The face of either cypher'd either's heart; Their face, their manners most expressly told, In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Shew'd deep regard and smiling government. There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight, Making such sober actions with his hand, Another smother'd, seems to pelt and swear, That for Achilles' image stood his spear, And from the walls of strong besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; And to their hope they such odd action yield, That through their light joy seem'd to appear, (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear. And from the strand of Dardan where they fought, To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran; Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and then 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 distress is stell'd; Many she sees, where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding ander Pyrrhus' proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomized Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign; Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were dis guised; Of what she was, no semblance did remain ; Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead. On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus, that hath done him wrong, And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long; And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks, that are thine enemies.. · Shew me the strumpet, that began this stir, That with my nails her beauty I may tear: Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath, that burning Troy did bear; Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here: And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. 'Why should the private pleasure of some ont, Become the public plague of many more? Let sin alone committed, light alone Upon his head, that hath transgressed so. Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe. For one's offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general? Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies! Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sounds! Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies! And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds! And one man's lust these many lives confponds! Had doating Priam check'd his son's desire, Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.' Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes: For sorrow, like a heavy hanging bell, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes; Then little strength rings out the doleful kneil. So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell To pencill'd pensiveness, and colour'd sorrow; She lends them words, and she their looks doil borrow. She throws her eyes about the painting round, And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament: At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; His face, though full of cares, yet shew'd content. Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes, So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn 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 so, That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale, the fair that false hearts have. But, like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertain❜d a show so seeming just; And therein so insconced his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust, False creeping craft and perjury should thrust, Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skill'd workman this wild image drew For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story The credulous old Priam after slew; Whose words like wild-fire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion; that the skies were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces. This picture she advisedly perused, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill: Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused, So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill: And still on him she gazed, and gazing still, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes, the picture was belied. 'It cannot be,' quoth she, that so much guile,' She would have said, can lurk in such a look; But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue, can lurk, from cannot, took : It cannot be, she in that sense forsook, And turn'd it thus; it cannot be, I find, (As if with grief or travel he had fainted) Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining: She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining: Short time seems long, in sorrow's sharp sustaining. Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps. Which all this time hath over-slipt her thought, That she with painted images hath spent, Being from the feeling of her own grief brought, It easeth some, though none it ever cured, But now the mindful messenger comes back, Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black, And round about her tear-distained eye Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky. These watergalls, in her dim element, Foretel new storms to those already spent. Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares: Her eyes, though sod in tears, look red and raw, Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares, But stood like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from hence, wond'ring each other's chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins: What uncouth ill event Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love! what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent? Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.' Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire, Ere once she can discharge one word of woe: At length address'd, to answer his desire, She modestly prepares, to let them know Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe: While Colatine, and his consorted lords, With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her wat'ry nest, Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. Few words,' quoth she,' shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending; In me more woes than words are now depending: And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. Then be this all the task it hath to say, Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay, By foul enforcement might be done to me, For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he, The lechers in their deed: this act will be With this I did begin to start and cry, I should not live to speak another word: Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. Oh! teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or, at the least, this refuge let me find; Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse. Immaculate and spotless is my mind: That was not forced, that never was inclined To accessary yieldings; but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.' Lo! here the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declined, and voice damm'd up with woe; With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across, But wretched as he is, he strives in vain; 'Dear lord! thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power, no flood by raining slacketh; My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling painful; let it then suffice And for my sake, when I might charm thee 30, Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me From what is past, the help, that thou shalt leud me 'But ere I name him, your fair lords,' quoth she, (Speaking to those that came with Colatine) Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, With swift pursuit to 'venge this wrong of mine: For 'tis a meritorious fair design, To chase injustice with revengeful arms, Knights by their oaths should right poor ladies harms.' At this request, with noble disposition, Each present lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd: But she that yet her sad task hath not said, The protestation stops. 'O speak!' quoth she, 'How may this forced stain be wiped from me? 'What is the quality of my offence, Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, My low declined honour to advance ? May any terms acquit me from this chance ? · The poison'd fountain clears itself again, And why not I, from this compelled stain ? With this they all at once began to say, Her body's stain the mind untainted clears, While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map, which deep impression bears of hard misfortune carved in with tears. No, no,' quoth she, no dame hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuses giving.' Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin's name. He, he,' she says: But more, than he, her poor tongue could not speak, Till after many accents and delays, E'en here she sheathed in her harmless breast A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed; That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed; Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny. Stone still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Stood Colatine and all his lordly crew, Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed, Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw : And from the purple fountain Brutus drew The murd'rous knife, and as it left the place, Her blood, in pure revenge, held it in chase.. And bubbling from her breast it doth divide Who like the late sack'd island vastly stood Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd, stain'd. About the mourning and congealed face Daughter! dear daughter:' old Lucretius cries, If thee surcease to be, that should survive: Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And leave the falt'ring feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive; Then live sweet Lucrece, live again and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee.' By this starts Colatine as from a dream, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place; And then in clay-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, The deep vexation of his inward soul Who mad that sorrow should his use controul, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, He 'gins to talk; but through his lips do throng Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show: He with the Romans was esteemed so, As silly jeering ideots are with kings, For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. But now he throws that shallow habit by, Wherein true policy did him disguise, And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes. Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he,' arise; Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. "Why, Colatine, is woe the cure for woe! Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow For his foul act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds! Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds: Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her fee. 'Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such lamenting dew of lamentations; But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, That they will suffer these alominations (Since Rome herself doth stand in them dis graced) By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. 'Now by the capitol that we adore! And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd! store; By all our country's rites in Rome maintain'd! ➡40004 SONNETS. TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF THESE ENSUING SONNETS MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESS Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's And that Eternity promised by our ever-living Pæt aid, That no man could distinguish what he said. Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if his name he tore : This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow's tide to make it more. At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er: Then son and father weep with equal strife, Who should weep most for daughter, or for wife. The one doth call her his, the other his; Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. The father says, 'she's mine - O mine she is,' Replies her husband; 'do not take away My sorrow's interest, let no mourner say, He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wail'd by Colatine.' O quoth Lucretius, I did give that life, Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.' Woe! woe! quoth Colatine, she was my wife, I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd. My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd The dispersed air, who holding Lucrece' life, Answer'd their cries, my daughter, and my wife.' FROM fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou, that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding, Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. • i. e. Thomas Thorpe, in whose name the Sonnets were first entered in Stationers' Hall. II. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, nd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, Vill be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held: Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, Vere an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, f thou couldst answer- This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuseroving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. III. Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest, Tow is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, hon dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair, whose un-ear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond, will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime : So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee. IV. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Jpon thyself thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend, And being frank, she lends to those are free. Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? V. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame, Beauty o'ersnow'd, and bareness every where: But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. VI. Then let not winter's ragged hand deface Which happies those that pay the willing loan; Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, Then, what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. VIL Lo in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty; And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage; But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteons, now converted are From his low tract, and look another way: So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. VIII. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly? Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy ? Resembling sire and child and happy mother, For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many, Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love; Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. XIII. O that you were yourself! but, love, you are No longer your's than you yourself here live: Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give. So should that Leauty which you hold in lease, Find no determination: then you were Yourself again, after yourself's decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold Against the stormy gusts of winter's day, And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O! none but unthrifts :-Dear my love, you know You had a father; let your son say so. XIV. Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck; And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to tell of good, or evil luck, But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. XV. When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge state presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment: When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheer'd and check'd even by the self-same sky; Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of his inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful time debarreth with decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night; And, all in war with time, for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVI. But wherefore do not you a mightier way With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? So should the lines of life that life repair, XVII. Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shews not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. So should my papers, yellowed with their age, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue; And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage, And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice;-in it, and in my rhyme. XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day! Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. XIX. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long lived phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world, and all her fading swec3; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou art of one date; But when in thee Time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, As I not for myself but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary, As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again, XXIII. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; |