Page 2278 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

For that he colour’d with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty,
That nothing in him seem’d inordinate,
Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, [95]

Which having all, all could not satisfy;
But poorly rich, so wanteth in his store
That cloy’d with much, he pineth still for more.

But she that never cop’d with stranger eyes,

Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, [100]
Nor read the subtle shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books;
She touch’d no unkown baits, nor fear’d no hooks:
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,

More than his eyes were open’d to the light. [105]

He stories to her ears her husband’s fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praised Collatine’s high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry

With bruised arms and wreaths of victory. [110]
Her joy with hav’d-up hand she doth express,
And wordless so greets heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,

He makes excuses for his being there;
No cloudy show of stormy blust’ring weather [115]
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear,
Till sable night, mother of dread and fear,

Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows the day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, [120]
Intending weariness with heavy sprite;
For after supper long he questioned

With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night,
Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight,