For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore they are form'd as marble will::
The weak opprefs'd, th' impression of firange kinds -
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax fhall be accounted evil, L
Wherein is ftamp'd the femblance of a devil.
Their fmoothnefs, like an even champain plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep.
In men, as in a rough grown grove, remain
Caye-keeping evils, that obfcurely fleep;
Thro' cryftal walls each little mote will peep.
Tho' men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,;
Poor womens faces are their own faults books. :
No man inveighs against the wither'd flower,
But chides, rough winter, that the flower bas kill'd::
Not that's deveur'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame: O let it not be held,
Poor womens faults that they are fo fulfill'd
With mens abufes; thole proud lords, to blame,,
Make weak mad women tenants to their shame..
'The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Affail'd by night with circumstances ftrong
Of prefent death, and fhame that might enfue
By that her death to do her husband wrong;
Such danger to refiftance did belong.
The dying fear thro' all her body spread,
And who cannot abuse a body dead?
By this mild patience did fair Lucrece fpeak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining :::
My girl, quoth she, on what occafion break [ing? Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are rainIf thou dost weep for grief of my fuftaining,
Know, gentle wench, it fmall avails my mood If tears could help, mine own would do me good.
But tell me, girl, when went (and there she staid,
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?
Madam, ere I was up (replied the maid),
The more to blame my fluggard negligence:
Yet with the fault I thus far can difpenfe ;
Myfelf was stirring ere the break of day,
And ere I rofe, was Tarquin gone away.
But lady, if your maid may be fo bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.
O peace (quoth Lucrece) if it fhould be told,
The repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is, than I can well exprefs:
And that deep torture may be call'd a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.
Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen;
Yet fave that labour, for I have them here.
(What should I fay ?) One of my husband's men
Bid you be ready, by and by to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it,
The cause craves haste, and it will foon be writ.
Her maid is gone, and the prepares to write,
Firft hovering o'er the paper with her quill;
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,
What wit fets down, is blotted still with will;
This is too curious good, this blunt and ill:
Much like a prefs of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which fhall go before.
At laft fhe thus begins: Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife, that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person; next vouchsafe t' afford
(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt fee)
Some prefent fpeed to come and visit me :
So I commend me from our house in grief,
My woes are tedious, tho' my words are brief.
Here folds the up the tenor of her woe,
Her certain forrow writ uncertainly:
By this short schedule Colatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality :-
She dares not therefore make discovery,
Left he fhould hold it her own grofs abufe,
Ere the with blood had ftain'd her strain❜d excufe.
Befides the life and feeling of her paffion,
She hoards to spend, when he is by to hear her ;
When fighs, and groans, and tears may grace the
Of her difgrace, the better fo to clear her [fafhion
From that fufpicion which the world might bear her:
To fhun this blot, fhe wou'd not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.
To fee fad fights, moves more than hear them told ;-, For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold::
When every part a part of woe doth bear,
'Tis but a part of forrow that we hear.
Deep founds make leffer noife than fhallow fords,
And forrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
Her letter now is feal'd, and on it writ,
At Ardea to my lord with more than hafte ;
The poft attends, and the delivers it,
Charging the four-fac'd groom to hie as fast,
As lagging fouls before the northern blaft.
Speed, more than speed, but dull and flow fhe deems, Extremity ftill urgeth fuch extremes.
The homely villain curtfies to her low,
And blushing on her with a ftedfaft eye,
Receives the fcroll without or yea or no;
For outward bafhful innocence doth fly.
But they whofe guilt within their bofoms lie,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame,
For Lucrece thought fhe blufh'd to fee her fhame.
When filly groom (God wot) it was defect
Of fpirit, life, and bold audacity ;-
Such harmless creatures have a true refpect
To talk in deeds, while others faucily
Promife more fpeed, but do it leifurely.
Even fo this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honeft looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd.
She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's luft
And blushing with him, wiftly on him gaz'd,
Her earneft eye did make him more amaz❜d :
The more the faw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more the thought he spy'd in her some blemish.
But long fhe thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vaffal fcarce is gone:
The weary time he cannot entertain,
For now 'tis tale to figh, to weep, and groan.
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired: moan,
That the her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pauling for means to mourn some newer way.
At laft fhe calls to mind where hangs a piece. Of skilful painting made for Priam's Troy ; Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,. For Helen's rape the city to, deftroy
Threatening cloud kiffing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew fo proud,
As heaven (it feem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In fcorn of nature, art gave lifeless life;
Many a dire drop feem'd a weeping tear,
Shed for the flaughter'd husband by the wife.
The red blood reek'd to fhew the painter's ftrife.
And dying eyes gleem'd forth their afhy lights,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you fee the labouring pioneer: Begrim'd with fweat, and fmeared all with duft; And from the towers of Troy, there wou'd appear The very eyes of men thro' loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little luft.
Such fweet obfervance in the work was had, That one might fee thofe far-off eyes look fad.
In great commanders, grace and majefly
You might behold triumphing in their faces:
In youth quick-bearing and dexterity:
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces:
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