To whom the fobbing speaks! O! eye of eyes!
Why pry'st thou thro' my window? leave thy peeping,,
Mock with thy tickling beams, eyes that are fleeping:
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do what's done by night.
Thus cavils the with every thing the fees::
True grief is fond, and testy as a child,
Who way-ward once, his mood with nought agrees;
Old woes, not infant forrows bear them mild;
Continuance tames the one, the other wild,
Like an unpractis'd fwimmer, plunging still,
With too much labour, drowns for want of skill
So the deep drenched in a féa of care;
Holds difputation with each thing the views
And to herself all forrow doth compare;
No object but her paffion's ftrength renews,
And as one shifts, another strait ensues:
Sometimes her grief is dumb, and hath no words;
Sometimes 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.
The little birds, that tune their morning's joy,
Make her moans mad, with their fweet melody.
For mirth doth fearch the bottom of annoy ;'.
Sad fouls are flain in merry company;
Grief beft is pleas'd with grief's fociety.
True forrow then is feelingly furpriz'd,
When with like femblance it is fympathiz'd.
'Tis double death to drown in ken of fhore;
He ten times pines, that pines beholding food:
To fee the falve, doth make the wound ake more";
Great grief grieves moft at that will do it good;.
Deep woes roll forward, like a gentle flood,
Which being stopt, the bounding banks o'erflows; Grief dally'd with, nor law, nor limit knows.
You mocking birds, quoth the, your tunes intomb
Within your hollow-fwelling feather'd breasts;
And in my hearing be you ever dumb,
My reftlefs difcord loves no ftops nor refts:
A woeful hoftefs brooks not merry guests.
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears,
Diftrefs likes dumps, when times is kept with tears.
Come, Philomel, thou fing'ft of ravifhment,
Make thy fad grove in my difhevel'd hair.
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,,
So I at each fad ftrain will ftrain my tear,
And with deep groans the Diapafon bear :
For burden-wife I'll hum on Tarquin ftill,
While thou on Tereus descants better skill.
And while against a thorn thou bear'ft thy part,
To keep thy fharp woes waking; wretched I,
To imitate thee well, againft my heart
Will fix a fharp knife, to affright mine eye,
Who if it wink, fhall thereon fall and die.
Thefe means, as frets upon an inftrument,
Shall tune our heart-ftrings to true languishment.
And for, poor bird, thou fing'st not in the day,
As fhaming any eye fhould thee behold;
Some dark deep defart feated from the way,
That knows nor parching heat, nor freezing cold,
We will find out; and there we will unfold
To creatures ftern, fad tunes to change their kinds;
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.
As the poor frighted deer, that ftands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly;
Or one incompass'd with a winding maze,
That cannot tread the way out readily:
So with herself the is in mutiny,
To live or die, which of the twain were better, When life is fham'd, and death reproaches debtor.
To kill myself, quoth fhe, alack! what were it, But with my body my poor foul's pollution? They that lofe half, with greater patience bear it, Than they, whofe whole is fwallow'd in confufion. That mother tries a merciless conclufion,
Who having two sweet babes, when death takes
Will flay the other, and be nurfe to none. [one,
My body or my foul, which was the dearer ?
When the one pure, the other made divine,
Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
When both were kept from heaven and Colatine?
Ah me! the bark peal'd from the lofty pine,
His leaves will wither, and his fap decay;
So muft my foul, her bark being peal'd away.
Her house is fack'd, her quiet interrupted
Her manfion batter'd by the enemy;
Her facred temple fpotted, fpoil'd, corrupted,
Grofly ingirt with daring infamy.
Then let it not be call'd impiety,
If in this blemish'd fort I make fome hole,
Thro' which I may convey this troubled foul.
Yet die I will not, till my Colatine
Have heard the caufe of my untimely death:
That he may vow, in that fad hour of mine,
Revenge on him, that made me stop my breath:
My ftained blood to Tarquin I bequeath,-
Which by him tainted, shalf for him be spent,
And as his due, writ in my teftament. !
My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife,
That wounds my body fo difhonoured:
"Tis honour to deprive dishonoured life:
The one will live, the other being dead.
So of fhame's afhes fhall my fame be bred;
For in my death I murder shameful fcorn,
My fhame fo dead, my honour is new born.
Dear lord of that dear jewel I have loft,
What legacy fhall I bequeath to thee?
My refolution, love, fhall be thy boaft,
By whofe example thou reveng'd may'st be.
How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me:
Myfelf thy friend, will kill myself thy foe ;
And for my fake, ferve thou false Tarquin for
This brief abridgment of my will I make
My foul and body to the skies and ground;
My refolution (husband) do you take; vide
My honour be the knife's, that makes my wound.
My fhame be his, that did my fame confound;
And all my fame that lives, difburfed be
To those that live, and think no fhame of me..
When Colatine fhall overfee this will,
How was I overfeen, that thou fhalt fee it?
My blood fhall wash the flander of mine ill;
My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but ftoutly fay, So be it :
Yield to my hand, and that fhall conquer thee;
Thou dead, that dies, and both fhall victors be.
This plot of death, when fadly fhe had laid.
And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
With untun'd tongue the hoarfly call'd her maids
Whofe fwift obedience to her miftrefs hies,
For fleet wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies. Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so,
As winter meads, when fun does melt their fnow.
Her mistress fhe doth give demure good morrow,
With foft flow tongue, true mark of modefty;
And forts a fad look to her lady's forrow,
(For why, her face wore ferrow's livery)
But durft not ask of her audaciously,
Why her two funs were cloud-eclipfed' fo;
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the fun being fet,
Each flower moiften'd like a melting eye;
E'en fo the maid with fwelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforc'd by fympathy
Of those fair funs fet in her miftrefs' sky;
Who in a falt-wav'd ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.
A pretty while thefe pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cifterns filling ;4
One juflly weeps, the other takes in hand
No caufe, but company of her drops fpilling:
Their gentle fex to weep are often willing;
Grieving themselves to guefs at other fmarts;
And then they drown their eyes, or break their
hearts.
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