To eat up error by opinion bred,
Not spend the dow'ry of a lawful bed.
Time's glory is to calm contending kings;
To unmask falfhood, and bring truth to light ;-
To ftamp the feal of time on aged things;
To wake the morn, and centinel the night;
To wrong the wronger, till he render right;
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And fmear with duft their glittering golden towers:
To fill with worm holes ftately monuments;
To feed oblivion with decay of things;
To blot old books, and alter their contents;
To pluck the quills from antient ravens wings;
To dry the old oak's fap, and cherish fprings;
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd fteel,
And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel:
To fhew the beldame daughters of her daughter;
To make the child a man, the man a child;
To flay the tyger, that doth live by slaughter;
To tame the unicorn and lion wild;
To mock the fubtle in the themselves beguil'd;
To chear the plowman with increaseful crops,,
And waste huge ftones with little water-drops
Why work'st thou mifchief in thy pilgrimage,
Unlefs thou could'st return to make amends ?
One poor retiring minute, in an age,
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends. [back,
O! this dread night! would'st thou one hour come
I could prevent this ftorm, and fhun this wrack.
Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,
With some mischance crofs Tarquin in his flight;
Devise extremes beyond extremity,
To make him curfe this cursed crimeful night :
Let ghaftly shadows his lewd eyes affright,
And the dire thought of his committed evil
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.
Disturb his hours of reft with reftlefs trances;
Afflict him in his bed with bed-rid groans:
Let there bechance him pitiful mifchances,
To make him moan, but pity not his moans:
Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones,
And let mild women to him lofe their mildness,
Wilder to him than tygers in their wildness.
Let him have time to tear his curled hair:
Let him have time against himself to rave;
Let him have time of time's help to defpair;
Let him have time to live a loathed flave;
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave;
And time to fee one, that by alms does live,
Disdain to him difdained fcraps to give.
Let him have time to fee his friends his foes,
And merry
fools to mock at him refort:
Let him have time to mark how flow time goes
In time of forrow, and how fwift and fhort
His time of folly, and his time of sport:
And ever let his unrecalling time
Have time to wail th' abusing of his time.
O time! thou tutor both to good and bad!
Teach me to curfe him, that thou taught'ft this ill;
At his own fhadow let the thief run mad,
Himself, himself feek every hour to kill;
Such wretched hands fuch wretched blood should spill!
For who fo bafe would fuch an office have,
As flanderous death's-man to fo base a flave?
The bafer is he, coming from a king,
To shame his hope with deeds degenerate;
The mightier man, the mightier is the thing,
That makes him honoured, or begets him hate :
For greateft fcandal waits on greatest state.
The moon being clouded, presently is mist,
But little stars may hide them when they lift.
The crow may bathe his cole-black wings in mire,
And unperceived fly with the filth away;
But if the like the fnow-white fwan defire,
The ftain upon his filver down will stay.
Poor grooms are fightless night, kings glorious day.
Gnats are unnoted wherefoe'er they fly,
But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.
O idle words! fervants to fhallow fools
Unprofitable founds, weak arbitrators;
Bufy yourselves in skill-contending fchools:
Debate where leifure ferves, with dull debators:
To trembling clients be their mediators.
For me, I force not argument a ftraw,
Since that my cafe is past all help of law.
In vain I rail at opportunity,
At time, at Tarquin, and unfearchful night!
In vain I cavil with mine infamy,
In vain I fpurn at my confirm'd despight:
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right,
The remedy indeed to do me good,
Is to let forth my foul defiled blood.
Poor hand, why quiver'ft thou at this decree?
Honour thyself, to rid me of this shame;
For if I die, my honour lives in thee:
But if I live, thou liv'ft in my defame;..
Since thou could'ft not defend thy loyal dame,.
And waft afraid to fcratch her wicked foe,.
Kill both thyself, and her for yielding so.
This faid, from her betumbled couch she starts,,
To find fome defperate inftrument of death.
But this no flaughter house, no tool imparts,
To make more vent for paffage of her breath,,
Which thronging thro' her lips so vanisheth,
As fmoke from Etna, that in air confumes,
Or that which from difcharged cannon fumes.
In vain (quoth fhe) I live, and feek in vain,
Some happy mean, to end a hapless life;
I fear'd by Tarquin's fauchion to be flain,
Yet for the felf-fame purpose feek a knife:
But when I fear'd, I was a loyal wife;
So am I now: no! that cannot be;
Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.
O! that is gone, for which I fought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die;
To clear this fpot by death (at least) I give
A badge of fame to flander's livery,,
A dying life to living infamy!
Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away,,
Fo burn the guiltless casket where it lay
Well, well, dear Colatine, thou shalt not know
The ftained tafte of violated troth;
I will not wrong thy true affection fo,
To flatter thee with an infringed oath :
This baftard grafs fhall never come to growth;
He shall not boaft, who did thy ftock pollute,
That thou art doating father of his fruit.
Nor fhall he fmile at thee in fecret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy ftate;
But thou shalt know thy intereft was not bought
Bafely with gold, but ftol'n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the miftrefs of my fate,
And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my first offence.
I will not poifon thee with my attaint,
Nor fold my fault in cleanly coin'd excuses ;-
My fable ground of fin I will not paint,
To hide the truth of this false night's abuses':
My tongue fhall utter all, mine eyes like fluices,
As from a mountain fpring, that feeds a dale,
Shall gufh pure ftreams, to purge my impure tale.
The well-tun'd warble of her nightly forrow;
And folemn night with flow fad gait defcended
To ugly hell'; when lo! the blufhing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes, that light would borrow.
But cloudy Lucrece fhames herself to fee,
And therefore ftill in night would cloifter'd be.
Revealing day thro' every cranny fpies,
And feems to point her out where the fits weeping,
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