Текст книги "William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition"

Автор книги: William Shakespeare

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Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize.

Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’

As corn o‘ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

Is almost choked by unresisted lust.

Away he steals, with open list’ning ear,

Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust,

Both which as servitors to the unjust

So cross him with their opposite persuasion

That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,

And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine.

That eye which looks on her confounds his wits,

That eye which him beholds, as more divine,

Unto a view so false will not incline,

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,

Which once corrupted, takes the worser part,

And therein heartens up his servile powers

Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund show,

Stuff up his lust as minutes fill up hours,

And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,

Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate desire thus madly led

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,

Each one by him enforced, retires his ward;

But as they open they all rate his ill,

Which drives the creeping thief to some regard.

The threshold grates the door to have him heard,

Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there.

They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,

Through little vents and crannies of the place

The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,

And blows the smoke of it into his face,

Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch,

And being lighted, by the light he spies

Lucretia’s glove wherein her needle sticks.

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,

And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,

As who should say ‘This glove to wanton tricks

Is not inured. Return again in haste.

Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;

He in the worst sense consters their denial.

The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him

He takes for accidental things of trial,

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,

Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,

Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring

To add a more rejoicing to the prime,

And give the sneapèd birds more cause to sing.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing.

Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves, and sands

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’

Now is he come unto the chamber door

That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,

Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,

Hath barred him from the blessed thing he sought.

So from himself impiety hath wrought

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer

Having solicited th‘eternal power

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,

And they would stand auspicious to the hour,

Even there he starts. Quoth he, ‘I must deflower.

The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact;

How can they then assist me in the act?

‘Then love and fortune be my gods, my guide!

My will is backed with resolution.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;

The blackest sin is cleared with absolution.

Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution.

The eye of heaven is out, and misty night

Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’

This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch,

And with his knee the door he opens wide.

The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch.

Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.

Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside,

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,

Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,

And gazeth on her yet-unstained bed.

The curtains being close, about he walks,

Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head.

By their high treason is his heart misled,

Which gives the watchword to his hand full soon

To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.

Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun

Rushing from forth a cloud bereaves our sight,

Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun

To wink, being blinded with a greater light.

Whether it is that she reflects so bright

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,

But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.

O had they in that darksome prison died,

Then had they seen the period of their ill.

Then Collatine again by Lucrece’ side

In his clear bed might have reposed still.

But they must ope, this blessed league to kill,

And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight

Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

Coz’ning the pillow of a lawful kiss,

Who therefore angry seems to part in sunder,

Swelling on either side to want his bliss;

Between whose hills her head entombed is,

Where like a virtuous monument she lies

To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.

Without the bed her other fair hand was,

On the green coverlet, whose perfect white

Showed like an April daisy on the grass,

With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.

Her eyes like marigolds had sheathed their light,

And canopied in darkness sweetly lay

Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair like golden threads played with her breath—

O modest wantons, wanton modesty!—

Showing life’s triumph in the map of death,

And death’s dim look in life’s mortality.

Each in her sleep themselves so beautify

As if between them twain there were no strife,

But that life lived in death, and death in life.

Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,

A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,

Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,

And him by oath they truly honoured.

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,

Who like a foul usurper went about

From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?

What did he note but strongly he desired?

What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,

And in his will his wilful eye he tired.

With more than admiration he admired

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o‘er his prey,

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified,

Slaked not suppressed for standing by her side.

His eye which late this mutiny restrains

Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins,

And they like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,

Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting,

In bloody death and ravishment delighting,

Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,

Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.

Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,

Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,

His eye commends the leading to his hand.

His hand, as proud of such a dignity,

Smoking with pride marched on to make his stand

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,

Whose ranks of blue veins as his hand did scale

Left their round turrets destitute and pale.

They, must’ring to the quiet cabinet

Where their dear governess and lady lies,

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,

And fright her with confusion of their cries.

She much amazed breaks ope her locked-up eyes,

Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,

Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.

Imagine her as one in dead of night

From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,

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.

Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,

Like to a new-killed 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,

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, distressed,

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

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

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.

Under that colour am I come to scale

Thy never-conquered fort. The fault is thine,

For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

‘Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:

Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,

Where thou with patience must my will abide,

My will that marks thee for my earth’s delight,

Which I to conquer sought with all my might.

