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Were Tarquin night, as he is but night's child,
The filver-thining queen him would difdain;
Her twinkling handmaids too (by him defil'd)
Thro' night's black bofom fhould not peep again.
So fhould I have copartners in my pain:

And fellowship in woe doth woe affuage,

As palmers, that make short their pilgrimage.

Where now? have I no one to blufh with me?
To cross their arms, and hang their heads with mine;
To mask their brows, and hide their infamy.
But I alone, alone must fit and pine;

Seasoning the earth with fhowers of filver brine
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

O night! thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke!
Let not the jealous day behold that face,
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloke
Immodeftly lies martyr'd with difgrace.
Keep ftill poffeffion of thy gloomy place,

That all the faults, which in thy reign are made,
May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.

Make me not object to the tell-tale day;
The light fhall fhew, character'd in my brow,
The story of fweet chastity's decay,

The impious breach of holy wedlock's vow.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how

To cypher what is writ in learned books,
Will quote my loathfome trespass in my looks.

The nurfe, to ftill her child, will tell my ftory, And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name,

D

The orator, to deck his oratory,

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's fhame.
Feaft-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,

Will tye the hearers to attend each line,
How Tarquin wronged me, I Colatine.

Let my good name, that fenfelefs reputation,
For Colatine's dear love he kept unspotted;
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeferv'd reproach to him allotted,
That is as clear from this attaint of mine,
As I, ere this, was pure to Colatine.

O unfeen fhame! invifible. difgrace!
O unfelt fore! creft-wounding private fcar!
Reproach is ftampt in Colatinus' face,
And Tarquin's eye may read the mote afar,
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.

Alas! how many bear fuch fhameful blows,
Which not themfelves, but he that gives them,
[knows?

If, Colatine, thine honour lay in me,

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From me, by ftrong affault, it is bereft ;
My honey loft, and I a drone-like bee,
Have no perfection of my fummer left,
But robb'd and ranfack'd by injurious theft:

In thy weak hive a wand'ring wafp hath crept,
And fuck'd the honey which thy chafte bee kept.

Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wreck ?..
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been difhonour to difdain him.
Besides, of wearinefs he did complain him,

And talk'd of virtue: O unlook'd for evil!
When virtue is profan'd in fuch a devil!

Why fhould the worm intrude the maiden bud?
Or hateful cuckows hatch in fparrows nefts?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts!

Or kings be breakers of their own behefts?
But no perfection is fo abfolute,

That fome impurity doth not pollute.

The aged man, that coffers up his gold,

Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits; And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold:

But ftill like pining Tantalus he fits,

And useless bans the harveft of his wits.
Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment, that it cannot cure his pain.

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So then he hath it, when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd, by his young,
Who in their pride do presently abuse it :
Their father was too weak, and they too ftrong,
To hold their curfed bleffed fortune long.

The fweets we wish for turn to loathed fours,
T'en in the moment that we call them ours.

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Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers; The adder, hiffeth, where the fweet birds fing;

What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:

We have no good, that we can fay is ours.

But ill annexed opportunity,,

Or kills his life, or elfe his quality.

O! opportunity! thy guilt is great:

"Tis thou that execut'ft the traitor's treafon : Thou fet'ft the wolf where he the lamb may get, Whoever plots the fin, thou point'ft the feason ; "Tis thou that fpurn'ft at right, at law, at reafon : And in thy fhady cell, where none may fpy her, Sits fin, to feize the fouls that wander by her.

Thou mak'ft the veftal violate her oath ;
Thou blow'ft the fire, when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou fmother'ft honefty, thou murder'ft troth:
Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd!
Thou planteft fcandal, and displacest laud.

Thou ravifher, thou traitor, thou falfe thief!
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief.

Thy fecret pleasure turns to open fhamé;'
Thy private. feafting to a public faft;
Thy fmothering titles to a ragged name!
Thy fugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood tafte:
Thy violent vanities can never last.

How comes it then, vile opportunity,
Being fo bad, fuch numbers feek for thee?

When wilt thou be the humble fuppliant's friend ?
And bring him where his fuit may be obtain'd?
When wilt thou fort an hour, great ftrifes to end?
Or free that foul, which wretchedness hath chain'd ?
Give phyfic to the fick, eafe to the pain'd?

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for
But they ne'er met with opportunity.

[thee,

The patient dies, while the physician sleeps ;
The orphan pines, while the oppreffor feeds;

Juftice is feasting, while the widow weeps;
Advice is fporting, while infection breeds;
Thou grant'ft no time for charitable deeds.
Wrath, envy, treafon, rape and murder rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.

When truth and virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand croffes keep them from thy aid;
They buy thy help: but fin ne'er gives a fee,
He gratis comes, and thou art well apaid,
As well to hear, as grant what he hath faid.
My Colatine would elfe have come to me,
When Tarquin did, but he was ftaid by thee.

Guilty thou art of murder and of theft;
Guilty of perjury and fubornation;
Guilty of treafon, forgery and shift ;
Guilty of inceft, that abomination:
An acceffary by thine inclination

To all fins paft, and all that are to come,
From the creation to the general doom..

Mishapen time, copefmate of ugly night;
Swift fubtle post, carrier of grilly care;
Eater of youth, falfe flave to false delight,
Bale watch of woes, fin's pack-horse, virtue's fnare;
Thou nurseft all, and murderest all that are.
O hear me then, injurious shifting time !-
Be guilty of my death, fince of my crime.

Why hath thy fervant opportunity,
Betrayed the hours thou gav'ft me to repofe?
Cancel'd my fortunes, and inchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to find the hate of foes,

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