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In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art
Show me the strumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Their face their manners most expressly told : This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear;
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, And here, in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
Let sin, alone committed, light alone
Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,
Had doting Priam check'd his son's desire,
Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.
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 A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,
So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes.
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-fac'd storms,
For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story
of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,
This picture she advisedly perus'd,
That she concludes the picture was bely'd.
And from her tongue, can lurk from cannot took ;
It cannot be she in that sense forsook,
So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.
Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
And softly cry'd, Awake, thou Roman dame,
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
I should not live to speak another word:
Immaculate and spotless is my mind ;. Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
That was not forc'd ; that never was inclin'd It easeth some, though none it ever cur'd, To accessary yieldings, but still pure To think their dolour others have endur'd. Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure. But now the mindful messenger, come back, Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, Brings home his lord and other company;, With head declin'd, and voice damm'd up with wo, Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black : With sad-set eyes, and wretched arins across, And round about her tear-distained eye
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky; The grief away, that stops his answer so: These water galls in her dim element
But wretched as he is, he strives in vain ;
Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste,
Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast;
My wo too sensible thy passion maketh Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, More feeling-painful : let it then suffice And tell thy grief, that we may give redress. To drown one wo, one pair of weeping eyes. Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, Ere once she can discharge one word of wo: For she that was thy Lucrece,-pow attend me; At length address'd to answer bis desire,
Be suddenly revenged on my foe, She modestly prepares to let them know
Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;
From what is past; the help that thou shalt lend me While Collatine and his consorted lords
Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die : With sad attention long to hear her words. For sparing justice feeds iniquity. And now this pale swan in her watery nest But ere I name him, you fair lords, quath she, Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending : (Speaking to those, that came with Collatine, Few words, quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, Where no excuse can give the fault amending : With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine : In me more woes than words are now depending; For 'tis a meritorious fair design,, And my laments would be drawn out too long, To chase injustice with revengeful arms: [harms. To tell them ail with one poor tired tongue. Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' Then be this all the task it hath to say:
At this request, with noble disposition Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
Each present lord began to promise aid, A stranger came, and on that pillow lay
As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Wherr ihou wast wont to rest thy weary head; Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray’d. And what wrong else may be imagined
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, By foul enforcement might be done to me,
The protestation stops. O, speak, quoth she, From that, alas! thy Lucrcce is not free. How may this forced stain be wip'd from me
What is the quality of mine offence,
The deep vexation of his inward soul
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long
Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
The one doth call her his, the other his,
Replies the husband : Do not take away
Wo, wo, quoth Collatine, she was my wife,
I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd,
Seeing such emulation in their wo,
He with the Romans was esteemed so
And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly, Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood,
To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood. Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arise ; Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, And some look'd black and that false Tarquin stain'd. Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. About the mourning and congealed face
Why, Collatine, is wo the cure for wo? [deeds? Of that black blood, a wat'ry rigol goes,
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous Which seems to weep upon the tainted place : Is it revenge to give thyself a blow, And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? Corrupted blood some watery token shows ;
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds ; And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Thy wretched wise mistook the matter so, Blushing at that which is so putrify’d.
To slay herself, that should have slain her soc.
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd Poor broken glass, I often did behold
Now by the Capitol that we adore, In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd, But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's storg. Shows me a barc-bon'd death by timo out-worn; By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd, 0, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn! And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd' And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, That I no more can see what once I was. We will revenge the death of this true wife. O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, If they surcease to be, that should survive, And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow; Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And to his protestation ury'd the rest, And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? Who wondering at him, did his words allow : The old bees die, the young possess their hive : Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see And that deep vow which Brutus made before, Thy father die, and not thy father thee!
He doth again repeat, and that they swore. By this starts Collatine as from a dream,
When they had sworn to this advised doom, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place; They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence; And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence : And counterfeits to die with her a space;
Which being done with speedy diligence, Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, The Romans plausibly did give consent And live io be revenged on her death.
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment,
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF THESE ENSUING SONBETS,
MR. W. H.
ALL HAPPINESS, AND THAT ETERNITY PROMISED BY OUR EVER-LIVING POET,
WELL-WISHING ADVENTURER IN SETTING FORTH,
Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Frox fairest creatures we desire increase,
Which, used, lives thy executor to be.
The lovely gaze where every eye doch dwell,
For never-resting time leads summer on Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel, To hideous winter and confounds him there; Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Beauty o'er-snow'd, and bareness every where : Within thine own bud buriest thy content, Then, were not summer's distillation left, And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding. A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was :
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, II.
Lose but their show; their substance still livos When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
sweet. And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilld: Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some placa To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan ; If thou could'st answer—“This fair child of mine
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one ; Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse, -"
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, Proving his beauty by succession thine.
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee :
Leaving thee living in posterity ?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. Now is the time that face should form another ;
Serving with looks his sacred majesty ;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, of his self-love, to stop posterity ?
Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thos
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Calls back the lovely April of her prime : Attending on his golden pilgrimage; So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
But when froin high-mosi piich, with weary car, Despite of wrinkles, this the golden time. Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
So thou, thyself oui-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? And being frank, she lends to those are free.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly? The bounteous largess given thee to give ?
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds, So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
By unions married, do offend thine ear, For having traffic with thyself alone,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear. Then how, when nature calls thee to be
gone, * i. e. Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Sonneus What acceptable audit canst thou leave
were first entered in Stationers' Hall.
Mark, how one string, sweet husband to another, Who lets go fair a house fall to decay,
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck ;
But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert :
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Holds in perfection but a litile moment;
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And, all in war with time, for love of you,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still;
Who will believe my verse in time to como,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ?
Though yet heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts..
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to coine would say, this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly facoito
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tonguo z.
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
;-in it, and in my rhymo.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,