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And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes.
Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arife;
Let my unfounded felf, fuppos'd a fool,
Now fet thy long experienc'd wit to school.
Why, Colatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow [deeds?
For his foul act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds:
Thy wretched wife miftook the matter fo,
To flay herself, that should have flain her foe.
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In fuch lamenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
To roufe our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will fuffer these abominations.
(Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd) By our strong arms from forth her fair ftreets chas'd.
Now by the capitol that we adore!
And by this chafte blood fo unjustly stain❜d!
By heaven's fair fun, that breeds the fat earth's ftore!
By all our country rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chafte Lucrece' foul, that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife!
We will revenge the death of this true wife.
This faid, he ftroke his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow:
And to his proteftation urg'd the rest,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow :
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
And that deep vow which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had fworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To fhew the bleeding body throughout Rome,
And fo to publish Tarquin's foul offence.
Which being done, with speedy diligence,
The Romans plaufibly did give confent
To Tarquin's everlafting banishment.
Poems on several Occasions.
Ah wherefore with infection fhould he live?
And with his presence grace impiety?
That fin by him advantage fhould achieve,
And lace itself with his fociety?
Why fhould falfe painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead feeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly feek
Rofes of fhadow, fince his rofe is true?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood, to blush thro' lively veins ?
For the hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O him she stores, to fhow what wealth fhe had,
In days long fince, before these last so bad.
Thus is his cheek, the map of days, out-worn,
When beauty liv'd and dy'd as flowers do now;
Before these bastard figns of fair were born,
Or durft inhabit on a living brow:
Before the golden treffes of the dead,
The right of fepulchers, were fhorn away,
To live a fecond life on fecond head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay.
In him thofe holy antique hours are feen,
Without all ornament itself, and true,
Making no fummer of another's green,
Robbing no old, to dress his beauty new
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To fhow falfe art what beauty was of yore.
Thofe parts of thee, that the world's eye doth view,
Want nothing, that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of fouls) give thee thy due,
Uttering bare truth, even fo as foes commend.
Their outward thus with outward praise is crown'd,
But thofe fame tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praife confound,
By feeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;
Then their churl thoughts (altho' their eyes were kind)
To thy fair flower add the rank fmell of weeds.
But why? thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The toil is this, that thou doft common grow.
Like as the waves make towards the pibbled shore,
So do our minutes haften to their end:
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In fequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipfes 'gainft his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing ftands but for his fcythe to mow.
And yet to times, in hope, my verfe fhall ftand,
Praifing thy worth, defpite his cruel hand.
Against my love fhall be as I am now,
With time's injurious hand crufh'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travel'd on to age's fteepy night,
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing, or vanifh'd out of fight,
Stealing away the treasure of his fpring:
For fuch a time, do I now fortify,
Againft confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My fweet love's beauty, tho' my lover's life.
His beauty fhall in these black lines be seen,
And they fhall live, and he in them still green.
When I have seen, by time's fell hand defac'd,
The rich proud cost of out-worn bury'd age;
When sometimes lofty towers I see down raz'd,
And brafs eternal flave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the fhore,
And the firm foil win of the watry main,
Increasing store with lofs, and lofs with ftore;
When I have feen fuch interchange of ftate,
Or ftate itfelf confounded, to decay:
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That time will come, and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot chuse
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
Since brafs, nor ftone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But fad mortality o'er-fways their power:
How with this rage fhall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no ftronger than a flower?