV
It was a Lording's Daughter,
The fairest one of three,
That liked of her Master, as well as well might be;
Till looking on an Englishman,
The fairest Eye could see,
  Her Fancy fell a turning.
Long was the Combat doubtful,
That Love with Love did fight,
To leave the Master loveless, or kill the gallant Knight.
To put in practice either, alas! it was a Spite
  Unto the silly Damsel.
But one must be refused, more mickle was the Pain,
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to Gain;
For of the two the trusty Knight
Was wounded with Disdain,
  Alas! she could not help it.
Thus Art with Arms contending, was Victor of the Day,
Which by a Gift of Learning, did bear the Maid away.
Then lullaby! the learned Man hath got the Lady gay,
  For now my Song is ended.

Volume 7: Poem XVI
On a Day (alack the Day)
Love, whose Month was ever May,
Spied a Blossom passing Fair,
Playing in the wanton Air.
Through the velvet Leaves the Wind,
All unseen 'gan Passage find,
That the Lover (sick to Death)
Wisht himself the Heaven's Breath.
Air (quoth he) thy Cheeks may blow;
Air! would I might triumph so!
But (alas) my Hand hath sworn,)
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy Throne;
Vow (alack) for Youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a Sweet;
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear
Juno but an Æthiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy Love. Volume 7: Poem XVII
My Flocks feed not, my Ewes breed not,
My Rams speed not, all is amiss:
Love is dying, Faith's defying,
  Heart's denying, Causer of this.
All my merry Jiggs are quite forgot,
All my Lady's Love is lost (God wot)
Where her Faith was firmly fixt in Love,
There a Nay is plac'd without Remove.

  One silly Cross wrought all my Loss;
  O! frowning Fortune, cursed fickle Dame!
  For now I see Inconstancy,
  More in Women, than in Men remain.
In black mourn I, all Fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me living in Thrall:
Heart is bleeding, all Help needing;
O! cruel Speeding, fraughted with Gall!
My Shepherd's Pipe can sound no Deal,
My Weather's Bell rings doleful Knell,
My curtail Dog, that wont to have play'd,
Plays nor at all, but seems afraid;
  With Sighs so deep, procures to weep,
  In howling wise, to see my doleful Plight;
  How Sighs resound through heartless Ground,
  Like a thousand vanquisht Men in bloody Fight.
Clear Wells spring not, sweet Birds sing not,
Green Plants bring not forth their Die:
Herds stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs black peeping fearfully.
All our Pleasure known to us poor Swains,
All our merry Meetings on the Plains,
All our Evening Sport from us is fled;
All our Love is lost, for Love is dead.
  Farewell, sweet Love, thy like ne'er was,
  For a sweet Content the Cause of all my Woe;
  Poor Coridon must live alone,
  Other Help for him I see that there is none.

Volume 7: Poem XVIII
When as thine Eye hath chose the Dame,
And stal'd the Deer, thou shouldst strike;
Let Reason rule things worthy Blame,
As well as Fancy (partly all might)
  Take Counsel of some wiser Head,
  Neither too young, nor yet unwed.
And when thou com'st thy Tale to tell,
Smooth not thy Tongue with filed Talk;
Least she some subtil Practise smell.
A Cripple soon can find a Halt!
  But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
  And set her Person forth to Sale.
What though her frowning Brows be bent?
Her cloudy Looks will calm e'er Night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her Delight:
  And twice desire e'er it be Day
  That, which with Scorn she put away.
What though she strive to try her Strength,
And ban, and braul, and say thee nay?
Her feeble Force will yield at length,
When Craft hath taught her thus to say:
  Had Women been so strong as Men,
  In Faith, you had not had it then.
And to her Will frame all thy Ways,
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there,
Where thy Desert may merit Praise
By ringing in thy Lady's Ear.

