Page 2296 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

For with the nightly linen that she wears [680]
He pens her piteous clamours in her head,
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.

O that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
The spots whereof could weeping purify, [685]
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,

And he hath won what he would lose again.
This forced league doth force a further strife;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain; [690]
This hot desire converts to cold disdain.
Pure chastity is rifled of her store,

And lust the thief, far poorer than before.

Look as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, [695]
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk
The prey wherein by nature they delight:

So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night.
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will that liv’d by foul devouring. [700]

O deeper sin than bottomless conceit

Can comprehend in still imagination!
Drunken desire must vomit his receipt,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While lust is in his pride no exclamation [705]

Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire,
Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discolour’d cheek,
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble desire, all recreant, poor and meek, [710]

Like to a bankrout beggar wails his case.
The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with grace;