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Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate desire thus madly led,

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforced, retires his ward; But as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping thief to some regard: The threshold grates the door to have him heard; Night-wand'ring weazels shriek to see him there, They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place, The wind wars with his torch to make him stay, And blows the smoke of it into his face, Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch.

And being lighted by the light, he spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks;
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the neeld his finger pricks:
As who should say, this glove to wanton tricks
Is not inured; return again in haste,

Thou seest our mistress' ornaments are chaste. But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him, He in the worst sense construes their denial:

The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial,
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial;
Which with a ling'ring stay his course doth let.
Till every
minute the hour his debt.
pays
'So, so,' quoth he, 'these lets attend the time,
Like little frosts, that sometimes threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing;
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and

sands,

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.' Now is he come unto the chamber-door, That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, Hath barr'd him from the blessed thing he sought. So from himself impiety hath wrought;

That for his prey to pray he doth begin, As if the heavens should countenance his sin. But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, Having solicited th' eternal power, That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair, And they would stand auspicious to the hour; Even there he starts; quoth he, 'I must deflour! The powers to whom I pray, abhor this fact, How can they then assist me in the act? "Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide! My will is back'd with resolution: Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried, The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution; Against love's fire, fear's frost hath dissolution.

The eye of heaven is out, and misty night Covers the same, that follows sweet delight.' This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch, And with his knee the door he opens wide; The dove sleeps fast, that this nightowl will catch: Thus treason works, ere traitors be espied. Who sees the lurking serpent, steps aside;

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed:
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head,
By their high treason is his heart misled;
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon,
To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.
Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight;
Even so the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light:
Whether it is, that she reflects so bright,

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;
But blind they are, and keep themselves inclosed.
O had they in that darksome prison died!
Then had they seen the period of their ill;
Then Collatine again by Lucrece' side,
In his clear bed might have reposed still.
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill;
Aud holy-thoughted Lucrece, to their sight
Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight.
Her lily hand her rosy cheeks lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Which therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss:
Between whose hills, her head intombed is

Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallow'd eyes. Without the bed her other fair hand was,

grass,

On the green coverlet, whose perfect white
Show'd like an April daizy on the
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her like marigolds, had sheath'd their light,
eyes,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair like golden threads,play'd with her breath;
O modest wantons! wanton modesty!
Shewing life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,

As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life.
Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord, no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured.
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,
Who like a foul usurper went about,
From this fair throne to heave the owner out.
What could he see, but mightily he noted?
What did he note, but strongly he desired?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doated,
And in his will his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her suow-white dimpled chin. As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey, Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied: So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay His rage of lust by gazing qualified, Slack'd, not suppress'd: for standing by her side, His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins. And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting, In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children's tears, nor mother's groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking,

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye;
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoaking with pride, march'd on to make his stand
On her bare breasts, the heart of all her land;
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They must'ring to the quiet cabinet,
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,
And fright her with confusion of their cries.
She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes,
Who peeping forth, this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and control'd.
Imagine her as one in dead of night,

Forth from dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking,
What terror 'tis! but she in worser taking,

From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
The sight, which makes supposed terror true.
Wrapt and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies:
She dares not look, yet winking there appears
Quick shifting antics ugly in her eyes,
Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries;

Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.
His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,
(Rude ram! to batter such an ivory wall)
May feel her heart (poor citizen!) distrest,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.

This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,
To make the breach, and enter this sweet city.
First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin
To sound a parley to his heartless foe,
Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show;

But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,
Under what colour he commits this ill.
Thus he replies: "The colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale.
Under that colour am I come to scale

Thy never-conquer'd fort; the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.
"Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide;
My will, that marks thee for my earth's delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might.
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty it was newly bred.
'I see what crosses my attempts will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rose defends;
I think the honey guarded with a sting.
All this before-hand counsel comprehends;
But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends.
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
And doats on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty.
'I have debated, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;
But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;
Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.'