  The strongest Castle, Tower, and Town,
  The golden Bullet beats it down.
Serve always with assured Trust,
And in thy Sute be humble, true;
Unless thy Lady prove unjust,
Please never thou to chuse a New.
  When time shall serve, be thou not slack,
  To proffer though she put it back.
The Wiles and Guiles, that Women work,
Dissembled with an outward Shew;
The Tricks and Toys, that in them lurk,
The Cock that treads them shall not know.
  Have you not heard it said full oft,
  A Woman's Nay doth stand for nought?
Think Women still to strive with Men,
To sin, and never for to saint.
There is no Heaven (by Holy then)
When Time with Age shall them attaint.
Were Kisses all the Joys in Bed,
One Woman would another wed.
But soft enough, too much I fear,
Least that my Mistress hear my Song;
She will not stick to round me on th' Ear,
To teach my Tongue to be so long.
  Yet will she blush, here be it said,
  To hear her Secrets so bewraid.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXII
Sin of Self-love possesseth all mine Eye,
And all my Soul, and all my every Part;
And for this Sin there is no Remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my Heart.
Methinks no Face so gracious is, as mine,
No Shape so true, no Truth of such Account;
And for my self mine own Worth do define,
As I all other in all Worths surmount.
But when my Glass shews me my self indeed,
Beated and chop'd with tann'd Antiquity,
Mine own Self-love quite contrary I read,
Self, so self-loving, were Iniquity:
  'Tis thee (my Self) that for my self I praise,
  Painting my Age with Beauty of thy Days. Volume 7: Sonnet LV
Not Marble, nor the guilded Monument
Of Princes, shall out-live this powerful Rhime;
But you shall shine more bright in these Contents,
Than unswept Stone, besmeer'd with sluttish Time.
When wasteful War shall Statues overturn,
And Broils root out the Work of Masonry;
Nor Mars his Sword, nor War's quick Fire shall burn
The living Record of your Memory.
'Gainst Death, and all oblivious Enmity,
Shall you pace forth, your Praise shall still find Room,
Even in the Eyes of all Posterity,
That wear this World out to the ending Doom.
  So till the Judgment, that your self arise,
  You live in this, and dwell in Lovers Eyes.

Volume 7: Sonnet LII
So am I as the Rich, whose blessed Key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked Treasure,
The which he will not every Hour survey,
For blunting the fine Point of seldom Pleasure.
Therefore are Feasts so solemn and so rare;
Since seldom coming in the long Year set,
Like Stones of Worth they thinly placed are,
Or Captain Jewels in the Carconet.
So is the Time, that keeps you, as my Chest,
Or as the Wardrobe, which the Robe doth hide,
To make some special Instant special blest,
By new unfoulding his imprison'd Pride.
  Blessed are you, whose Worthiness gives Scope,
  Being had to triumph, being lackt to hope. Volume 7: Sonnet LXI
Is it thy Will, thy Image should keep open
My heavy Eye-lids to the weary Night?
Dost thou desire my Slumbers shou'd be broken,
While Shadows like to thee do mock my Sight?
Is it thy Spirit, that thou send'st from thee
So far from home, into my Deeds to pry;
To find out Shames and Idle Hours in me,
The Scope and Tenure of thy Jealousy?
O! no, thy Love tho much, is not so great,
It is my Love, that keeps mine Eye awake;
Mine own true Love, that doth my Rest defeat,
To play the Watch-man ever for thy sake.
  For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake else-where,
  From me far off, with others all too near.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXI
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
When you shall hear the surly, sullen Bell
Give Warning to the World, that I am fled
From this vile World with vilest Worms to dwell.
Nay if you read this Line, remember not
The Hand, that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet Thoughts wou'd be forgot,
If thinking on me then, should make you woe.
O! if (I say) you look upon this Verse,
When I (perhaps) compounded am with Clay,
Do not so much as my poor Name rehearse,
But let your Love even with my Life decay;
  Least the wise World should look into your Moan,
  And mock you with me, after I am gone. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXII
O! least the World should task you to recite,
What Merit liv'd in me, that you should love;
After my Death (dear Love!) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some vertuous Lye,
To do more for me now, than mine own Desert,
And hang more Praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard Truth wou'd willingly impart.
O! least your true Love may seem false in this,
That you for Love speak well of me untrue;
My Name be buried where my Body is,
And live no more to shame nor me, nor you:
  For I am sham'd by that, which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXIV
But be contented, when that fell Arrest,
Without all Bail, shall carry me away:

My Life hath in this Line some Interest,
Which for Memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review,
The very Part was consecrate to thee:
The Earth can have but Earth, which is his due;
My Sprite is thine the better Part of me.
So then thou hast but lost the Dregs of Life,
The Prey of Worms, my Body being dead;
The Coward Conquest of a Wretches Knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
  The Worth of that, is that which it contains,
  And that is this, and this with thee remains. Volume 7: Sonnet LXX
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy Defect,
For Slanders Mark was ever yet the Fair;
The Ornament of Beauty is suspect,
A Crow that flies in Heaven's sweetest Air.
So thou be good, Slander doth but approve
Their Worth the greater being woo'd of Time;
For Canker Vice the sweetest Buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained Prime.
Thou hast past by the Ambush of young Days,
Either not assail'd, or Victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy Praise cannot be so thy Praise,
To tie up Envy, evermore inlarg'd;
  If some suspect of Ill, mask not thy Show,
  Then thou alone Kingdoms of Hearts shouldst owe.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXX
O how I faint, when I of you do write!
Knowing a better Spirit doth use your Name,
And in the Praise thereof spends all his Might,
To make me tongue-ty'd speaking of your Fame.
But since your Worth (wide as the Ocean is)
The humble as the proudest Sail doth bear,
My saucy Bark (inferior far to his)
On your broad Main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest Help will hold me up a-float,
Whilst he upon your soundless Deep doth ride;
Or (being wrackt) I am a worthless Boat,
He of tall Building, and of goodly Pride.
  Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,
  The worst was this, my Love was my Decay. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXI
Or shall I live your Epitaph to make?
Or you survive when I in Earth am rotten?
From hence your Memory Death cannot take,
Although in me each Part will be forgotten.
Your Name from hence immortal Life shall have,
Tho I (once gone) to all the World must dye;
The Earth can yield me but a common Grave,
When you intombed in Mens Eyes shall lie;
Your Monument shall be my gentle Verse,
Which Eyes not yet created, shall o'er-read;
And Tongues to be, your Being shall rehearse,
When all the Breathers of this World are dead;
  You still shall live (such Vertue hath my Pen)
  Where Breath most breathes, e'en in the Mouths of Men.

