THE GHOST of Lucrece By T. M. Gent. AT LONDON Printed by Valentine Simmes. 1600. TO THE RIGHT Honourable, and my very bountiful good Lord, my Lord Compton, T. M. wisheth the fruit of eternal fruition. Comptus honos, honour est Comptono, & Compton honore. THou, that rock'st comely honour in thine arms, Thou patr●● to the child-house of my vain, Thou hive unto the Museshony swarms, And Godfather to th'issue of my brain, To thee, Baptizer of mine infant lines, With golden water in a silver Font: Thy bounty, gold▪ thy finger's silver twines, Silvering my papers ink, as they were wont. To thee (the bloody Crystal of a Ghost, Wrapped in a fiery web) I spin to thee. To thee, (the thawer of Diana's frost: Tarquin the hot in Lucrece Tragedy.) To thee I consecreate these ashy fires, She quenched in blood, he burned in his desires. Bound by your Ho. bounty, T. M. Castissimo, purissimoque Lucretiae Spiritui; Thomas Medius & Gravis Tonus primum Surge vociferat. — Tu castitatis imago, Surgito! Tarquinium Phlegetontis imagine notum, Noscito! Tu caeptis (nam te mutavit & illum,) Adspirato meis! postremo tempore mundi, Ad su a perpetuum deducito crimina carmen. Castissimo Spiritui tuo addictissimus. T. M. The Prologue. REach me a quill from the white Angels wings, My paper from the Via Lactea, My ink from joves-high- Nectar-flowing-springs, My Muse from Vesta: Awake Rhamnusia; Call up the Ghost of gored Lucretia: Thrice hath the trumpet of my pens round stage Sounded a Surge to her bloody age. Sad spirits, soft hearts, sick thoughts, souls sod in tears, Well humoured eyes, quick ears, teare-wounded faces, Enrouled-Vestals, Diane's Hemispheres, Rape-slaughtered Lucreces, all martyred Graces, Be ye the audience, take your tragic places: Here shall be played the miseries that immures Pure Diamond hearts, in Crystal covertures. Black spirits, hard hearts, thick thoughts, souls boiled in lust, Dry fiery eyes, dull ears, high bloody looks Made of hot earth, moulded in fire and dust, Desires true Graduates, read in Tarquin's books: Be ye our stage's Actors; play the Cooks: Carve out the daintiest morsel, that's your part, With lust-keene Faulchon even in Lucrace heart. Now weary Lucrece with a trine of eyes, Quenching the fire of Lust with tears and blood, Changing those eie-lampes (which were wont to rise Like beams of morning) to a mourning cloud, Her heart (the purest eye) to a redde-sea-floude: Her ghost the Idea of her soul resumes, Which Phoenix-wise burns in her own perfumes. THE GHOST of Lucrece Medeas' Magic, and Calipso's drugs, Circe's enchantments, Hecate's triforme Weanes my soul sucking at Revenges dugs, To feed upon the air. What wind? what storm Blew my dissevered limbs into this form? And from the Virgin-Paradise of death, Conjures my Ghost with poetizing breath? The candle of my shame burns in the sky, Set on the crosse-Poles of the firmament, To fear away divine Virginity, And light this world below, that being bend To follow me, they go not as I went: But when I hope to see the candle wain, Then Tarquin's spirit falls on the snuff again. So that the snuff, (the savour of my shame, That stinks before the throne of chastity) Is still rekindled with venerial flame, To show that Tarquin's planet plants in me, The root of fiery blood, and luxury: First forcing with his breath, one flames retire, Then takes my blood for oil, his lust, for fire. Now burns the beacon of my soul, indeed, Too high for fame, but low enough for fume: Saints, keep your cloister-house, Vesta make speed, Take in thy flowers, for fear the fire consume Thy eternall-sweete-Virginitie-perfume: For Lust, and Blood are mingled in one lamp, To seal my soul with Rape and Murders stamp. Before my shame, yond candle had no fire, Vestals nile feared me, the world saw me not, Shame was the tinder, and the flint desire That struck in Tarquin's bosom, and begot A child of fire, a firebrand, and so hot, That it consumed my chastity to dust, And on my heart painted the mouth of lust. Was I the cradle? O my chastity, To rock and lull this bastard firebrand, Nursed with my blood, we and with my tragedy, Fed at my knives sharp point upon my hand, Borne and reborn, where ere my spirits stand? I was the cradle● see the fie●…e dart, That burns Diana's temples in my heart. Behold this blade varnished with blood and tears, Blood from my heart, tears from my stilling eyes, Behold (I say) this knife, whereon appears Vesta's Vermision melting from her skies, And tears of pearls in bloody