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which like a falcon tow'ring in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount, he dies;
So under his insulting falchion lies

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells

With trembling fear, as fowls hear falcons' bells.
'Lucrece,' quoth he, 'this night I must enjoy thee.
If thou deny, then force must work my way;
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee:
That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay,
To kill thine honour with thy life's decay;

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.
So thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye;
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy;
And thou the author of their obloquy,

Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times.
'But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend,
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted;
A little harm done to a great good end,
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted
In purest compound; being so applied,
His venom in effect is purified.

Then for thy husband; and thy children's sake,
Tender my suit, bequeath not to their lot
The shame, that from them no device can take,
The blemish that will never be forgot,
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour's blot:
For marks descried in men's nativity,

Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.'
Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye,
He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause;
While she, the picture of true piety,
Like a white hind beneath the gripe's sharp claws,
Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws,

To the rough beast, that knows no gentle right,
Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

Lo, when a black-faced cloud the world does threat,
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding,
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust does get,
Which blow these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hind'ring their present fall by this dividing:

So his unhallow'd haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks, while Orpheus plays.
Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth;
Her sad behaviour feeds her vulture folly,
His ear her prayer admits, but his heart granteth
A swallowing gulf, that e'en in plenty wanteth;
No penetrable entrance to her plaining;

Tears harden lust, though marble wears with rain-
ing.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face :
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place,

And midst the sentence so her accent breaks,
That twice she doth begin, ere once she speaks.
She conjures him by high almighty Jove,
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath,
By her untimely tears, her husband's love,
By holy human law, and common troth,
By heaven and earth, and all the power of both;
That to his borrow'd bed he make retire,
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, 'Reward not hospitality
With such black payment, as thou hast pretended;
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee,
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended:
End thy ill aim, before thy suit be ended!

He is no wood-man, that doth bend his bow,
To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

'My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me!
Thyself art mighty, for thy own sake leave me!
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me!
Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me!
My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee.
If ever man was moved with woman's moans,
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans!
"All which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threat'ning heart,
To soften it with their continual motion;
For stones dissolved to water do convert.
O! if no harder than a stone thou art,

Melt at my tears, and be compassionate!
Soft pity enters at an iron gate.
"In Tarquin's likenees I did entertain thee,
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?
To all the host of heaven I complain me;
Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely

name:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; and if the same,
Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king;
For kings, like gods, should govern every thing.
How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring?
If in thy hope thou darest do such outrage,
What darest thou not when once thou art a king?
O! bo remembered, no outrageous thing

From vassal actors can be wiped away;
Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.
This deed shall make thee only loved for fear,
But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love:
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like offences prove:
If but for fear of this, thy will remove;

For princes are the glass, the school, the book, Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look. 'And wilt thou be the school where lust shall learn?

Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?
Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern
Authority for sin, warrant for blame?
To privilege dishonour in thy name,
Thou back'st reproach against long-living laud,
And makest fair reputation but a bawd.,
'Hast thou command? By him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command thy rebel will:
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfill,

When pattern'd by thy fault, foul sin may say,
He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way?
'Think but how vile a spectacle it were,
To view thy present trespass in another:
Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear,
Their own transgressions partially they smother:
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.
O! how are they wrapt in with infamies,
That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes!
"To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal,
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier
I sue for exiled majesty's repeal,
Let him return and flattering thoughts retire.
His true respect will prison false desire,

And wipe the dim mist from thy doating eyne,
That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.'
'Have done,' quoth he, 'my uncontrolled tide
Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide,
And with the wind in greater fury fret:
The petty streams that pay a daily debt

To their salt sovereign with their fresh false
haste,

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.'
"Thou art,' quoth she, 'a sea, a sovereign king,
And lo! there falls into thy boundless flood,
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills should change thy good,
Thy sea within a puddle's womb is burst,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.
'So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave;
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave;
Thou loathed in thy shame, they in thy pride:
The lesser thing should not the greater hide.

