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Qaoth she, 'Reward not hospitality

And wipe the dim mist from thy doating eyne, With such black payment, as thou hast pretended;} That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.' Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee, 'Have done,' quoth he, 'my uncontrolled tide Mar not the thing that cannot be amended :

Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. End thy ill aim, before thy sait be ended !

Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, He is no wood-man, that doth bend his bow, And with the wind in greater fury fret: To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

The petty streams that pay a daily debt 'My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me! To their salt sovereign with their fresh false Thyself art mighty, for thy own sake leave me!

haste, Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me!

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.' Thon look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me! 'Thou art,' quoth she, “a sea, a sovereign king, My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee. And lo! there falls into thy boundless flood,

If ever man was moved with woman's moans, Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,

Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans! Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. All which together, like a troubled ocean, If all these petty ills should change thy good, Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threat'ning heart, Thy sea within a puddle's womb is burst, To soften it with their continual motion;

And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. For stones dissolved to water do convert. “So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave; 0! if no harder than a stone thou art,

Thou nobly base, they basely dignified; Melt at my tears, and be compassionate ! Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave; Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

Thou lonthed in thy shame, they in thy pride: 'In Tarquin's likenees I did entertain thee, The lesser thing should not the greater hide. Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame? The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot, To all the host of heaven I complain me;

But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state.' –

‘No more,' quoth he, 'by heav'n I will not hear thee; Thou art not what thou seem'st; and if the same, Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,

Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king ; Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee:

For kings, like gods, should govern every thing. That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, When thus ihy vices bud before thy spring ? To be thy partner in this shameful

doom.' If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage, This said, he sets his foot upon the light, What darest thou not when once thou art a king? For light and last are deadly enemies : 0! bo remembered, no outrageous thing

Shame folded up in blind concealing night, From vassal actors can be wiped away;

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries, This deed shall make thee only loved for fear,

Till with her own white fleece her voice conBut happy monarchs still are fear'd for love:

trol'd, With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold. When they in thee the like offences prove: For with the nightly linen, that she wears, If but for fear of this, thy will remove;

He pens her piteous clamours in her head, For princes are the glass, the school, the book, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears,

Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look. That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. 'And wilt thou be the school where last shall O that prone lust should stain so pure a bed! learn?

The spots whereof could weeping purify, Must he in thee read lectures of such shame? Her tears should drop on them perpetually. Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, Authority for sin, warrant for blame?

And he hath won what he would lose again; To privilege dishonour in thy name, Thou back'st reproach against long-living laud, This momentary joy breeds months of pain,

This forced league doth force a further strife, And makest fair reputation but a bawd.,

This hot desire converts to cold disdain. 'Hast thou command ? By him that gave it thee, Pure chastity is rilled of her store, From a pure heart command thy rebel will: And lust, the thief, far poorer than before. Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,

Look, as the full-fed hoand or gorged hawk, For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.

Unapt for tender smell, or speedy flight, Thy princely office how canst thou fulfill,

Make slow pursuit, or altogether baulk When pattern'd by thy fault, foul sin may say, The prey wherein by nature they delight:

He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way? so surfeit-taking Tarquin fears this night; "Think but how vile a spectacle it were,

His taste delicious, in digestion souring, To view thy present trespass in another:

Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear,

0! deeper sin, than bottomless conceit Their own transgressions partially they smother: Can comprehend in still imagination! This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. Dronken desire must vomit his receipt, 0! how are they wrapt in with infamies,

Ere he can see his own abomination. That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes! While last is in his pride, na exclamation "To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire, Not to seducing last, thy rash relier

Till like a jade, self-will himself doth tire. I sue for exiled majesty's repeal,

And then with lank and lean 'discolour'd cheek, Let him return and Natuering thoughts retire. With heavy eye, knit-brow, and strengthless pace, His true respect will prison false desire, Feeble desire, all recreant, poor and meek,

Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case: 'With rotten damps ravish the morning air,
The flesh being proud, desire does fight with grace. Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick

For there it revels, and when that decays, The life of purity, the supreme fair,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.

