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He stories to her ears her husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

And decks with praises Colatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,

With bruised arms and wreaths of victory.

Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,
And, wordless, so greets heav'n 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, sad source of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison shuts the day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy sprite ;
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 betake,

Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

Tho' weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining;
Despair to gain doth traffick oft for gaining;

And when great treasure is the meed propos'd,
Tho' death be adjunct, there's no death suppos'd.

Those that much covet are of gain so fond,
That oft 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 griefs 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 waning 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.

1

So that in venturing all, 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.

Such hazard now must doating Tarquin make,
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 lays?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had clos'd 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 leapt from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm,
Is madly tost between desire and dread;
Th' 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 brain-sick rude desire.

His fauchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forth with he lighteth,
Which must be load-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly;
"As from this cold flirt I enforc'd this fire,
"So Lucrece must I force to my desire."

E

VOL. IX.

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.

O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my houshold'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.

Yes, tho' 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?

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Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

If Colatinus 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.

Ó what excuse can my invention make,
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed !
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 Colatinus 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 quital of such strife:

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

Shameful it is, if once the fact be known;
Hateful it is, there is no hate in loving.
I'll beg her love, but it 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
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 gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some bad news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Colatinus 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 now her hand in my hand being lock❜d,
Forc'd 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 beseems the sage;
My part is youth, and beats them 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 choak'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 Colatine.
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,
Who flatter'd by their leader's jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain so their pride doth grow,

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