1709

The poison'd fountain clears itself again; And why not I from this compelled stain?' With this, they all at once began to say, Her body's stain her mind untainted clears; While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears. 1713 'No, no, quoth she, 'no dame, hereafter living,

By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.'

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

That blow did bail it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison where it breath'd;
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath'd
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds
doth fly
1728
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.

Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed, 1732
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw;
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew

The murderous knife, and as it left the place.
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood, 1740
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red re-
main'd,

And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd.

About the mourning and congealed face,
Of that black blood a watery rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place:
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows;
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrified.

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 predecease progenitors,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours.
'Poor broken glass, I often did behold

1756

In thy sweet semblance my old age new born; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Shows me a bare-bon'd death by time outworn. O! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,

That I no more can see what once I was. 1764 'O Time! cease thou thy course, and last no longer,

If they surcease to be that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the
stronger,

And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? 1768
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 Collatine as from a dream, 1772
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;
And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space;

1776

'O!' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life 1800 Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.' 'Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife, I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.' 'My daughter' and 'my wife' with clamours fill'd 1804

The dispers'd 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,

1808

Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. 'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? 1821 Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour from weak minds pro-
ceeds:

1825 Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

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 show her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence: 1852 Which being done with speedy diligence,

The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself 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 churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

T. T.

6

For where is she so fair whose unear'd 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 through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

12

6

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?

12

Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which used, lives th' executor to be.

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 check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite
gone,

Beauty o'ersnow'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:

5

12

6

Lo! 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 climb'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 highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

12

IX.

6

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consum'st thyself 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 children's 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 user so destroys it.

12

No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murderous shame commits.

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 mayst 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 year would make the world away.

Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless and rude, barrenly perish: Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the

more;

Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:

She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby

Thou shouldst print more, nor let that copy

die.

XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime,

6

And sable curls, all 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,
Borne 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;

12 And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

5

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, II
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; '
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
"Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and
date.'

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;