Ere he arrives his weary noon-tide prick;'
So fares it with this fault full lord of Rome,

And let thy misty vapours march so thick, Who this accomplishment so hotly chased :

That in their smoaky, ranks his smother'd light For now against himself he sounds this doom, May set at noon, and make perpetual night. That through the length of time he stands dis- 'Were Tarquin night, as he is but night's child, graced :

The silver-shining queen he would disdain ; Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced ; Her twinkling handmaids too (by him defiled)

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, Through night's black bosom should not peep again.

To ask the spotted princess how she fares. So should i have copartners in my pain : She says, her subjects with foul insurrection

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, Have batter'd down her consecrated wall,

As palmers' chat make short their pilgrimage. And by their mortal fault brought in subjection 'Where now have I no one to blush with me, Her inmortality, and made her thrall

To cross their arms, and hang their heads with To living death, and pain perpetual:

mine; Which in her prescience she controlled still, To mask their brows, and hide their infamy;

But her foresight could not-fore-stall their will. But I alone, alone must sit and pine, E’en in this thought through the dark night he Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine; stealeth,

Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, A captive victor, that hath lost in gain:

Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. Bearing away the wound, that nothing healeth, 'O night! thou furnace of foul-recking smoke, The scar that will, despite of cure, remain : Let not the jealous day behold that face, Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain. Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak

She bears the load of lust he left behind, Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace!
And he the burden of a guilty mind.

Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence,

That all the faults, which in thy reign are made, She like a wearied lamb lies panting there :

May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade! He scowls and hates himself for his offence, ‘Make me not object to the tell-tale day! She desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear: The light shall shew, character'd in my brow, He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear: The story of sweet Chastity's decay,

She stays exclaiming on the direful night, The impious breach of holy wedlock's vow.

He runs and chides his vanish’d, loath'd, delight. Yea, the illiterate, that know not how He thence departs a heavy convertite;

To cypher what is writ in learned books, She there remains a hopeless cast-away:

Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. He in his speed looks for the morning-light; "The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story, She prays she never may behold the day: And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name: 'For day,' quoth she, ‘night-scapes doth open lay; The orator, to deck his oratory,

And my true eyes have never practised how Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame.

To cloak offences with a cunning brow. Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, "They think not but that every eye can see

Will tie the hearers to attend each line, The same disgrace, which they themselves behold;

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. And therefore would they still in darkness be, ‘Let my good name, that senseless reputation, To have their unseen sin remain untold.

For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted; For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, If that be made a theme for disputation,

And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, The branches of another root are rotted,
Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.' And undeserved reproach to him allotted,

That is as clear from this attaint of mine,
Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind:

As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.
She wakes her heart, by beating on her breast, 'O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find O’unfelt sore! crest-wounding private scar!
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. Reproach is stampt in Collatinus' face,
Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her And Tarquin's eye may read the mot afar,

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
Against the unseen secrecy of night.

Alas ! how many bear such shameful blows,

Which not themselves, but he that gives them, 'O comfort-killing night! image of hell!

Dim register! and notary of shame!
Black stage for tragedies! and murders fell! 'If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,
Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame! From me, by strong assault, it is bereft:
Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour of defame! My honey lost, and I a drone-like bee,

Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator Have no perfection of my summer left,
With close-tongued treason, and the ravisher! But robb’d and ransack'd by injurious theft:

In thy weak hive a wand'ring, wasp hath crept, 'O hateful, vaporous, and foggy night! Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,

And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept. Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Yet am I guiltless of thy honour's wreck; Make war against proportion'd course of time! Yet for thy honour did I entertain him; Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb

Coming from thee, I could not but him back, His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, For it had been dishonour to disdain him. Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. Besides, of weariness he did complain him,


And talk'd of virtue: O unlook'd for evil! He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid,

When virtue is profaned in such a devil! As well to hear, as grant what he hath said: 'Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud ? My Collative would else have come to me, Or hateful cuckows hatch in sparrows' nests? When Tarquin did; but he was stay'd by thee. Or toads infect fair founts with renom'd mud ? Goilty thou art of murder and of theft; Or tyrant folly lark in gentle breasts ?

