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Mens faults do feldom to themselves appear,
Their own transgressions partially they (mother :
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.

O! how are they wrapt in with infamies,
That from their own misdeeds alkaunce their eyes !

To thee, to thee, my heav'd up hands appeal,
Not to seducing lusts outrageous fire ;
I sue for exil'd majefty's repeal,
Let him return and flattering thoughts retire.
His true aspect will prison falfe desire,

And wipe the dim mist from thy doating eyne,
That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.

Have done, quoth he, my uncontrouled tide
Turns not, but swells the higber by this let ;
Small lights are foon blown out, huge fires abide,
And with the wind in greater fury fret :
The petty Atreams that pay a daily debt

To their falt sovereign with their fresh false hafte,
Add to his flow, but alter not the taste.

Thou art (quoth the) a sea, a sovereign king,
And lo! there falls into thy boundless flood
Black luft, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to ftain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills fhould change thy good,

Thy sea within a puddle 'womb is burst,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispers’d.

So shall these flaves be king, and thou their flaves
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ;
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave;.
Thou loathed in thy fame, they in thy pride:
The lesser thing thould not the greater hide..

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
But low shrubs wicher at the cedar's root.

So let thy thoughts low vafals to thy state.
No more, quoch he, by heav'n I will not hear thee :
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,
Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee:
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,
To be thy partner in this shameful doom.

This faid, 'he fets his foot upon the light,
For light and lust are deadly enemies :
Shame folded up in blind concealing night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf has seiz'd his prey, the poor lamb cries,

Till with her own white fleece her voice controul de
Intombs her outcry in her lips sweet fold.

For with the nightly linen, that she wears,
He pens her piteous clamours in her head,
Cooling his hot face in the chaftest tears,
That ever modest eyes with forrow shed.
O that foul luft should stain so pure a bed 1

The spots whereof, could weeping purify,
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath loft a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose again;
This forced league doth force a further strife,
This momentary joy breeds months of pain,
This hot desire converts to cold disdain.

Pure chastity is rified of her store,
And luft, the thief, far poorer than before.

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Look as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell, or speedy flight,
Make flow pursuit, or altogether balk
The prey wherein by nature they delight :
So furfeit-taking l'arquin fears this night ;

His talte delicious, in digestion fouring,
Devours his will, that liv’d by foul devouring.

O! deeper fin, than bottomless conceit
Can comprehend in ftill imagination !
Drunken desire, muft vomit his receit,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While luft is in his pride, no exclamation

Can curb his heat, or rein his raih desire,
Til, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire.

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And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheek,
With beavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble delire all recreant, poor and meek,
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case :
The flesh being proud, defire does fight with grace.

For there it revels, and when that decays,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this fault-full lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chas'd.:
For now against himself he founds this doom,
That thro' the length of time he stands disgrac'd;
Besides, his soul's fair temple is defac'd ;
To whole weak ruins muster



cares, To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says, her sabjects with foul insurrection
Have batter'd down her confecrated wall,

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And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall.is
To living death, and pain perpetual :

Which in her prescience she controuled still,
But her forefight could not fore-stall their will.

E’en in this thought thro' the dark night be stealerk,
A captive victor, that hath loft in gain ::..
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will, despite of cure, remain:
Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain.

She bears the load of lust he left behind,
And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He like a thievish dog creeps fadly thence,
She like a weary'd lamb lies panting there :
He scowls and hates himself for his offence,
She desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear :
He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear:

She stays exclaiming on the direful night,
He runs and chides his vanifh'd loath'd delight.

He thence departs a heavy convertite ;
She there remains a hopeless caft-away :
He in his speed looks for the morning-light;
She prays she never may behold the day:
For day (quoth she) night scapes doth open lay;

And my true eyes have never practis'd how
To cloke offences with a cunning brow.

They think not but that every eye can see
The same disgrace, which they themselves behold;
And therefore would they still in darkness lie,
To have their unfeen fin remain untold.
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,

And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,
Upon their cheeks what helpless, thame they feel.

Here she exclaims againft repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter ftill be blind :
She wakes her heart, by beating on her breaft,
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find
Some purer chest to clofe so pure a mind.

Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her spight
Against the unfeen secrecy of night.

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O comfort-killing night! image of hell!
Dim register! and notary of shame!
Black stage for tragedies ! and murders fell!
Vaft fin-concealing chaos ! nurse of blame !
Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour of defame!

Grim cave of death! whispering conspirator
With close-tongued treason and the ravilher!

O hateful, vapourous, and foggy night!
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Mufter thy mists to meet the eaftern light,
Make war against proportion'd course of time:
Or if thou wilt permit the fun to climb

His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden bead.

With rotten damps ravish the morning air,
Let their exhald unwholesome breaths make fick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick:
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,

That in their smoaky ranks his smother'd light
Máy set at noon, and make perpetual night.

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