The face of either cipher'd either's heart; Their face their manners most expressly told: In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd;
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent 1399 Show'd deep regard and smiling government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight; Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguiled 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 listening, but with several graces, 1410 As if some mermaid did their ears entice, 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 boll'n 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, 1420 It seem'd 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, Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind, Was left unseen, save to 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, 1430
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; And to their hope they such odd action yield,
That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stain'd, a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought,
To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran, Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than
Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, They join and shoot their foam 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, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.
In her the painter had anatomized 1450 Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign: Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised;
Of what she was no semblance did remain: Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes ha fed,
Show'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 seand 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 wroOZI And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long And with my knife scratch out the angry eys Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. 1
'Show me the 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 doth 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 de
'Why should the private pleasure of some one Become the public plague of many moe? Let sin, alone committed, light alone Upon his head that hath trangressed 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 swounds, 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, 141 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 on ringing, with his own weight goes: Then little strength rings out the doleful kneli: So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell
To pencill'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow: She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.
She throws her eyes about the painting 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, though full of cares, yet show'd content. Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes. So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his wors In him the painter labour'd with his skill To hide deceit, and give the harmless show An humble gait, 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 ensconced his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story 1521 The credulous old Priam after slew; Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,
And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they view'd their
'Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds! Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise? 1550 For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds: His eye drops 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.'
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 sorrow's sharp sustaining:
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps; And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.
Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought, That she with painted images hath spent ; Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others' detriment; Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured.
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 attired in discontent? 1601
Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.' Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, Ere 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 Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. 1610 And now this pale swan in her watery nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending; 'Few words,' quoth she, 'shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending: In me moe 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 enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free.
'For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came
A creeping creature, with a flaming light, And softly cried "Awake, thou Roman dame, And entertain my love; else lasting shame
On thee and thine this night I will inflict, 1630 If thou my love's desire do contradict.
""For some hard-favour'd groom of thine," quoth he,
"Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I'll murder straight, 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 lechers in their deed: this act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy."
'With this, I did begin to start and cry;
Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost defend te 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 ere I name him, you fair lords,' quoth she, Speaking to those that came with Collatine, Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, 16 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,
And then against my heart he sets his sword, 1640 As bound in knighthood to her imposition, 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' adulterate 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 forbade 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; Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind; That was not forced; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.'
Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, 1660 With head declined, and voice damm'd up with
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 again.
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, 1609 The protestation stops. O, speak,' quoth Fe, 'How may this forced stain be wiped from me!
'What is the quality of mine offence, Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance? 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 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; 1710 While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.
'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 says, But more than 'he' her poor tongue could not speak;
Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, 1720 She utters this, 'He, he, fair lords, 'tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me."
up 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 sprite, and through her wounds
As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast; 1670 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 by raining slaketh. 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,
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.
Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, 1730 Stood Collatine 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 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 remain'd, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd.
'Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius cries, "That life was mine which thou hast here de- prived.
If in the child the father's image lies, Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. If children pre-decease progenitors, We are their offspring, 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 old, 1760 Shows me a bare-boned 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!
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? 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!' 1771
By this, starts Collatine as from a dream, 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;
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath And live to be revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward soul Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue; 1780 Who, mad that sorrow should his use control, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Begins to talk; but through 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 through his teeth, as if the 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.
Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show. 1810 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 deep policy did him disguise; And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. 'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, 'arise: Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced 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:
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations; But kneel with me and help to bear thy part, To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, 1831 That they will suffer these abominations,
Since Rome herself in them doth stand dis
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.
'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
By all our country rights 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.' upon his breast, This said, he struck his hand And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow; And to his protestation urged the rest, Who, wondering 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 show her bleeding body thorough Rome, 1851 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.
TO THE ONLIE BEGETTER OF THESE INSUING SONNETS
MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESSE AND THAT ETERNITIE
PROMISED BY
OUR EVER-LIVING POET WISHETH
THE WELL-WISHING
ADVENTURER IN SETTING FORTH
FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might 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, 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, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed 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 thune own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved 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.
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 dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. 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.
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?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
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