Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.
He with the Romans was esteemed so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,

For sportive words and uttering foolish things:

But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein deep policy did him disguise;
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.

'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, arise:
Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool,

Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.

'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humor from weak minds proceeds:
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

'Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such relenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me and help to bear thy part,
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,

That they will suffer these abominations,

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced, By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased

'Now, by the Capitol that we adore,

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd,

By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd,
And by chaste Lucrece soul that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
We will revenge the death of this true wife.

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife, to end his vow;
And to his protestation urged the rest,

Who, wondering at him, did his words allow:

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; And that deep vow, which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence:
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

INTRODUCTION.

"The Passionate Pilgrim was published by William Jaggard, in 1599. It was a piratical bookseller's venture, and although the popular name of Shakespeare was put upon the title-page the little volume really consisted of a collection from several authors. Shakespeare, as Heywood tells us, was much offended when Jaggard, in 1612, republished the volume, with added poems of Heywood, and with Shakespeare's name upon the title-page: a cancel of the title-page was thereupon made and one printed without any author's name. Of the collection, Nos. I., II., III., V., XII, and XVII., are probably Shakespeare's; Nos. IV., VI., VII., IX., and XIX. are possibly Shakespeare's; and the rest are certainly NOT' Shakespeare's. After the fifteenth poem in the original collection occurs a second title "Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music."

1.

WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth.
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some unítutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries,
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be,

II.

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair.
My worser spirit a woman color'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:

For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell;

The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt

Till my bad angel fire my good one out

III.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me

My vow was breath, and breath a vapor is;

Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapor vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then it is no fault of mine.

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?

IV.

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook

With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green,

Did court the lad with many a lovely look,

Such looks as none could look but beauty's queen

She told him stories to delight his ear;

She showed him favors to allure his eye:

To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward !

V.

If love make me fors worn, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadfu
thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,

To sing heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,

And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,

A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,

A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.

Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,

And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.

He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood: 'O Jove,' quoth she, why was not I a flood!'

VII.

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!