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Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow
They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstacy,
Till, cheering up her senses sore dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;

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.

Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more:
And with that word, she spied the hunted boar,
Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither.
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the paths that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated 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 a 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 scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he had ceased his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin vollies out his voice;
Another and another answers him,

Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon, with fearful eyes, they long have gazed,
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

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who, when he lived, 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.

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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 provokest such

What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes, that taught all other eyes to see?

Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd her eye-lids, who, like sluices, stopp'd
The crystal tide, that from her two cheeks fair,
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd.
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.

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 pleased her babe so well.
The dire imagination she did follow,
This sound of hope doth labour to expel:
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' 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 flatter 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 'clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,
When as 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 provoked my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander,
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong,
I did but act, he's author of thy slander.

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate:

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, 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.
'Fie! fie! fond love, thou art so full of fear,
As one with treasure Jaden, hemm'd with thieves:
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
As 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 ashamed 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 men's minds confound.


And, being open'd, threw unwilling sight
Upon the wide wound, that the boar had trench'd
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily 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, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead.

Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.
Upon his hurt she looks so stedfastly,
That her sight dazzling 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 hearts lead melt at mine eyes' red fire,
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

This mutiny each part doth so surprize,

That from their dark beds, once more, leap her 'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him, I should have kill'd him first.
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My mouth with his; the more am I accurst.'
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 woeful words she told:

'Alas, poor world! what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music 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 lived and died 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 lived, sun and sharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.
And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off, and being gone,
Play with his locks, then would Adonis weep:

And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his


To see his face, the lion walks along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him:
If he had spoke, the wolf would 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 cher-

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
But this foul, grim, and urchin- snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave.

If he did see his face, why then I know,
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.
"Tis true, 'tis true, thus was Adonis slain,
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who would not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there:

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath'd unaware his tusk in his soft groin.

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.
Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.

'Wonder of time!' quoth she, this is my spight,
That, you being dead, the day should 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 to 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, enrich 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;
Ft 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 cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension '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 destro y
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 reft 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,



Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.

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 untutored lines, makes it assured 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 lengthened with all happiness.

Your Lordship's in all duty,


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;
Lo! 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, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed 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 entertained, and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night, he treacherously stealing into her chamber, violently ravished 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 Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius: and finding Lucrece attired in a mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole matter of his dealing, and withalsuddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent, they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins: and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer, and manner of the vile deed; with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent, and a general acclamation, the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state-government changed, from kings to consuls.


Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive pride sur

named Superbus) after he had caused his father-From the besieged Ardea all in post,
in-law, Servius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
and contrary to the Roman laws and customs, Lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
not requiring or staying for the people's suffra- And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
ges, had possessed himself of the kingdom, Which in pale embers hid, larks to aspire,
went, accompanied with his sons, and other
noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During
which siege, the principal men of the army meet-
ing one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarqui-This
nius, the king's son, in their discourses after
supper, every one commended the virtues of his
own wife; among whom Collatinus extolled the
incomparable chastity of his wife Lucrece. In
that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome;
and, intending, by their secret and sudden ar-
rival, to make trial of that which every one
had before avouched: only Collatinus finds his Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state:
wife (though it were late in the night) spinning What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent,
amongst her maids, the other ladies were found In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at so high a rate,

And girdle with embracing flames the waste
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.
baitless edge on his keen appetite:
Haply that name of chaste, unhaply set
When Collatine unwisely did not let,

To praise the clear unmatched red and white,
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight;

Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.
For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,

all dancing and revelling, or in several disports.
Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the
victory, and his wife the fame. At that time,

That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And if posess'd, as soon decay'd and done;
As is the morning's silver melting dew,
Against the golden splendour of the sun;
An expir'd date and cancel'd ere well begun.
Honour and beauty in the owner's arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.
Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher

Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish eare, 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-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should


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. Orash false heat wrapt in repentant cold! Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old. When at Collatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, Within whose face beauty and virtue strived, Which of them both should underprop her fame. When virtue bragg'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 gild Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their 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, Argued 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:

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 plaits of majesty,
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometimes too much wonder of his eye:
Which having all, all could not satisfy;

But poorly rich so wanteth in his store,.
That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she that never coped with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books,
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight
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 Collatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory.

Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, And wordless, so greets heaven for his success. Far from the purpose of his coming thither, He makes excuses for his being there; No cloudy show of stormy blust'ring weather, Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear, Till sable night, mother of dread and fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the day. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness with heavy spright; 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 betakes, Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that wakes.

The sov'reignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other's seat, This silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses, Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield

To those two armies, that would let him go, Rather than triumph in so false a foe. Now thinks he, that her husband's shallow tongue, The niggard prodigal, that praised her so, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show. Therefore that praise, which Collatine doth owe, Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still gazing eyes.

As one of which, doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining;
Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining:

And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.

Those that much covet are of gain so fond,
That what 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 grief 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 battle's rage,

Honour for wealth, and oft that wealth doth cost .The death of all, and altogether lost.

So that in vent'ring ill, 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.

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspected the false worshipper,

For thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream of evil, Such hazard now must doating Tarquin make,
'Birds never limed, no secret bushes fear:'
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer


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 days?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had closed 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 leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm,
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
The 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 falchion 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;

'As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,
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 controls his thoughts unjust.
'Fair torch burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her, whose light excelleth thine:
And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine.
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:

Let fair humanity abhor the deed,

That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake?
Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.
'Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life;
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife,
As in revenge or quittal of such strife:

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

'O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave!
True valour still a true respect should have.
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.
'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat:
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cypher me, how fondly I did dote:
That my posterity, shamed with the note,

Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin,
To wish that I their father had not been.
'What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy,
Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or sells eternity, to get a toy?
For one sweet grape, who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
'If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege, that hath ingirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?

Shameful it is, ay, if the fact be known;
Hateful it is; there is no hate in loving.
I'll beg her love; but she is not her own:
The worst is but denial, and reproving;
My will is strong, past reason's weak removing;
Who fears a sentence, or an old man's saw,
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.'
Thus (graceless) holds he disputation,
'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,
And with good thoughts makes dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for 'vantage still;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill

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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 gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some bad news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.

O how her fear did make her colour rise!
First, red as roses, that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.
'And how her hand in my hand being lock'd
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,

That, had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
Self-love 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, avaunt! Debating, die!
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand mine eye,
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage,
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.
Desire my pilot is beauty my prize;

Then who fears sinking, where such treasure lies?
As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost chalk'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 Collatine,
That eye which looks on her, confounds his wits;
That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view so false will not incline:

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
Which, once corrupted, takes the worser part.
And therein heartens up his servile powers,

'O what excuse can my invention make,
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed? Who flatter'd by their leader's jocund show,

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