But as reproof and reason beat it dead,

By thy bright beauty was it newly bred.

‘I see what crosses my attempt will bring,

I know what thorns the growing rose defends;

I think the honey guarded with a sting;

All this beforehand counsel comprehends.

But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends.

Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,

And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty.

‘I have debated even in my soul

What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;

But nothing can affection’s course control,

Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.

I know repentant tears ensue the deed,

Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity,

Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.’

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,

Which like a falcon tow’ring in the skies

Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade

Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies.

So under his insulting falchion lies

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells

With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcons’ bells.

‘Lucrece,’ quoth he, ‘this night I must enjoy thee.

If thou deny, then force must work my way,

For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee.

That done, some worthless slave of thine I’ll slay

To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay;

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,

Swearing I slew him seeing thee embrace him.

‘So thy surviving husband shall remain

The scornful mark of every open eye,

Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,

Thy issue blurred with nameless bastardy,

And thou, the author of their obloquy,

Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes

And sung by children in succeeding times.

‘But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend.

The fault unknown is as a thought unacted.

A little harm done to a great good end

For lawful policy remains enacted.

The poisonous simple sometime is compacted

In a pure compound; being so applied,

His venom in effect is purified.

‘Then for thy husband and thy children’s sake

Tender my suit; bequeath not to their lot

The shame that from them no device can take,

The blemish that will never be forgot,

Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour’s blot;

For marks descried in men’s nativity

Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.’

Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye

He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause,

While she, the picture of pure piety,

Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws,

Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws

To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat,

In his dim mist th‘aspiring mountains hiding,

From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth get

Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,

Hind’ring their present fall by this dividing;

So his unhallowed haste her words delays,

And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally

While in his holdfast foot the weak mouse panteth.

Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly,

A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth.

His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth

No penetrable entrance to her plaining.

Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed

In the remorseless wrinkles of his face.

Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed,

Which to her oratory adds more grace.

She puts the period often from his place,

And midst the sentence so her accent breaks

That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.

She conjures him by high almighty Jove,

By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath,

By her untimely tears, her husband’s love,

By holy human law and common troth,

By heaven and earth and all the power of both,

That to his borrowed bed he make retire,

And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, ‘Reward not hospitality

With such black payment as thou hast pretended.

Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee;

Mar not the thing that cannot be amended;

End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended.

He is no woodman that doth bend his bow

To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

‘My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me.

Thyself art mighty; for thine own sake leave me;

Myself a weakling; do not then ensnare me.

Thou look’st not like deceit; do not deceive me.

My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee.

If ever man were moved with woman’s moans,

Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans.

‘All which together, like a troubled ocean,

Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threat’ning heart

To soften it with their continual motion,

For stones dissolved to water do convert.

O, if no harder than a stone thou art,

Melt at my tears, and be compassionate.

Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

‘In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee.

Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?

To all the host of heaven I complain me.

Thou wrong’st his honour, wound‘st his princely name.

Thou art not what thou seem’st, and if the same,

Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king,

For kings like gods should govern everything.

‘How will thy shame be seeded in thine age

When thus thy vices bud before thy spring?

If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage,

What dar’st thou not when once thou art a king?

O be remembered, no outrageous thing

From vassal actors can be wiped away;

Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.

’This deed will make thee only loved for fear,

But happy monarchs still are feared for love.

With foul offenders thou perforce must bear

When they in thee the like offences prove.

If but for fear of this, thy will remove;

For princes are the glass, the school, the book

Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look.

‘And wilt thou be the school where lust shall learn?

Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?

Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern

Authority for sin, warrant for blame,

To privilege dishonour in thy name?

Thou back‘st reproach against long-living laud,

And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd.

‘Hast thou command? By him that gave it thee,

From a pure heart command thy rebel will.

Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,

For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.

Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil

When, patterned by thy fault, foul sin may say

He learned to sin, and thou didst teach the way?

‘Think but how vile a spectacle it were

To view thy present trespass in another.

Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear;

Their own transgressions partially they smother.

This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.

O, how are they wrapped in with infamies

That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes!

‘To thee, to thee my heaved-up hands appeal,

Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier.

