But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field;
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild
Her filver cheeks and call'd it then her fhield
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,
When fhame affail'd, the red fhould fence the
This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,
Argu'd by beauty's red and virtue's white;
Of either's colour was the other queen,
Proving from world's minority their right;
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight:
The fov'reignty of either being fo great,
That oft they interchange each other's feat.
This filent war of lilies and of rofes,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye incloses,
Where, left between them both it fhould be kill'd,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
To those two armies, that would let him
Rather than triumph o'er fo falfe a foe.
Now thinks he, that her husband's fhallow tongue,
The niggard prodigal, that prais'd her so,
In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,
Which far exceeds his barren fkill to fhow.
Therefore that praife, which Colatine doth owe,
Inchanted Tarquin answers with furmise,
In filent wonder of ftill gazing eyes.
This earthly faint, adored by this devil,
Little fufpected the falfe worshipper.
For thoughts unftain'd do feldom dream of evil, • Birds never lim'd, no fecret bushes fear:' So guiltless fhe fecurely gives good chear
And reverend welcome to her princely guest, © Whose inward ill no outward harm expreft.
For that he colour'd with his high estate, on
Hiding base fin in pleats of majesty,
That nothing in him feem'd inordinate,
Save fometimes too much wonder of his
Which having all, all could not fatisfy;
But poorly rich fo wanteth in his store,
That cloy'd with much, he pineth ftill for more.
But the that never cop'd with ftranger-eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle fhining fecrefies
Writ in the glaffy margents of fuch books,
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;
Nor could the moralize his wanton fight
More, than his eyes were open'd to the light.
He stories to her ears her husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praifes Golatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruifed arms and wreaths of victory.
Her joy with heav'd-up hand the doth exprefs,
And wordlefs, fo greets heav'n for his fuccefs.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there;
No cloudy fhow of ftormy bluft'ring weather,
Doth yet
in his fair welkin once appear,
Till fable night, fad fource of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prifon fhuts the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending wearinefs with heavy sprite;
For after fupper long he queftioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.
Now leaden flumber with life's ftrength doth fight,
And every one to reft themselves betake,
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that
As one of which, doth Tarquin lie revolving
The fundry dangers of his will's obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his will refolving,
Tho' weak-built hopes perfuade him to abftaining; Despair to gain doth traffick oft for gaining :
And when great treasure is the meed propos'd,
Tho' death be adjunct, there's no death fuppos'd.
Those that much covet are of gain fo fond,
That oft 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 sustain,
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 ftrife,
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 altogether loft.
So that in venturing all, 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 doating Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his luft:
And for himself, himself he must forfake;
Then where is truth, if there be no self-truft?
When fhall he think to find a stranger juft,
When he himself, himself confounds, betrays,
To fland'rous tongues the wretched hateful lays?
Now ftole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy fleep had clos'd up mortal eyes;
No comfortable ftar did lend his light,
No noise but owls, and wolves death-boding cries:
Now ferves the feafon, that they may furprize
The filly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and ftill, Whilft luft and murder wakes to ftain and kill.
And now this luftful lord leapt from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm,
Is madly toft between defire and dread;
Th' one fweetly 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 brainfick rude defire.
His fauchion on a flint he foftly finiteth,
1 hat from the cold ftone fparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be load-ftar to his luftful eye :
And to the flame thus speaks 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 enterprize;
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following forrow may on this arife:
Then looking fcornfully he doth despise
His naked armour of ftill flaughter'd luft,
And justly thus controuls 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 uncleannefs, that which is divine.
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:
Let fair humanity abhor the deed,
That fpots and ftains love's modeft fnow-white
[weed.
O hame to knighthood, and to fhining arms!
O foul difhonour 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,
That it will live engraven in my face.
Yes, tho' I die, the fcandal will furvive,
And be an eye-fore in my golden coat:
Some loathfome dafh the herald will contrive
To cypher me how fondly I did dote :
That my pofterity fhamed with the note,
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