Volume 7: Sonnet CXVI
Let me not to the Marriage of true Minds
Admit Impediments; Love is not Love,
Which alters when it Alteration finds,
Or bends with the Remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever fixed Mark,
That looks on Tempests and is never shaken;
It is the Star to every wandring Bark,
Whose Worth's unknown, altho his Height be taken.
Love's not Time's Fool, tho rosie Lips and Cheeks
Within his bending Sickle's Compass come;
Love alters not with his brief Hours and Weeks,
But bears it out even to the Edge of Doom.
  If this be Error, and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no Man ever loved. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXII
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore may'st without Attaint o'er-look
The dedicated Words which Writers use
Of their fair Subject, blessing every Book.
Thou art as fair in Knowledge as in Hew.
Finding thy Worth a Limit past my Praise,
And therefore are inforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher Stamp of the time-bettering Days;
And do so love, yet when they have devis'd
What strained Touches Rhetorick can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd,
In true plain Words, by thy true-telling Friend.
  And their gross Painting might be better us'd,
  Where Cheeks need Blood; in thee it is abus'd.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIII
I never saw, that you did Painting need,
And therefore to you Fair no Painting set.
I found (or thought I found) you did exceed
The barren tender of a Poet's Debt:
And therefore have I slept in your Report;
That you your self being extant well might show,
How far a modern Quill doth come too short,
Speaking of Worth, what Worth in you doth grow.
This Silence of my Sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my Glory, being dumb;
For I impair not Beauty being mute,
When others wou'd give Life, and bring a Tomb.
  There lives more Life in one of your fair Eyes,
  Than both your Poets can in Praise devise. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIV
Who is it, that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich Praise, that you alone are you?
In whose Confine immured is the Store,
Which should Example, where your Equal grew.
Lean Penurie within that Pen doth dwell,
That to his Subject lends not some small Glory:
But he, that writes of you, if he can tell,
That You are You, so dignifies his Story.
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what Nature made so clear,
And such a Counter-part shall fame his Writ,
Making him still admir'd every where.
  You to your beauteous Blessing add a Curse,
  Being fond of Praise, which makes your Praises worse. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXV
My Tongue-ty'd Muse in Manners holds her still,
While Comments of your Praise richly compil'd,
Reserve their Character with golden Quill,
And precious Phrase by all the Muses fill'd.

I think good Thoughts, whilst others write good Words,
And like unletter'd Clerk still cry Amen
To every Hymn, that able Spirit affords,
In polisht Form of well-refined Pen.
Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis true,
And to the most of Praise add something more,
But that is in my Thought, whose Love to you
(Tho' Words come hind-most) holds his Rank before:
  Then others, for the breath of Words, respect
  Me for my dumb Thoughts, speaking in Effect. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVI
Was it the proudfull Sail of his great Verse,
Bound for the Prize of (all too precious) you,
That did my ripe Thoughts in my Brain rehearse,
Making their Tomb the Womb wherein they grew?
Was it his Spirit, by Spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal Pitch, that struck me dead?
No neither he, nor his Compeers by Night
Giving him Aid, my Verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar Ghost
Which nightly gulls him with Intelligence,
As Victors of my Silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence.
  But when your Countenance fill'd up his Line,
  Then lack't I Matter, that infeebl'd mine. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVII
Farewel, thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy Estimate:
The Charter of thy Worth gives thee releasing:
My Bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that Riches, where is my Deserving?

