In Ajax and Ulyffes, O what art
Of phyfiognomy might one behold!
The face of either 'cipher'd either's heart;
Their face their manners most exprefsly told:
In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd;
But the mild glance that fly Ulyffes lent,
Show'd deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight;
Making fuch fober action with his hand,
That it beguil'd attention, charm'd the fight:
In fpeech, it seem'd, his beard, all filver 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 prefs of gaping faces,
Which feem'd to fwallow up his found advice;
All jointly listening, but with feveral graces,
As if fome mermaid did their ears entice;
Some high, fome low, the painter was so nice :
The fcalps of many, almost hid behind,
To jump up higher feem'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 blown and red;
Another, fmother'd, seems to pelt and swear ;
And in their rage fuch figns of rage they bear,
As, but for lofs of Neftor's golden words,
It seem'd they would debate with angry fwords.

For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, fo compact, fo kind,
That for Achilles' image ftood his fpear,
Grip'd in an armed hand; himself, behind,
Was left unfeen, fave 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 ftrong-befieged Troy
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to field,
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy

To fee their youthful fons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they fuch odd action yield,

That, through their light joy, feemed to appear
(Like bright things ftain'd) a kind of heavy fear.

And, from the ftrond of Dardan where they fought,
To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle fought
With fwelling ridges; and their ranks began
To break upon the galled fhore, 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 diftrefs is ftêl'd.
Many she fees, where cares have carved some,
But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd,
Till the despairing Hecuba beheld,

Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.

In her the painter had anatomiz'd

Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign;
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were difguis'd;

Of what she was, no femblance did remain :
Her blue blood chang'd to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring that thofe fhrunk pipes had fed,
Show'd life imprifon'd in a body dead.

On this fad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her forrow to the beldame's woes,
Who nothing wants to anfwer her but cries,
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:
The painter was no God to lend her thofe ;
And therefore Lucrece fwears he did her
wrong,
To give her fo much grief, and not a tongue.

Poor inftrument, quoth fhe, without a found,
I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue :
And drop fweet balm in Priam's painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy that burns fo long;
And with my knife fcratch out the angry eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

Show me the ftrumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of luft, 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 trefpafs of thine eye,
The fire, the fon, the dame, and daughter, die.

Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the publick plague of many moe?
Let fin, alone committed, light alone
Upon his head that hath tranfgreffed fo.
Let guiltless fouls be freed from guilty woe:
For one's offence why should so many fall,
fo
To plague a private fin in general?

Lo here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus fwounds;
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,
And one man's luft these many lives confounds:
Had doting Priam check'd his fon's defire,
Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes :
For forrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,
Once fet on ringing, with his own weight goes;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:
So Lucrece fet a-work, fad tales doth tell

To pencil'd penfiveness and colour'd forrow;

She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting, round,
And whom she finds forlorn, fhe doth lament:
At last she fees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian fhepherds lent;
His face, though full of cares, yet fhow'd content :
Onward to Troy with the blunt fwains he goes,
So mild, that Patience feem'd to fcorn his woes.

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 fo
That blushing red no guilty inftance 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 fo enfconc'd his fecret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
Falfe-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into fo bright a day fuch black-fac'd storms,
Or blot with hell-born fin fuch faint-like forms.

The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew
For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after flew ;

Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the fhining glory
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were forry,

And little stars shot from their fixed places,

When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces.

This picture she advisedly perus'd,

And chid the painter for his wond'rous skill;
Saying, fome shape in Sinon's was abus'd,

So fair a form lodg'd not a mind fo ill;

And still on him the gaz'd, and gazing still,
Such figns of truth in his plain face she spy'd,
That the concludes the picture was bely'd.