Imatges de pàgina
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No man inveigh against the wither'd flower,

But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd !
Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O let it not be hild

Poor women's faults, that they are fo fulfill'd

With men's abuses: thofe proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Affail'd by night with circumstances strong
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death, to do her husband wrong:
Such danger to resistance did belong,

That dying fear through all her body spread;
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:
My girl, quoth fhe, on what occafion break

Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?
If thou doft weep for grief of my sustaining,

Know, gentle wench, it small avails mood:

my

If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

But tell me, girl, when went-(and there she stay'd
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?
Madam, ere I was up, reply'd the maid,
The more to blame my fluggard negligence :
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense;
Myself were stirring ere the break of day,
And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

But lady, if your maid may be fo bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.
0 peace! quoth Lucrece; if it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it lefs;

For more it is than I can well express:

And that deep torture may be call'd a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen-
Yet fave that labour, for I have them here.
What should I fay?—One of my
hufband's men,
Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear

A letter to my lord, my love, my dear ;
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it:

The cause craves hafte, and it will foon be writ.

Her maid is gone, and the prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill:
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;
What wit fets down, is blotted straight with will;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:
Much like a prefs of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which fhall go

before.

At last she thus begins: "Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy perfon! next vouchsafe to afford
(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see,)
Some present speed to come and visit me :
So I commend me from our house in grief;
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief."

Here folds the up the tenour of her woe,
Her certain forrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality:
She dares not thereof make difcovery,

Left he should hold it her own grofs abuse,

Ere the with blood hath ftain'd her ftain'd excufe.

Besides, the life and feeling of her paffion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her;
When fighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion
Of her disgrace, the better fo to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
To fhun this blot, fhe would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.

To fee fad fights moves more than hear them told;
For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
'Tis but a part of forrow that we hear :

Deep founds make leffer noise than shallow fords, And forrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is feal'd, and on it writ,
At Ardea to my lord with more than hafte:
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the four-fac'd groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed, but dull and flow she deems:
Extremity still urgeth fuch extremes.

The homely villein curt'fies to her low;
And blushing on her, with a stedfast eye
Receives the feroll, without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whofe guilt within their bosoms lie,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame;

For Lucrece thought he blush'd to fee her shame,

When, filly groom, God wot, it was defect
Of fpirit, life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true refpect
To talk in deeds, while others faucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely:
Even fo, this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honeft looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's luft,
And, blushing with him, wiftly on him gazed;
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:

The more fhe faw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more fhe thought he spy'd in her fome blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vaffal scarce is gone.
The weary time fhe cannot entertain,
For now 'tis stale to figh, to weep, and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That the her plaints a little while doth stay,
Paufing for means to mourn fome newer way.
H

1

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy ;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy,
Threatening cloud-kiffing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew fo proud,
As heaven (it feem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.

A thousand lamentable objects there,
In fcorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life:
Many a dry drop feem'd a weeping tear,
Shed for the flaughter'd husband by the wife :
The red blood reek'd to show the painter's strife ;
And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrim'd with fweat, and fmeared all with duft;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thruft,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little luft :

Such fweet obfervance in this work was had,
That one might fee thofe far-off eyes look fad.

In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triùmphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces;
Which heartless peasants did fo well resemble,

That one would swear he saw them quake and trembic.

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