I sue for exiled majesty’s repeal;

Let him return, and flatt’ring thoughts retire.

His true respect will prison false desire,

And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,

That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.’

‘Have done,’ quoth he; ‘my uncontrolled tide

Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.

Small lights are soon blown out; huge fires abide,

And with the wind in greater fury fret.

The petty streams, that pay a daily debt

To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ haste

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.’

‘Thou art,’ quoth she, ‘a sea, a sovereign king,

And lo, there falls into thy boundless flood

Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,

Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.

If all these petty ills shall change thy good,

Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed,

And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.

‘So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave;

Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;

Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave;

Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride.

The lesser thing should not the greater hide.

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot,

But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root.

‘So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state’-

‘No more,’ quoth he, ‘by heaven, I will not hear thee.

Yield to my love. If not, enforced hate

Instead of love’s coy touch shall rudely tear thee.

That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom

To be thy partner in this shameful doom.’

This said, he sets his foot upon the light;

For light and lust are deadly enemies.

Shame folded up in blind concealing night

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.

The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries,

Till with her own white fleece her voice controlled

Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold.

For with the nightly linen that she wears

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,

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;

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,

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 lived by foul devouring.

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

Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire,

Till like a jade self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discoloured cheek,

With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,

Feeble desire, all recreant, poor, and meek,

Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case.

The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with grace,

For there it revels, and when that decays,

The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome

Who this accomplishment so hotly chased;

For now against himself he sounds this doom,

That through the length of times he stands disgraced.

Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defaced,

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares

To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says her subjects with foul insurrection

Have battered down her consecrated wall,

And by their mortal fault brought in subjection

Her immortality, and made her thrall

To living death and pain perpetual,

Which in her prescience she controlled still,

But her foresight could not forestall their will.

Ev’n in this thought through the dark night he

stealeth,

A captive victor that hath lost in gain,

Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,

The scar that will, despite of cure, remain;

Leaving his spoil perplexed in greater pain.

She bears the load of lust he left behind,

And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence;

She like a wearied lamb lies panting there.

He scowls, and hates himself for his offence;

She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear.

He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear;

She stays, exclaiming on the direful night.

He runs, and chides his vanished loathed delight.

He thence departs, a heavy convertite;

She there remains, a hopeless castaway.

He in his speed looks for the morning light;

She prays she never may behold the day.

‘For day,’ quoth she, ‘night’s scapes doth open lay,

And my true eyes have never practised how

To cloak offences with a cunning brow.

‘They think not but that every eye can see

The same disgrace which they themselves behold,

And therefore would they still in darkness be,

To have their unseen sin remain untold.

For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,

And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,

Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.’

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,

And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,

And bids it leap from thence where it may find

Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.

Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her spite

Against the unseen secrecy of night:

‘O comfort-killing night, image of hell,

Dim register and notary of shame,

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell,

Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

Blind muffled bawd, dark harbour for defame,

Grim cave of death, whisp’ring conspirator

With close-tongued treason and the ravisher!

‘O hateful, vaporous, and foggy night,

Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,

Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,

Make war against proportioned course of time.

Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb

His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed

Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

‘With rotten damps ravish the morning air,

Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick

The life of purity, the supreme fair,

Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick;

And let thy musty vapours march so thick

That in their smoky ranks his smothered light

May set at noon, and make perpetual night.

‘Were Tarquin night, as he is but night’s child,

The silver-shining queen he would distain;

Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled,

Through night’s black bosom should not peep again.

So should I have co-partners in my pain,

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,

As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage.

‘Where now I have no one to blush with me,

To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,

To mask their brows and hide their infamy,

But I alone, alone must sit and pine,

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,

Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,

Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

‘O night, thou furnace of foul reeking smoke,

Let not the jealous day behold that face

Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak

Immodestly lies martyred with disgrace!

Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,

That all the faults which in thy reign are made

May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.

‘Make me not object to the tell-tale day:

The light will show charactered in my brow

The story of sweet chastity’s decay,

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow.

Yea, the illiterate that know not how

To cipher what is writ in learned books

Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.

‘The nurse to still her child will tell my story,

And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s name.

The orator to deck his oratory

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame.

