Some present speed to come and visit me.

So I commend me, from our house in grief;

My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.’

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,

Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

By this short schedule Collatine may know

Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality.

She dares not thereof make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

Ere she with blood had stained her stain’s excuse.

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,

When sighs and groans and tears may grace the

fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

From that suspicion which the world might bear her.

To shun this blot she would not blot the letter

With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights 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 lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is sealed, and on it writ

‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste’.

The post attends, and she delivers it,

Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast

As lagging fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems;

Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain curtsies to her low,

And blushing on her with a steadfast eye

Receives the scroll without or yea or no,

And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie

Imagine every eye beholds their blame,

For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame,

When, silly groom, God wot, it was defect

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.

Such harmless creatures have a true respect

To talk in deeds, while others saucily

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age

Pawned honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blazed.

She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin’s lust,

And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.

Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,

The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.

The weary time she cannot entertain,

For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan.

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay,

Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she 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 destroy,

Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud

As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.

A thousand lamentable objects there,

In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.

Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear

Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.

The red blood reeked to show the painter’s strife,

And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer

Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust,

And from the towers of Troy there would appear

The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.

Such sweet observance in this work was had

That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

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,

Which heartless peasants did so well resemble

That one would swear he saw them quake and

tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art

Of physiognomy might one behold!

The face of either ciphered either’s heart;

Their face their manners most expressly told.

In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled,

But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent

Show I deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,

As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,

Making such sober action with his hand

That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight.

In speech it seemed his beard all silver-white

Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly

Thin winding breath which purled up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces

Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice,

All jointly list’ning, but with several graces,

As if some mermaid did their ears entice;

Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.

The scalps of many, almost hid behind,