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.
So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state.'-
'No more,' quoth he, 'by heav'n I will not hear thee;
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,
Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee:
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,
To be thy partner in this shameful doom.'
This said, he sets his foot upon the light,
For light and last are deadly enemies:
Shame folded up in blind concealing night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries,
Till with her own white fleece her voice con-

trol'd,

Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold.
For with the nightly linen, that she wears,
He pens her piteous clamours in her head,
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears,
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.
O that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
The spots whereof could weeping purify,
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.
But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose again;
This forced league doth force a further strife,
This momentary joy breeds months of pain,
This hot desire converts to cold disdain.

Pure chastity is rifled of her store,

And lust, the thief, far poorer than before.
Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell, or speedy flight,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether baulk
The prey wherein by nature they delight:
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fears this night;
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring.
O! deeper sin, than bottomless conceit
Can comprehend in still imagination!
Drunken desire must vomit his receipt,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While lust is in his pride, no exclamation

Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,
Till like a jade, self-will himself doth tire.
And then with lank and lean 'discolour'd cheek,
With heavy eye, knit-brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble desire, all recreant, poor and meek,

Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case:
The flesh being proud, desire does fight with grace.
For there it revels, and when that decays,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.
So fares it with this fault full lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased:
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of time he stands dis-
graced:

Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced;

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted princess how she fares. She says, her subjects with foul insurrection Have batter'd down her consecrated wall, And by their mortal fault brought in subjection Her inmortality, and made her thrall To living death, and pain perpetual:

Which in her prescience she controlled still, But her foresight could not fore-stall their will. E'en in this thought through the dark night he stealeth,

A captive victor, that hath lost in gain: Bearing away the wound, that nothing healeth, The scar that will, despite of cure, remain: Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain.

She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burden of a guilty mind. He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence, She like a wearied lamb lies panting there: He scowls and hates himself for his offence, She desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear: He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear:

She stays exclaiming on the direful night, He runs and chides his vanish'd, loath'd, delight. He thence departs a heavy convertite; She there remains a hopeless cast-away: He in his speed looks for the morning-light; She prays she never may behold the day: 'For day,' quoth she, 'night-scapes doth open lay; And my true eyes have never practised how To cloak offences with a cunning brow. "They think not but that every eye can see The same disgrace, which they themselves behold; And therefore would they still in darkness be, To have their unseen sin remain untold. For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.' Here she exclaims against repose and rest, And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind: She wakes her heart, by beating on her breast, And bids it leap from thence, where it may find Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her spite,

Against the unseen secrecy of night.
"O comfort-killing night! image of hell!
Dim register! and notary of shame!
Black stage for tragedies! and murders fell!
Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!
Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour of defame!
Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator
With close-tongued treason, and the ravisher!
'O hateful, vaporous, and foggy night!
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportion'd course of time!
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb

His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

'With rotten damps ravish the morning air,
Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrives his weary noon-tide prick;
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,

That in their smoaky ranks his smother'd light
May set at noon, and make perpetual night.
'Were Tarquin night, as he is but night's child,
The silver-shining queen he would disdain;
Her twinkling handmaids too (by him defiled)
Through night's black bosom should not peep again.
So should I have copartners in my pain:

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,
As palmers' chat make short their pilgrimage.
Where now have I no one to blush with me,
To cross their arms, and hang their heads with
mine;

To mask their brows, and hide their infamy;
But I alone, alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine;
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.
'O night! thou furnace of foul-recking smoke,
Let not the jealous day behold that face,
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak
Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace!
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
That all the faults, which in thy reign are made,
May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade!
'Make me not object to the tell-tale day!
The light shall shew, character'd in my brow,
The story of sweet Chastity's decay,
The impious breach of holy wedlock's vow.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how

To cypher what is writ in learned books,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.
"The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name:
The orator, to deck his oratory,

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame.
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,

Will tie the hearers to attend each line,
How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.
'Let my good name, that senseless reputation,
For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted;
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserved réproach to him allotted,

That is as clear from this attaint of mine,
As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.
'O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!
O'unfelt sore! crest-wounding private scar!
Reproach is stampt in Collatinus' face,
And Tarquin's eye may read the mot afar,
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
Alas! how many bear such shameful blows,
Which not themselves, but he that gives them,
knows?

