Page 2289 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking:
What terror ’tis! but she in worser taking,
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view

The sight which makes supposed terror true. [455]

Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill’d bird she trembling lies.
She dares not look, yet winking there appears

Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes.
Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries; [460]
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand that yet remains upon her breast, −

Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall! −
May feel her heart, poor citizen! distress’d, [465]
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, −
Beating her bulk, 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 [470]
To sound a parley to his heartless foe,
Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,

The reason of this rash alarm to know;
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show:
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still [475]
Under what colour he commits this ill.

Thus he replies: «The colour in thy 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. [480]
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.