Guilty of perjury and subornation; Or kings be breakers of their own behests? Guilty of treason, forgery and shift; But no perfectiop is so absolute,

Guilty of incest, that abomination : That some impurity doth not pollute.

An accessary by thine inclination 'The aged man, that coffers up his gold,

To all sins past, and all that are to come, Is plagued with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits,

From the creation to the general doom. And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold: Mishapen time, copesmate of ugly night, But still like pining Tantalus he sits,

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care! And useless barns the harvest of his wits, Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Having no other pleasure of his gain,

Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare; But torment, that it cannot cure his pain. Thou nursest all, and murderest all thal are. 'So then he hath it, when he cannot use it,

0! hear me then, injurious shifting Time! And leaves it to be master'd by his young,

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime, Who in their pride do presently abuse it: 'Why hath thy servant, Opportunity, Their father was too weak, and they too strong, Betray'd the hours thou gavest me to repose ? To hold their cursed blessed fortune long.

Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, To endless date of never-ending woes?

E'en in the moment that we call them ours. Time's office is to find the hale of foes, 'Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;

To eat up errors, by opinion bred, Unwholesome weeds take root with precious Not spend the dow'ry of a lawful bed. The adder hisseth where the sweet birds sing;

'Time's glory is to calm contending kings; What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:

To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light: We have no good, that we can say is ours.

To stamp the seal of time on aged things; But ill-annexed opportunity,

To wake the morn, and centinel the night; Or kills his life, or else his quality.

To wrong the wronger, till he render right:

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, 0! Opportunity! thy guilt is great;

And smear with dust their glittering golden 'Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason :

towers: Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st the season:

"To fill with worm-holes stately monuments; 'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason; To feed oblivion with decay of things;

And in thy shady cell, where none may spy her, To blot old books, and alter their contents ;

Sits sin to seize the souls, that wander by her. To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings: 'Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;

To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs; Thou blow'st the fire, when temperance is thaw'd;

To spoil antiquities of' hammer'd steel, Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth:

And turn the giddy ronnd of fortune's wheel : Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd! "To shew the beldame daughters of her daughter, Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud. To make the child a man, the man a child,

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief! To slay the tiger, that doth live by slaughter,

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief. To tame the unicorn and lion wild, 'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame;

To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled ! Thy private feasting to a public fast;

To cheer the plowman with increaseful crops, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name;

And waste huge stones with little water-drops. Thy sugar’d tongue to bitter wormwood taste; 'Why work'st thon mischief in thy pilgrimage, Thy violent vanities can never last.

Unless thou couldst return to make amends ? How comes it then, vile Opportunity,

One poor retiring minute in an age Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends; 'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends. And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd? 0! this dread night! wouldst thou one hour come When wilt thou sort an hour, great strifes to end?

back, Or free that soul, which wretchedness hath chain's ? I could prevent this storm, aud shun thy wrack. Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd ? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for Thon ceaseless lackey to eternity,

With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight; thee, But they ne'er meet with opportunity.

Devise extremes beyond extremity,

To make him curse this cursed crimeful night: “The patient dies while the physician sleeps; Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright, The orphan pines, while the oppressor feeds : And the dire thonght of his committed evil Justice is feasting, while the widow weeps; Shape every bush a hidcous shapeless devil. Advice is sporting, while infection breeds:

‘Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances; Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds.