mysteries; This is the Tragic knife, here you may see, Tears strive for fame, and blood for chastity. Right hand, thou act'st Revenges hand aright: This knife and thou have sworn to kiss my breast, Thou art my Vesta's antidote, to fright Lust from the bed of Colatinus rest: Performer of thy vow (hand) be thou blest. For thou in this hast shown me what thou art, Driving the foe from scaling of my heart. Come spirit of fire, bred in a womb of blood, Forged in a furnace by the Smith of hell, Begot and form in that burning flood, Where Pluto's Phlegetonticke tenants dwell: And scalded spirits in their fiery cell, Breathes from their soul the flame of luxury. From that luxurious clime I conjure thee. Now is my tide of blood: Come, quench thy soul, The sluices of my spirit now runs again: Come, I have made my breast an luorie bowl, To hold the blood that streameth from my vain, Drink to my chastity which thou hast slain: " But (woe the while) that labour is in vain. " To drink to that which cannot pledge again Quaff thine own fill, and let that lustful flame: (That circuits in the circle of thy spirit Pledge thy desire, carousing off my shame, Which swims amidst my blood, and doth inherit The portion of my soul without a merit: And if this spring of blood cannot suffice, I'll rain down tears from my Elemental eyes. Thou art my nurse-child, Tarquin: thou art he, In steed of milk, suck blood, and tears, and all, In lieu of teats: Lucrece, thy nurse, even she, By tragic art seen through a Crystal wall, Hath carved with her knife thy festival: Here's blood for milk, suck till thy veins run over, And such a teat, which scarce thy mouth can cover. Tarquin the ravisher oh at that name See how mine eyes dissolveth into tears. Tarquin the Roman: I describe my shame, Frorm Rome it came, a Roman name it bears. Tarquin my guest: lo, here began my fears: Tarquin from Ardea posts, hence sprang the fire, " For Ardea's name sounds ardent hot desire. Tarquin my kinsman: O Divinity, Where art thou fled? hast thou for sook thy sphere? Where's Virtue, Knighthood, and Nobility? Faith? Honour? Piety? they should be near, For kinsman sounds all these they are not here. Tarquin my kinsman: was it thou didst come, To sack my Collatine's Collatium? Tarquin my kinsman, too unkindly done, And by a kinsman too: my Ghost avers it, Doth therefore that same name of kindred run, To see their kinredde, and with blood prefers it? " O enemy to faith, that still defers it. Had Tarquin never lustful Tarquin been, Lucrece the chaste should have chaste Lucrece seen. Tarquin the Prince: had Rome no better heirs, Thou mistress of the world no better men, Thou Prodigality of Nature's fairs, Are Tigers kings? mak'st thou thy throne a den? Thy siluer-glittering streams, black lerna's fen? Thy seven hills that should o'er look thy evils. Like seven hells to nurse up Roman diuelles. To thee, (that mak'st the Moon thy looking glass, To view thy triple crown, and sevenfold head) To thee, I say, (the Ghost of what I was) Plains me and it, sith thou so long hast fed The ravisher, and starved the ravished. " If Vesta's lines were ever writ in thee, " Then weigh the blotting of those lines in me. Tarquin the Prince: sham'st thou to hear thy name? Rome, 'tis thy heir, sham'st thou to call him son? Tarquin the Prince, lo I'll repeat thy shame, A Roman heir, from him to thee I run, I'll shame you both before my shame be done: Tarquin the Prince, Tarquin the Roman heir, Thus will I haunt, and hunt you to despair. Tarquin the traitor: bid my spirit rise, And call up all the senses of my soul, " For treason should be guarded with more eyes, Then was Ioues lo under his control, " For treasons guile doth win the traitor's goal: Tarquin the traitor: watch when time's in season, " For treason doth betray all things to treason. Tarquin the lecher: virgin chastity, Melts at the heat of that luxurious word, (Like maiden snow upon a promontory, Kissing the un her heavenly lovely Lord, Then dies, and melts into a watery ford:) So did my chastities-white-snow attire, Dissolve in blood, at Tarquin's lustful fire. Tarquin the night-owle: Chastity beware, Thou art beset with millions of deceits, Thy eyes have leaden lids, they take no care, Thy senses rocked asleep, and thy conceits Tempered with silence, fear nor snares, nor baits: Only the vestal pureness of thy soul, Bade me beware that Night-obseruing owl. Tarquin the Night-owle: in whose flaming eyes, Lust and Desire banded their balls of blood, Chase my spirit