Honour and beauty in the owner's arms, Are weakly fortreft from a world of harms.
Beauty itself doth of itself perfuade
The eyes of men without an orator; What needed then apologies be made, To fet forth that which is fo fingular? Or why is Colatine the publisher
Of that rich jewel he fhould keep unknown From thievith cares, because it is his own?
Perchance his boast of Lucrece' fov❜reignty Suggested this proud issue of a king; For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be. Perchance, that envy of so rich a thing Braving compare, difdainfully did fting
[vant His high-pitcht thoughts, that meaner men should The golden-hap, which their fuperiors want.
But fome untimely thought did instigate His all too timeless speed, if none of those. His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with fwift intent he goes To quench the coal, which in his liver glows. O rafh falfe heat wrapt in repentant cold! Thy hafty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old.
When at Colatium this falle lord arriv'd, Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame, Within whofe face beauty and virtue ftriv'd, Which of them both fhould underprop her fame. When virtue brag'd, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despight, Virtue would ftain that o'er with filver white.
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 ftill 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 inclofes, Where, left between them both it fhould be kill'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield
To those two armies, that would let him go, Rather than triumph o'er fo false a foe.
Now thinks he, that her husband's fhallow tongue, The niggard prodigal, that prais'd her fo, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to fhow. Therefore that praife, which Colatine doth owe, Inchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In filent wonder of still gazing eyes.
This earthly faint, adored by the devil, Little fufpected the falfe worshipper.
For thoughts unftain'd do seldom dream of evil, Birds never lim'd, no fecret bushes fear :' So guiltlefs fhe fecurely gives good chear.
And reverend welcome to her princely gueft,
Whofe inward ill no outward harm expreft.
For that he colour'd with his high eftate,
Hiding base fin in pleats of majesty,
That nothing in him feem'd inordinate, Save fometimes too much wonder of his eye: 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 stranger-eyes, Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the fubtle fhining fecrefies
Writ in the glafly margents of such 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 ftories to her ears her husband's fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praises Colatine's high name, Made glorious by his manly chivalry, With bruifed arms and wreaths of victory.
Her joy with heav'd up hand she doth exprefs, And wordless, so greets heav'n for his fuccefs.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither, He makes excufes for his being there; No cloudy show 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 darknefs doth display, And in her vaulty prison shuts the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness 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 abstaining; Defpair to gain doth traffick oft for gaining :
And when great treasure is the meed propos'd, Tho' death be adjunct, there's no death suppos'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 fuftain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor, rich, gain.
The aim of all, is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth and eafe in waining age: And in this aim there is fuch 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 forsake; Then where is truth, if there be no self truft? When shall 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 noife but owls, and wolves death boding cries: Now ferves the feason, that they may furprize
The filly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still, 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 smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
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