'If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,
From me, by strong assault, it is bereft:
My honey lost, and I a drone-like bee,
Have no perfection of my summer left,
But robb'd and ransack'd by injurious theft:

In thy weak hive a wand'ring wasp hath crept,
And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept.
Yet am I guiltless of thy honour's wreck;
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;
Coming from thee, I could not but him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him.
Besides, of weariness he did complain him,

And talk'd of virtue: O unlook'd for evil!
When virtue is profaned in such a devil!
'Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?
Or hateful cuckows hatch in sparrows' nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom'd mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
But no perfection is so absolute,
That some impurity doth not pollute.
"The aged man, that coffers up his gold,

Is plagued with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits,
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold:
But still like pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless barns the harvest of his wits,

Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment, that it cannot cure his pain.
'So then he hath it, when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd by his young,
Who in their pride do presently abuse it:
Their father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed blessed fortune long.

The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours,
E'en in the moment that we call them ours.
'Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious
flowers;

The adder hisseth where the sweet birds sing;
What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:
We have no good, that we can say is ours.
But ill-annexed opportunity,

Or kills his life, or else his quality.

O! Opportunity! thy guilt is great;

'Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason:

He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid,
As well to hear, as grant what he hath said:
My Collatine would else have come to me,
When Tarquin did; but he was stay'd by thee.
'Gailty thou art of murder and of theft;
Guilty of perjury and subornation;
Guilty of treason, forgery and shift;
Guilty of incest, that abomination:
An accessary by thine inclination

To all sins past, and all that are to come,
From the creation to the general doom.
'Mishapen time, copesmate of ugly night,
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care!
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,
Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare;
Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are.

O! hear me then, injurious shifting Time!
Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.
'Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,
Betray'd the hours thou gavest me to repose?
Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to find the hate of foes,
To cat up errors, by opinion bred,
Not spend the dow'ry of a lawful bed.
'Time's glory is to calm contending kings;
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light:
To stamp the seal of time on aged things;
To wake the morn, and centinel the night;
To wrong the wronger, till he render right:
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And smear with dust their glittering golden

towers:

Thou set'st the wolf where he the lamb may get;To fill with worm-holes stately monuments;
Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st the season:
'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason;
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy her,
Sits sin to seize the souls, that wander by her.
"Thou makest the vestal violate her oath;
Thou blow'st the fire, when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth:
Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud.

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief!
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief.
"Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame;
Thy private feasting to a public fast;
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name;
Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste;
Thy violent vanities can never last.

How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?
"When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd?
When wilt thou sort an hour, great strifes to end?
Or free that soul, which wretchedness hath chain'd?
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd?

To feed oblivion with decay of things;
To blot old books, and alter their contents;
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings:
To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs;
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,
And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel:
To shew the beldame daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger, that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild,
To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled!

To cheer the plowman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stones with little water-drops.
'Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,
Unless thou couldst return to make amends?
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends;
Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends.
O! this dread night! wouldst thou one hour come
back,

I could prevent this storm, aud shun thy wrack.

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for Thon ceaseless lackey to eternity,

thee,

But they ne'er meet with opportunity.

"The patient dies while the physician sleeps;
The orphan pines, while the oppressor feeds:
Justice is feasting, while the widow weeps;
Advice is sporting, while infection breeds:
Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds.

Wrath, envy, treason, rape and murder rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them, as their pages.
'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid;
They buy thy help: but Sin ne'er gives a fee,

With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight;
Devise extremes beyond extremity,

To make him curse this cursed crimeful night:
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright,
And the dire thought of his committed evil
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.
'Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances;
Afflict him in his bed with bed-rid groans:
To make him moan, but pity not his moans:
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones,
And let mild women to him lose their mildness,
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

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