Page 2282 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame.

«O what excuse can my invention make [225]
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, [230]

But coward-like with trembling terror die.

«Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire,

Or lain in ambush to betray my life;
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife, [235]

As in revenge or quittal of such strife:
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

«Shameful it is, − ay, if the fact be known.
Hateful it is, − there is no hate in loving. [240]

I’ll beg her love, − but she is not her own.
The worst is but denial and reproving.
My will is strong past reason’s weak removing;
Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw

Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe». [245]

Thus graceless holds he disputation
’Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will,
And with good thoughts makes dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still;

Which in a moment doth confound and kill [250]
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

Quoth he, «She took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz’d for tidings in my eager eyes,