Those that much covet, are with gain fo fond,
That what they have not (that which they poffefs)
They scatter and unloose it from their bond,
And fo, by hoping more, they have but lefs;
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess

Is but to furfeit, and fuch griefs fuftain,

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 waining 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 battles' rage;

Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth coft
The death of all, and all together loft.

So that in vent'ring ill, 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: fo then we do neglect

The thing we have, and, all for want of wit,
Make fomething nothing, by augmenting it.

Such hazard now muft doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his luft;
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 juft,

When he himself himself confounds, betrays
To flanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days?

Now ftole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy fleep had clos'd up mortal eyes;
No comfortable star did lend his light,

No noife but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries:
Now ferves the season that they may surprise

The filly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still, While luft and murder wake to ftain and kill.

And now this luftful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;
Is madly tofs'd between defire and dread;
The one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm;
But honeft Fear, bewitch'd with luft's foul charm,
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brain-fick rude Defire.

His falchion on a flint he softly fmiteth,
That from the cold ftone fparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus fpeaks advisedly :
As from this cold flint I enforc'd this fire,
So Lucrece muft I force to my defire.

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following forrow may on this arise:
Then looking fcornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of ftill-flaughter'd luft,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust.

Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whofe 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 fhame to knighthood and to fhining arms!
O foul dishonour to my houfhold's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be foft fancy's flave!
True valour ftill a true refpect should have;
Then my digreffion is fo vile, fo base,

Yea, though I die, the fcandal will furvive,
And be an eye-fore in my golden coat;
Some loathfome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me, how fondly I did dote;
That my pofterity, fham'd with the note,
Shall curfe my bones, and hold it for no fin
To wish that I their father had not been.

What win I, if I gain the thing I feek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy:
Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or fells eternity, to get a toy?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?

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

If Collatinus dream of my intent,

Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Poft hither, this vile purpose to prevent ?
This fiege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this forrow to the fage,
This dying virtue, this furviving shame
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame?

O what excuse can my invention make,

When thou shalt charge me with fo 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 ftill exceed;
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.

Had Collatinus kill'd my fon or fire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life,
Or were he not my dear friend, this defire
Might have excufe to work upon his wife;
As in revenge or quittal of fuch ftrife:

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

Shameful it is ;-ay, if the fact be known:
Hateful it is ;-there is no hate in loving:
I'll beg her love ;-but she is not her own:
The worst is but denial, and reproving:
My will is strong, paft reafon's weak removing.
Who fears a sentence or an old man's faw,
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.

Thus, graceless, holds he difputation

'Tween frozen confcience and hot-burning will,
And with good thoughts makes difpenfation,
Urging the worfer sense for vantage still;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill
All pure effects, and doth fo far proceed,
That what is vile fhows like a virtuous deed.

Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing fome hard news from the warlike band
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.

O how her fear did make her colour rife!
First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the rofes took away.

And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd,
Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which struck her fad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare fhe did hear;
Whereat she smiled with fo fweet a cheer,
That had Narciffus feen her as fhe ftood,
Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.

Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth ;
Poor wretches have remorfe in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth :
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;

And when his gawdy banner is display'd,

The coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.