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“ Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, “ Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes; And in that cold, hot-burning fire doth dwell; Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:
These contraries such unity do hold, So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell
Only to flatter fools, and make them bold : To pencil'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow; [row. So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth fatter, She lends them words, and she their looks doth bor- That he finds means to barn his Troy with water." She throws her eyes about the painting, round, Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails, And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament:
That patience is quite beaten from her breast. At last she sees a wretched image bound,
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; Comparing him to that unhappy guest His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content: Whose deed hath made herself herself detest : Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, At last she smilingly with this gives o'er; [sore." So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn bis woes. “ Fool! fool!” quoth she, “ his wounds will not be In him the painter labour'd with his skill
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, To hide deceit, and give the harmless show And time doth weary time with her complaining. An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe; And both she thinks too long with her remaining : Cheeks, neither red nor pale, but mingled so Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining. That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; Norashy pale the fear that false hearts have.
And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps., But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
Which all this time hath overslipp'd ber thought, He entertain 'd a show so seeming just,
That she with painted images hath spent; And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil,
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought That jealousy itself could not mistrust
By deep surmise of others' detriment; False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust Losing her woes in shows of discontent. Into so bright a day such black-fac'd storms, It easeth some, though none it ever cured, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.
To think their dolour others have endured. The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew But now the mindful messenger, come back, For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story Brings home his lord and other company; The credulous old Priam after slew;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black; Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the shining glory And round about her tear-distained eye Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, Blue circles stream'd, like rain-hows in the sky. And little stars shot from their fixed places, These water-galls in her dim element When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces. Foretell new storms to those already spent. This picture she advisedly perus'd,
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, And chid the painter for his woudrous skill; Amazedly in her sad face he stares : Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd, Her eyes, though sad in tears, look'd red and raw, So fair a form lodg'd not a mind so ill;
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. And still on him she gaz'd, and gazing still, He hath no power to ask her how she fares, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spy'd, But stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, That she concludes the picture was bely'd. Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. " It cannot be," quoth she, “ that so much guile At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, (She would have said) “ can lurk in such a look ;' And thus begins : “ What uncouth ill event But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the wbile, Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand ? And from her tongue, can lurk from cannot took ; Sweet love, wbat spite hath thy fair colour spent? It cannot be she in that sense forsook,
Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent? And turn'd it thus: “ It cannot be, I find,
Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, But such a face should bear a wicked mind:
And tell thy grief, that we may give redress." " For ev'n as subtle Sinon here is painted, Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire, So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe : (As if with grief or travail he had faioted) At length address’d to answer his desire, To me came Tarquin armed; so beguil'd
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;
And nor this pale swan in her watery nest Which speechless woe of his, poor she attendeth,
Then be this all the task it hath to say:- “ And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece-now attend me; A stranger came, and on that pillow lay
Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Wbere thou wast wont to rest tby weary head; Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me And what wrong else may be imagined
From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me By foal enforcement might be done to me, Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die; From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.
For sparing justice feeds iniquity, " For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, “But ere I name him, you, fair lords," quoth she, With shining falchion in my chamber came (Speaking to those that came with Collatine) A creeping creature, with a flaming light,
“ Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, And softly cry'd, “ Awake, thou Roman dame, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ; And entertain my love ; else lasting shame For 't is a meritorious fair design, On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
To chase injustice with revengeful arms : [harms." If thou my love's desire do contradict.
Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' ** For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth At this request, with noble disposition
Valess thou yoke thy liking to my will, [he, Each present lord began to promise aid,
But she, that yet her sad task hath uot said,
The protestation stops. “O speak,” quoth sbe,' My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.'
“ How may this forced stain be wip'd froin me? * With this I did begin to start and cry, " What is the quality of mine offence, And then against my heart he set his sword, Being constraind with dreadful circumstance? Saearing, unless I took all patiently,
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, I should not live to speak another word :
My low-declined honour to advance ?
The poison'd fountain clears itself again;
Of hard misfortune, carv?d in it with tears. That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes, “ No, no," quoth she, “ no dame, hereafter living, And when the judge is robb’d, the prisoner dies. By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.”
O teach me how to make mine own excuse ! Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, [says, Or, at the least this refuge let me find;
She throws forth Tarquin's name: “ He, he," she Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, But more than he her poor tongue could not speak; Immaculate and spotless is my mind;
Till after many accents and delays,
She utters this: “He, he, fair lords, 't is he, Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure."