Feast-finding minstrels tuning my defame

Will tie the hearers to attend each line,

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.

‘Let my good name, that senseless reputation,

For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted;

If that be made a theme for disputation,

The branches of another root are rotted,

And undeserved reproach to him allotted

That is as clear from this attaint of mine

As I ere this was pure to Collatine.

‘O unseen shame, invisible disgrace!

O unfelt sore, crest-wounding private scar!

Reproach is stamped in Collatinus’ face,

And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar,

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.

Alas, how many bear such shameful blows,

Which not themselves but he that gives them knows!

‘If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

From me by strong assault it is bereft;

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,

Have no perfection of my summer left,

But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft.

In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,

And sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

‘Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack;

Yet for thy honour did I entertain him.

Coming from thee, I could not put him back,

For it had been dishonour to disdain him.

Besides, of weariness he did complain him,

And talked of virtue—O unlooked-for evil,

When virtue is profaned in such a devil!

‘Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud,

Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests,

Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud,

Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts,

Or kings be breakers of their own behests?

But no perfection is so absolute

That some impurity doth not pollute.

‘The aged man that coffers up his gold

Is plagued with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits,

And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,

But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,

And useless barns the harvest of his wits,

Having no other pleasure of his gain

But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

‘So then he hath it when he cannot use it,

And leaves it to be mastered by his young,

Who in their pride do presently abuse it.

Their father was too weak and they too strong

To hold their cursèd-blessèd fortune long.

The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours

Even in the moment that we call them ours.

‘Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring,

Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers,

The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing,

What virtue breeds, iniquity devours.

We have no good that we can say is ours

But ill-annexed opportunity

Or kills his life or else his quality.

‘O opportunity, thy guilt is great!

’Tis thou that execut‘st the traitor’s treason;

Thou sets the wolf where he the lamb may get;

Whoever plots the sin, thou points the season.

’Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason;

And in thy shady cell where none may spy him

Sits sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.

‘Thou mak’st the vestal violate her oath,

Thou blow’st the fire when temperance is thawed,

Thou smother’st honesty, thou murd’rest troth,

Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd;

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud.

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief.

‘Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,

Thy private feasting to a public fast,

Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,

Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood taste.

Thy violent vanities can never last.

How comes it then, vile opportunity,

Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

‘When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend,

And bring him where his suit may be obtained?

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end,

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained,

Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained?

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee,

But they ne’er meet with opportunity.

‘The patient dies while the physician sleeps,

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds,

Justice is feasting while the widow weeps,

Advice is sporting while infection breeds.

Thou grant’st no time for charitable deeds.

Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s rages,

Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.

‘When truth and virtue have to do with thee

A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid.

They buy thy help, but sin ne’er gives a fee;

He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid

As well to hear as grant what he hath said.

My Collatine would else have come to me

When Tarquin did, but he was stayed by thee.

‘Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,

Guilty of perjury and subornation,

Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift,

Guilty of incest, that abomination:

An accessory by thine inclination

To all sins past and all that are to come

From the creation to the general doom.

‘Misshapen time, copesmate of ugly night,

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare,

Thou nursest all, and murd’rest all that are.

O hear me then, injurious shifting time;

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.

‘Why hath thy servant opportunity

Betrayed the hours thou gav’st me to repose,

Cancelled my fortunes, and enchained me

To endless date of never-ending woes?

Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes,

To eat up errors by opinion bred,

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

‘Time’s glory is to calm contending kings,

To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,

To stamp the seal of time in aged things,

To wake the morn and sentinel the night,

To wrong the wronger till he render right,

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours

And smear with dust their glitt’ring golden towers;

‘To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,

To feed oblivion with decay of things,

To blot old books and alter their contents,

To pluck the quills from ancient ravens’ wings,

To dry the old oak’s sap and blemish springs,

To spoil antiquities of hammered steel,

And turn the giddy round of fortune’s wheel;

‘To show the beldame daughters of her daughter,

To make the child a man, the man a child,

To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,

To tame the unicorn and lion wild,

To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled,

To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,

And waste huge stones with little water drops.

‘Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,

Unless thou couldst return to make amends?

One poor retiring minute in an age

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,

Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends.

O this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come

back,

I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack!