The Sonnets and Other Poems (14 page)

No man
inveigh against
¹²⁵⁴
the withered flow’r,
But
chide
¹²⁵⁵
rough winter that the flow’r hath killed:
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be
hild
¹²⁵⁷
Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfilled
      With men’s abuses: those proud lords, to blame,
      Make weak-made women
tenants to their
¹²⁶⁰
shame.

The
precedent
¹²⁶¹
whereof in Lucrece’ view,
Assailed
¹²⁶²
by night with circumstances
strong
Of present death
and shame that might ensue
By that
¹²⁶⁴
her death, to do her husband wrong.
Such danger to resistance did belong
      That
dying fear
¹²⁶⁶
through all her body spread,
      And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor
counterfeit
¹²⁶⁹
of her complaining:
‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break
Those tears from thee that down thy cheeks are raining?
If thou dost weep for grief
of my sustaining
¹²⁷²
,
      Know, gentle wench, it
small avails
¹²⁷³
my mood:
      If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

‘But tell me, girl, when went’ — and there she
stayed
¹²⁷⁵
Till after a deep groan — ‘Tarquin from hence?’
‘Madam, ere I was up’, replied the maid,
‘The more to blame my
sluggard
¹²⁷⁸
negligence.
Yet with the fault I thus far can
dispense
¹²⁷⁹
:
      Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
      And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

‘But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your
heaviness
¹²⁸³
.’
‘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 called a hell
      When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

‘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 thou 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 she prepares to write,
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill.
Conceit
¹²⁹⁸
and grief an eager combat fight:
What
wit
¹²⁹⁹
sets down is
blotted straight
with
will
.
This is too
curious good
¹³⁰⁰
, this
blunt and ill
:
      Much like a press of people at a door
      Throng her
inventions
¹³⁰²
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
¹³⁰⁵
—
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see —
Some present speed to come and visit me.
      So I
commend me
¹³⁰⁸
, from our house in grief:
      My woes are
tedious
¹³⁰⁹
though my words are brief.’

Here folds she up the
tenor
¹³¹⁰
of her woe,
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short
schedule
¹³¹²
Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality:
She dares not
thereof make discovery
¹³¹⁴
,
      Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
     
Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse
¹³¹⁶
.

Besides, the life and feeling of her
passion
¹³¹⁷
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
¹³²³
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
¹³²⁶
that it doth behold,
When every
part a part of woe doth bear
¹³²⁷
.
’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
      Deep
sounds
¹³²⁹
make lesser noise than shallow fords,
      And sorrow ebbs,
being blown with wind of words
¹³³⁰
.

Her letter now is sealed and on it writ
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste’.
The
post
¹³³³
attends and she delivers it,
Charging
¹³³⁴
the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As
lagging
¹³³⁵
fowls before the northern blast.
     
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems
¹³³⁶
:
      Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The
homely villain
¹³³⁸
curtsies
to her low,
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without
or yea
¹³⁴⁰
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
¹³⁴⁵
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
¹³⁵⁰
     
Pawned
¹³⁵¹
honest looks, but laid no words
to gage
.

His kindled
¹³⁵²
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
¹³⁵⁵
on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more
amazed
¹³⁵⁶
.
      The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
      The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But
long she thinks
¹³⁵⁹
till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot
entertain
¹³⁶¹
,
For now ’tis
stale
¹³⁶²
to sigh, to weep and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tirèd moan,
      That she her
plaints
¹³⁶⁴
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
¹³⁶⁷
,
Before the which is
drawn
¹³⁶⁸
the
power
of Greece,
For Helen’s
rape
¹³⁶⁹
the city to destroy,
Threat’ning cloud-kissing
Ilion
¹³⁷⁰
with
annoy
,
      Which the
conceited
¹³⁷¹
painter drew so proud
      As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.

A thousand lamentable objects there,
In
scorn
¹³⁷⁴
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
¹³⁷⁷
, 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
¹³⁸⁰
Begrimed with sweat and smearèd all with dust,
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through
loopholes
¹³⁸³
thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little
lust
¹³⁸⁴
:
      Such
sweet observance
¹³⁸⁵
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
¹³⁸⁹
bearing and dexterity.
And here and there the painter
interlaces
¹³⁹⁰
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
¹³⁹⁴
, O, what art
Of
physiognomy
¹³⁹⁵
might one behold!
The face of either
ciphered
¹³⁹⁶
either’s
heart.
Their face their manners most expressly told:
In Ajax’ eyes
blunt
¹³⁹⁸
rage and
rigour
rolled,
      But the mild glance that
sly
¹³⁹⁹
Ulysses lent
      Showed deep
regard
¹⁴⁰⁰
and smiling
government
.

There
pleading
¹⁴⁰¹
might you see
grave
Nestor
stand,
As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober
action
¹⁴⁰³
with his hand,
That it
beguiled
¹⁴⁰⁴
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
¹⁴⁰⁷
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
¹⁴¹⁰
,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice,
Some high, some low — the painter was so
nice
¹⁴¹²
.
      The scalps of many, almost hid behind,
      To jump up higher seemed, to
mock the mind
¹⁴¹⁴
.

Here one man’s hand leaned on another’s head,
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear.
Here one, being
thronged
¹⁴¹⁷
,
bears
back, all
boll’n
and red.
Another smothered seems to
pelt
¹⁴¹⁸
and swear,
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
      As,
but for loss of
¹⁴²⁰
Nestor’s golden words,
      It seemed they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there:
Conceit deceitful
¹⁴²³
, so
compact
, so
kind
,
That
for Achilles’ image stood his spear
¹⁴²⁴
,
Gripped in an armèd hand, himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
      A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head
      Stood for the whole to be imaginèd.

And from the walls of strong besiegèd Troy,
When their brave hope, bold
Hector
¹⁴³⁰
, marched to field,
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield,
And to their hope they
such
¹⁴³³
odd
action yield
      That through their light joy seemèd to appear,
      Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.

And from the
strand of Dardan
¹⁴³⁶
, where they fought,
To
Simois
¹⁴³⁷
’ reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling
ridges
¹⁴³⁹
and their ranks began
To break upon the
gallèd
¹⁴⁴⁰
shore and
then
      Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,
      They join and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is
stelled
¹⁴⁴⁴
.
Many she sees where cares have carvèd
some
¹⁴⁴⁵
,
But none where all distress and
dolour
¹⁴⁴⁶
dwelled
Till she despairing
Hecuba
¹⁴⁴⁷
beheld,
      Staring on Priam’s wounds, with her old eyes,
      Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies.

In her the painter had
anatomized
¹⁴⁵⁰
Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack and grim care’s reign.
Her cheeks with
chaps
¹⁴⁵²
and wrinkles were disguised:
Of what she
was
¹⁴⁵³
no semblance did remain.
Her
blue
¹⁴⁵⁴
blood changed to
black
in every vein,
      Wanting the
spring
¹⁴⁵⁵
that those shrunk
pipes
had fed,
      Showed life imprisoned in a body dead.

On this sad
shadow
¹⁴⁵⁷
Lucrece
spends
her eyes
And shapes her sorrow to the
beldame
¹⁴⁵⁸
’s woes,
Who nothing
wants to answer her
¹⁴⁵⁹
but cries
And bitter words to
ban
¹⁴⁶⁰
her cruel foes.
The painter was no god to lend her those
¹⁴⁶¹
,
      And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong
      To give her so much grief and not a tongue.

‘Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘without a sound,
I’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,
      And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
      Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

‘Show me the
strumpet
¹⁴⁷¹
that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of lust,
fond
¹⁴⁷³
Paris, did incur
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear.
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,
      And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
      The sire, the son, the
dame
¹⁴⁷⁷
, and daughter die.