The Rape of Lucrece.
115
Retire again, till meeting greater ranks
They join, and shoote their fome at Simois banks.
They join, and shoote their fome at Simois banks.
To this well painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is steld;
Many she sees, where cares have carved some,
But none where all distresse and dolor dweld,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priams wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus proud foot lies.
To find a face where all distress is steld;
Many she sees, where cares have carved some,
But none where all distresse and dolor dweld,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priams wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus proud foot lies.
In her the Painter had anatomiz'd
Times ruine, Beauties wrack, and grim cares reign,
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd,
Of what she was no semblance did remain,
Her blew bloud chang'd to black in every vein.
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed
Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead.
Times ruine, Beauties wrack, and grim cares reign,
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd,
Of what she was no semblance did remain,
Her blew bloud chang'd to black in every vein.
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed
Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the Beldames woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries;
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:
The Painter was no God to lend her those;
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
To give her so much grief and not a tongue.
And shapes her sorrow to the Beldames woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries;
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:
The Painter was no God to lend her those;
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
To give her so much grief and not a tongue.
Poor instrument (quoth he) without a sound,
I'l tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue:
And drop sweet balme in Priams painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
I'l tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue:
And drop sweet balme in Priams painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And
