Page 2321 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

To pencill’d pensiveness and colour’d sorrow:
She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,
And who she finds forlorn, she doth lament. [1500]
At last she sees a wretched image bound,

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent;
His face though full of cares, yet show’d content.
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,

So mild that patience seem’d to scorn his woes. [1505]

In him the painter labour’d with his skill

To hide deceit and give the harmless show
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent that seem’d to welcome woe,

Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so [1510]
That blushing red no guilty instance gave,
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

But like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertain’d a show so seeming just,

And therein so ensconc’d his secret evil, [1515]
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
False creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-fac’d storms,

Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.

The well-skill’d workman this mild image drew [1520]
For perjur’d Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after slew;
Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory

Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,
And little stars shot from their fixed places, [1525]
When their glass fell, wherein they view’d their faces.

This picture she advisedly perus’d,
And chid the painter for his wondrous skill,