Aflict him in his bed with bed-rid groans : Wrath, envy, treason, rape and murder rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them, as their pages. To make him moan, but pity not his moans:

Let there bechance him pitiful mischances, 'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid; And let mild women to him lose their mildness, They buy thy help: but sin ne'er gives a fee, Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

'Let him have time to tear his curled hair;

So am I now: O no! that cannot be; Let him have' time against himself to rave;

Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. Let him have time of time's help to despair; "O! that is gone, for which I sought to live, Let him have time to live a loathed slave; And therefore now I need not fear to die; Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave, To clear this spot by death (at least) I give And time to see one, that by alms doth live,

A badge of fame to slauder's livery, Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. A dying life to living infamy! 'Let him have time to see his friends his foes, Poor helpless help, the treasure stolen away, And merry fools to mock at him resort:

To burn the guiltless casket where it lay! Let him have time to mark how slow time goes, "Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know In time of sorrow; and how swift and short The stained taste of violated troth; His time of folly, and his time of sport:

I will not wrong thy true affection so, And ever let his unrecalling crime

To flatter thee with an infringed oath! Have time to wail th' abusing of his time. This bastard graf' shall never come lo growth; 0! Time! thou tutor both to good and bad! He shall not boast, who did thy stock pollate, Teach me to curse him, that thou taught'st this ill; That thou art dpating father of his fruit. At his own shadow let the thief run mad,

“Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, Himself, himself seek every hour to kill; Such wretched hands such wretched blood should But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought

Nor laugh with his companions at thy state; spill!

Basely with gold, but stolen from forth thy gate. For who so base would such an office have,

For me, I am the mistress of my fate, As slanderous death's-man to so base a slave?

And with my trespass never will dispense, "The baser is he, coming from a king,

Till life to death acquit my forc'd offence. To shame his hope with deeds degenerate; 'I will not poison thee with my attaint, The mightier man, the mightier is the thing, Nor fold my fault in cleanly coin'd excuses; That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate: My sable ground of sin I will not paint, For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. To hide the truth of this false night's abuses :

The moon being clouded, presently is miss'd; My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like siuices,

But little stars may hide them when they list. As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale, "The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,

Shall gush pure streams, to purge my impure tale.' And uoperceived fly with the filth away; By this, lameoting Philomel had ended But if the like the snow-white swan desire,

The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow; The stain upon his silver down will stay. And solemn night with slow sad gait descended Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day, To uglyhell; when lo! the blushing morrow Goats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,

Lends light to all fair eyes, that light will borrow; But eagles gazed upon with every eye.

But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,

And therefore still in night would cloister'd be. Out, idle words ! Servants to shallow fools ; Uoprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!

Revealing day through every cranny spies,

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping; Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;

To whom she sobbing speaks! ‘O! eye of eyes! Debate, where leisure serves, with dull debators : To trembling clients be you mediators.

Why pry'st thou through my window? Leave thy For me, I force not argument a straw,

peeping, Since that my case is past the help of law.

Mock with thy tinckling beams eyes that are sleep

ing: 'In vain I rail at opportunity,

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, At time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful night!

For day, hath nought to do what's done by night. In vain I cavil with mine infamy,

Thus cavils she with every thing she sees; In vain I spurn at my confirm’d despight;

True grief is fond, and testy as a child, This helpless smoke of word; doth me no right,

Who wayward once, his mood with naught agreos; The remedy indeed to do me good,

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild;' Is to let forth my foul, defiled, blood.

Continuance tames the one, the other wild, 'Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree? Like an unpractised swimmer, plunging still, Honour thyself, to rid me of this shame;

With too much labour, drowns for want of skill. For if I die, my honour lives in thee;

So she deep drenched in a set of care, But if I live, thou livest in my defame:

Holds disputation with each thing she views, Since thou conld'st not defend thy loyal dame, And to herself all sorrow doth compare;

And wast afraid to scratch her wicked foe, No object but her passions strength renews,

Kill both thyself, and her for yielding so. And as one shifts, another straight ensuès ; This said, from her betumbled couch she starts

Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words;

Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk aflords. To find some desperate instrument of death. But this no slaughter-house, no tool imparts, The little birds, that tune their morning's joy, To make more vent for passage of her breath, Make her moans mad with their sweet melody. Which thronging through her lips so vanisheth, For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;

As smoke from Aetna, that in air consumes, Sad souls are slain in merry company;

Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. Grief best is pleased with griet's society. 'In vain,' quoth she, 'I live, and seek in vain

True sorrow then is feelingly surprised, Some happy mean to end a hapless life;

When with like semblance it is sympathized. I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain, 'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore; Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife: He ten times pines, that pines beholding food: But when I fear’d, I was a loyal wife;

To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;


Gr:at grief grieves most at that will do it good; Revenge on him, that made me stop my breath: Dep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath, Which being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'er- Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent, flows;

And as his due, writ in my testameut. Grief dallied with nor law, nor limit knows.