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.” lo here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, Ev'n here she sheathed in her harmless breast With head declin'd, and voice dam'd up with woe, A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed: With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across, That bluw did bail it from the deep unrest From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
Of that polluted prison where it breathed : The grief away, that stops his answer so:
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Bat wretched as he is, be strives in vain ;
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly What be breathes out, his breath drinks up again. Life's lasting date from canceld destiny. As throngh an arch the violent roaring tide Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Outruns the eye that doth behold bis haste; Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew; Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Till Lucrece' father that beholds her bleed, Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast; Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw; la rage sent out, recallid in rage, being past : And from the purple fountain Brutus drew. Eren so his sigbs, bis sorrows, make a saw, The murderous knife, and as it left the place, To pusb grief on, and back the same grief draw. Her blood, ip poor revenge, held it in chase ;
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide “ 0," quoth Lucretius, “ I did give that life, In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.” Circles her body in on every side,
“ Woe, woe," quoth Collatine, “ she was my wife, Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood
I owed her, and 't is mine that she hath kill'd." Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood.
My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, The dispers'd air, who holding Lucrece' life, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquinstain'd. Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife. About the mourning and congealed face
Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Of that black blood, a watery rigol goes,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.
As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
For sporting words, and uttering foolish things: “ Daughter, dear daughter," old Lucretius cries, But now he throws that shallow habit by, “ That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd. Wherein deep policy did him disguise ; If in the child the father's image lies,
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd ? To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd. “ Thou wronged lord of Rome," quoth he, “ arise; If children pre-decease progenitors,
Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. “ Poor broken glass, I often did behold
“ Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds ? But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Is it revenge to give thyself a blow, Shows me a bare-bon'd death, by time outworn; For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds? O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn! Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds; And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, That I no more can see what once I was.
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.
“ Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
“ Now by the Capitol that we adore,
“ O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer,
This said, he struck his hand upon bis breast,
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
OF THESE ENSUING SONNETS,
MR. W. H.
ALL HAPPINESS AND THAT ETERNITY PROMISED
BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET
WISHETH THE WELL-WISHING ADVENTURER
IN SETTING FORTH,
SONNET VI. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface And dig deep trenches in thy beanty's field,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distillid : Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some place Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Which happies those that pay the willing loan; To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
That's for thyself to breed another thee, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. Or ten times happier, be it ten for one; How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, If thou could'st answer—" This fair child of nine
If ten of thine ten tinies refigur’d thee: Shall som my count, and make my old excuse" "Then, what could death do if thou should'st depart, Proving his beauty by succession thine.
Leaving thee living in posterity ? This were to be new-made when thou art old,
Be not self-will’d, for thon art much too fair And see thy blood warm when thou feelst it cold. To be death’s conquest, and make worms thine beir.
SONNET VII. Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest, Lo, in the orient when the gracious light Now is the time that face should form another; Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Thou dost beguile the world, uobless some mother. Serving with looks his sacred majesty; For where is she so fair, whose un-eard womb Aud having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?
Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Or who is he so foud, will be the tomb
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Of bis self-love, to stop posterity?
Attending on his golden pilgrimage; Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, So thoa through windows of thine age shalt see, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
From his low tract, and look another way: But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
So thon, thyself out-going in thy noon, Die single, and thine image dies with thee. Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
SONNET XII. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? When I do count the clock that tells the time Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Why lov'st thou that wbich thon receiv’st pot glad. When I bebold the violet past prime, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? [ly? And sable curls, all silverd o'er with white; If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, By unions married, do offend thine car,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confouuds And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear. Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Then of thy beauty do I question make, Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
That thou among the wastes of time must go, Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing: And die as fast as they see others grow; Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one, And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defen, Sings this to thee, “ thou single wilt proro none." Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hend
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy, But that thou none lov'st, is most evident;
But not to tell of good, or evil luck, For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality : That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind; Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Or say, with princes if it shall go well, Ochange thy thought, that I may change my mind! By oft predict that I in Heaven find : Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
And (constant stars) in them I read such art, Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove:
As truth and beauty shall together thrive, Make thee another self, for love of me,
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert : That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
SONNET XV. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest; When I consider every thing that grows And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Holds in perfection but a little moment, Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth con- That this huge state presenteth nought but shows Herein lives wisdom, beauty,and increase; (vertest. Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; Without this, folly, age, and cold decay:
When I perceive that men as plants increase, If all were minded so, the times should cease, Cheered and check'd ev'n by the self-same sky; And threescore years would make the world away. Vaunt in their youthful sap, at þeight decrease, Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, And wear their brave state out of memory; Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more; Sets you most rich in yonth before my sight, Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty che- Where wasteful time debateth with decay, rish:
To change your day of youth to sullied night; She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, And, all in war with time, for love of you, Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die. As he takes from you, I engraft you new.