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For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore they are form'd as marble will :::
The weak oppreis'd, th' impression of strange 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 shall be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. :

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Their fmoothnessg. 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 obscurely sleep ;
Thro' crystal walls each little more will peep.

Tho' men can cover crimes with bold stern looks.;
Poor womens laces are their own faults, books,

No man inveighs against the wisher'd flower,
But chides rough winter, that the flower bas kill'd ::
Not that's devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame : 0 let it not be held
Poor womens faults that they are fo fulfillid

With mens abuses; 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-strong,
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death to do her husband wrong;
Such danger to regstance did belong.

The dying fear throʻ all her body spready-
And who cannot abuse a. body dead?

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By this mild patience did fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining : : ;

My girl, quoth the, on what occasion break [ing? Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are rainIf thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,

Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood; If tears could help, mine owo would do me good,

But tell me, girl, when went (and there the 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 dispense ;

Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And ere I rose, 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 should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is, than I can well express :

And that deep torture may be calld a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

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Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen ;
Yet save that labour, for I have them here.
(What should I say?) 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 soon be writ.

Her maid is gone, and the prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill ;
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,
What wit sets down, is blotted still with will;
This is too curious good, this blunt and ill :

Much like a press of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she 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 see)
Some present speed to come and visit me :

So I commend me from our house in grief,
My woes are tedious, thol my words are brief

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Here folds she 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 should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere fhe with blood bad stain'd her strain'd excufe.

Besides the life and feeling of her passion,
She boards to spend, when he is by to hear her ;
When fighs, and groans, and tears may grace the
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her [fashion
From that suspicion which the world might bear her:

To shun this blot, she wou'd not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.

To see 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 sorrow that we hear.

Deep sounds make lefser noise than shallow fords,
And forrow. ebbs, being blown. with wind of wordsá.

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ,
At Andea toimy lord with more than halte ;
The post attends, and the delivers it,
Charging the four-fac'd groom to hie as fast,
As lagging souls before the northern blast.

Speed, more than speed, but dull and flow she deemszi
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain curtsies to her low,
And blushing on her with a stedfast eges
Receives the scroll without or yea or no ;.
For outward bashful innocence doth fly.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,

Imagine every eye beholds their blame,
For Lucrece thought she blush'd to see her shame

When filly groom (God wot) it was defect
Of fpirit, life, and bold audacity ;
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others faucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her miftruft,
That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd.
She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's lufts
And blushing with him, wiftly on him gaz’d,
Her earnest eye did make him more amaz’d:

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more fhe thought he spy'd in her some blemish.

But long the thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vafsal scarce is gone :

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The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now. 'tis ftale to figh, to weep, and groan
So woe hath wearied woe, moan ticed: moan,

That the ber plaints a little while doth ftay,
Pauling for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of kilful painting made for Priam's Troy ;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy
Threatening cloud kifing Ilion with annoy;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.

A thousand lamentable objects there;
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping tearg.
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife.
The red blood reek'd to shew the painter's strife.

And dying eyes gleem'd forth their athy lightsy,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust;
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 sweet observance in the work was had,
That one might see those. far-off eyes look {adz.

In great commanders, grace and majesty
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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