That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate;

For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. The moon being clouded presently is miss'd, But little stars may hide them when they list.

"The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,

And unperceived fly with the filth away;
But if the like the snow-white swan desire,
The stain upon his silver down will stay.
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious
day.

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,

But eagles gazed upon with every eye.

"Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools! Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!

Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools, Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters; To trembling clients be you mediators :

For me,

I force not argument a straw,

Since that my case is past the help of law.

"In vain I rail at Opportunity,

At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night;

In vain I cavil with my infamy,

In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite :

This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.

The remedy indeed to do me good,

Is to let forth my foul, defilèd blood.

"Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree? Honour thyself to rid me of this shame;

For if I die, my honour lives in thee,

But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame :
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame,
And wast afear'd to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so."

This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth,
To find some desperate instrument of death:
But this no-slaughter-house no tool imparteth,
To make more vent for passage of her breath.
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
As smoke from Etna, that in air consumes,
Or that which from dischargèd cannon fumes.

"In vain," quoth she, "I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life.
I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain,
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:
But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife;

So am I now :-O no, that cannot be ;
Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.

"O! that is gone for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die.
To clear this spot by death, at least I give
A badge of fame to slander's livery;
A dying life to living infamy;

Poor helpless help, the treasure stolen away,
To burn the guiltless casket where it lay!

"Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know The stained taste of violated troth;

I will not wrong thy true affection so
To flatter thee with an infringed oath ;
This bastard graff shall never come to growth:
He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute
That thou art doting father of his fruit.

"Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;
But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stolen from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,

And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my forced offence.

"I will not poison thee with my attaint,
Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses;
My sable ground of sin I will not paint,
To hide the truth of this false night's abuses:
My tongue shall utter all: mine eyes like sluices,
As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure
tale.

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow-sad gait descended
To ugly hell; when lo, the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow:
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloister'd be.

Revealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping;

To whom she sobbing speaks: "O, eye of eyes, Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy peeping;

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping:

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath nought to do what's done by night."

Thus cavils she with everything she sees:
True grief is fond and testy as a child,

Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees.

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild; Continuance tames the one; the other wild,

Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still With too much labour drowns for want of skill.

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare ;
No object but her passion's strength renews;
And as one shifts, another straight ensues:
Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no
words;

Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.

The little birds that tune their morning's joy
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody:
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy;
Sad souls are slain in merry company;
Grief best is pleased with grief's society:
True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed
When with like semblance it is sympathized.

'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore; He ten times pines that pines beholding food; To see the salve doth make the wound ache

more;

Great grief grieves most at that would do it good; Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,

Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'er

flows:

Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.

"You mocking birds," quoth she, "your tunes entomb

Within your hollow swelling feather'd breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb!
(My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests :)
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears;
Distress likes dumps when time is kept with

tears.

"Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell❜d hair :
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear:
For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.

"And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart
Will fix a sharp knife, to affright mine eye;
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.

These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languish-

ment.

"And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold,

Some dark-deep desert, seated from the way, That knows nor parching heat nor freezing cold, We will find out; and there we will unfold

To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds :

Since men prove beasts let beasts bear gentle minds."