The Cause of this fair Gift in me is wanting,
And so my Patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav'st, thy own Worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav'st it else mistaking;
So thy great Gift upon Misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better Judgment making.
  Thus have I had thee, as a Dream doth flatter,
  In Sleep a King, but waking no such matter. Volume 7: Poem XX
As it fell upon a Day,
In the merry Month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant Shade,
Which a Grove of Myrtles made;
Beasts did leap and Birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:
Every thing did banish Moan,
Save the Nightingale alone.
She (poor Bird! as all forlorn,
Lean'd her Breast up-till a Thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st Ditty,
That to hear it was great Pitty:
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, by and by,
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from Tears refrain:
For her Griefs so lovely shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes Pity on thy Pain;
Sensless Trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless Bears, they will not chear thee;
King Pandion he is dead;

All thy Friends are lapp'd in Lead;
All thy fellow Birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd,
Thou, and I, were both beguil'd,
Every one, that flatters thee,
Is no Friend in Misery.
Words are easie, like the Wind,
Faithful Friends are hard to find:
Every Man will be thy Friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:
But if store of Crowns be scant,
No Man will supply thy Want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call:
And with such like Flattering,
Pity but he was a King.
If he be addict to Vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to Women he be bent,
They have him at Commandment.
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewel his great Renown.
They, that fawn'd on him before,
Use his Company no more.
He, that is thy Friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy Need.
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou awake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every Grief in Heart,
He with thee doth bear a Part.
These are certain Signs to know
Faithful Friend, from flattering Foe.

Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXVIII
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And place my Merit in the Eye of Scorn,
Upon thy Side, against thy self I'll fight,
And prove thee Vertuous, tho' thou art Forsworn.
With mine own Weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy Part I can set down a Story
Of Faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted:
That thou in losing me, shalt win much Glory:
And I by this will be a Gainer too.
For bending all my loving Thoughts on thee,
The Injuries that to my self I doe.
Doing thee Vantage, double vantage me.
  Such is my Love, to thee I so belong,
  That for thy Right, my self will bear all Wrong. Volume 7: Sonnet LXXXIX
Say that thou didst forsake me for some Fault,
And I will comment upon that Offence;
Speak of my Lameness, and I straight will halt;
Against thy Reasons making no Defence.
Thou canst not (Love) disgrace me half so ill,
To set a a Form upon desired Change,
As I'll my self disgrace; knowing thy Will,
I will Acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from thy Walks and in my Tongue,
Thy sweet beloved Name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it Wrong,
And haply of our old Acquaintance tell.
  For thee, against my self I'll vow Debate,
  For I must ne'er Love him, whom thou dost Hate. Volume 7: Sonnet XC
Then Hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now,
Now while the World is bent my Deeds to cross;

Joyn with the Spight of Fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-Loss:
Ah! do not, when my Heart hath 'scapt this Sorrow,
Come in the Rereward of a Conquer'd Woe!
Give not a windy Night a rainy Morrow,
To linger out a purpos'd Overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty Griefs have done their Spight;
But in the Onset come, so shall I taste
At first the very worst of Fortune's might.
  And other Strains of Woe, which now seem Woe,
  Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. Volume 7: Sonnet XCI
Some glory in their Birth, some in their Skill;
Some in their Wealth; some in their Bodies force;
Some in their Garments tho' new-fangled ill;
Some in their Hawks and Hounds, some in their Horse:
And every Humour hath his adjunct Pleasure,
Wherein it finds a Joy above the rest.
But these Particulars are not my Measure,
All these I better in one general Best.
Thy Love is better, than high Birth to me,
Richer than Wealth, prouder than Garments Cost;
Of more Delight, than Hawks or Horses be:
And having thee, of all Mens Pride I boast.
  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
  All this away, and me most Wretched make.

Volume 7: Sonnet XCII
But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
For Term of Life thou art assured mine;
And Life no longer, than my Love will stay,
For it depends upon that Love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of Wrongs,
When in the least of them my Life hath End;
I see a better State to me belongs,
Than that, which on my Humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant Mind,
Since that my Life on thy Revolt doth lie.
Oh! what a happy Title do I find,
Happy to have thy Love, happy to die!
  But what's so blessed Fair that fears no Blot?
  Thou mayst be False, and yet I know it not. Volume 7: Sonnet XCIII
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived Husband; so Love's Face
May still seem Love to me, tho' alter'd new:
Thy Looks with me, thy Heart in other Place.
For there can live no Hatred in thine Eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy Change.
In manies Looks the false Heart's History
Is writ in Moods, and Frowns, and Wrinkles strange:
But Heaven in thy Creation did decree,
That in thy Face sweet Love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy Thoughts, or thy Heart's workings be,
Thy Looks shall nothing thence but Sweetness tell.
  How like Eve's Apple doth thy Beauty grow,
  If thy sweet Vertue answer not thy Show?