"My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife, 'You mocking birds,'quoth she, “your tunes intomb That wounds my body so dishonoured: Within your hollow-swelling feather'd breasts ; 'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life: And in my hearing be you mute and dumb ! The one will live, the other being dead. My restless discord loves no stops nor rests: So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred; A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests.

For in my death I murder shameful scorn, Relish


nimble notes to pleasing ears, My shame so dead, my honour is new-born. Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,

What legacy shall I bequeath to thee? 'Come Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, Make thy sad grove in my dishevel'd hair ! By whose example thou revenged may'st be. As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, How Tarquin mast be used, read it in me! So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,

Myself thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe: And with deep groans the diapason bear:

And for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin so. For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.

This brief abridgment of my will I make:

My soul and body to the skies and ground, 'And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part, My resolution, husband, do you

take; To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, Mine honour be the knife's, that makes my wound; To imitate thee well, against my heart

My shame be his, that did my fame confound; Will fix a sharp knife, to ati right mine eye,

And all my fame that lives, disbursed be Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.

To those that live, and think no shame of me. These means, .as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heart-strings to true languish-'Thoa, Collatine, shalt oversee this will, ment.

How was I overseen, that thou shalt see it! "And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill; As sliaming any eye should thee behold;

My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it. Some dark deep desert seated from the way,

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, So be it! That knows not parching heat, nor freezing cold,

Yield to my hand, and that shall conquer thee; We will find out; and there we will unfold

Thou dead, that dies, and both shall victors be.' To creatures stern sad tunes to change their This plot of death, when sadly she had laid, kini's;

And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle With untuned tongue she hoarsely call'd her maid, minds.'

Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies, As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, For fleet-wing’d duty with thought's feathers flies. Wildly determining which way to fly;

Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so, Or one incompass’d with a winding maze,

As winter meads, when sun doth melt their That cannot tread the way out readily: So with herself is she in mutiny,

Her mistress she doth give demare good-morrow, To live or die, which of the twain were better, With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty ; When life is shamed, and death reproaches And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow, debtor.

(For why, her face wore sorrow's livery) “To kill myself,' quoth she, ‘alack! what were it, But durst not ask of her audaciously, But with my body my poor soul's pollution ? Why her two suos were cloud-eclipsed so; They that lose hall, with greater patience bear it, Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe. Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion,

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Who having two sweet babes, when death takes Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;

E'en so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet one, Will slay the other and be nurse to none.

Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy

Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky; 'My body or my soul, which was the dearer, Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light, When the one pure, the other made divine ? Which makes the maid weep like the dewy nigbt. Whose love of either to myself' was nearer, When both were kept from heaven and Collatine?

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Ah me! the burk peal'd from the lofty piue,

Like ivory conduits coral cisteros filling: His leaves will wither, and his sap decay;

One justly weeps, the other takes in hand So must my soul, her bark being peal'd away.

No cause, but company of her drops spilling:

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing; Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, Grieving themselves to guess at other smarts; Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;

And then they drown their eyes, or break their Her sacred temple sported, spoil'd, corrupted,

hearts. Grossly ingirt with daring intamy. Then let it not be call' impiety,

For men have marble, women waxen minds, If in this blemishi'd fort I make some hole,

And therefore they are form'd as marble will: Through which I may convey this troubled soul. The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds

Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill. ‘Yet die I will not, till my Collatine

Then call them not the authors of their ill, Have heard the cause of my antimely death: No more than wax sha l be accounted evil, That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.


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