Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/89

Who angry that the eyes flie from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand that yet remaines upon her brest,
(Rude Ram to batter such an Ivory wall:)
May feele her heart (poor citizen) distrest,
Wounding it self to death, rise up and fall:
Beating her bulke, that his hand shakes withal.
This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,
To make the breach, and enter this sweet City.

First like a trumpet doth his tongue begin
To sound a Parley to his heartless foe,
Who ore the white sheet peeres her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarme to know,
Which he by dumbe demeanor seekes to show:
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,
Under what colour he commits this ill.

Thus he replies, the colour in this face,
That even for anger makes the Lily pale,
And the red Rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale,
Under that colour am I come to scale
Thy never conquer'd Fort, the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

Thus I forestall thee: if thou meane to chide,
Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide;

My