with fiery mysteries, Unto the hazard where destruction stood, Ready to strike my soul into a cloud: So when the Sun had seen my vapour rise, Then with his beams to dash me from the skies. Tarquin the Night-owle: watch destruction, What? hath the eyes of Lust no jiddes at all? Or do they hover for confusion, Answering in silence when affections call? " When lust awakes, the eye lids never fall: " But like a courser holding reasons rain, " Doth shut the eyes, and opens them again. Tarquin the Night-owle Vesta, look about, The fourth alarum of my fears now rings, And yet the hour of dread is scarce run out, For midnight's face more force of terror brings, To think on that, my sinews shake like strings: And chastity which yet had spirit and breath, Lay quavering at my heart to tune her death. Tarquin the Night-owle: turn the glass again, Five times my tongue, the hammer of my soul, (That beats upon my breath, and strikes a strain, " Sounding all quavers, that's the song of dole:) Five times my tongue did even my tongue control, " For fear is such a slave, and coward elf, " That fearing others, runs and fears himself. Tarquin the Night-owle: Enter treachery, Sextus Tarqvinius, this sixth hour is thine, Farewell my life, farewell my chastity, Farewell (though not mine now) that which was mine, Thy grapes are now devoured, alas poor vine: The Tyr-ant with his force of luxury, Tires mean Ant, through imbecility. Now enters on the stage of Lucrece heart, Black appetites in flamed habiliments: When they have acted all, than they depart. Rape entering next, armed in murders tents, Wracks Vesta's tenants, and takes all her rents: " This shows that Vesta's Deity is poor, " She hath the stalk, but Ve●●… hath the store. This is the tragic scene: bleed hearts, weep eyes, Fly soul from body, spirit from my veins, Follow my chastity where ere it lies, Which my unhallowed body now refrains, Look to the lamp of chastity, it wanes: The star which guided all my elements, Pulls in her head, and leaves the firmaments. Rape in his paws of blood, and fangs of Lust, Hath stained th'immaculate lily of my field, And hath sepulchred in the shade of dust Diana's milken rob, and Vesta's shield, " When tigers prey, the silly lambs must yield: When Tarquin posts from Ardea, by and by Lucrece must lose her life and chastity. O Collatine, where sleeps thy troubled spirit? What new come Morpheus hath arrested thee? Doth thy heart sound sleep? doth nothingstirre it? Dear Collatine, awake, wert thou with me The arches of mine eyes would waken thee For tears like waves rush at my eye lids door, Striving together who should go before. Come Collatine the foe hath sacked thy city, Collatium goes to wrack: come Collatine, Come Collatine, all piety and pity Is turned to petty treason: what is thine Is seized upon long since: and what is mine " Carried away: true man thou sleepest at Rome, " Even while a Roman thief robs thee at home. Come Collatine, 'tis Lucrece bids thee come, Or shall I send my pursuivant of groans Unto proud Rome from poor Collatium, To make all private means by public moans, Discoursing my black story to the stones? Come Collatine, 'tis Tarquin's dreadful drum, That conjures me to call, and thee to come. Thy Lucrece bed, which had fair canopies Spangled with stars like to the firmament, And curtains wrought with many deities, Resembling Ioues white lacteall element, Are stained now by lust and revishment, The stars out stared, the deities defied, These I had stored, the other deified. The night before Tarquin and Lust came hither, (Ill token for a chaste memorial,) My maids and I poor maid, did spin together, Like the three sisters, which the Fates we call, " And Fortune lent us wheels to turn withal; Round goes our wheels like worlds, on mine alone Stood fortune reeling on a rolling stone. Yet was my heart so light, that still I said, Sing merrily my maids, our wheels go round, (Who would not sing and spin, and be a maid, To serve so sweet a Goddess, and be bound Apprentice, where such mistresses abound?) Sing merrily my maids (again she says,) For Vesta is the Goddess of our lays. Maidens, quoth I, but think what maidens be, " They are the very string that ties their hearts, " The pillars of their souls pure purity, " The distillations of th'essential parts, " Both good deservers, and the good deserts: Then seeing Vesta hath so many trades, Go round our wheels, sing merrily my maids. What nimble fingers hath Virginity, To twist the thread, and turn the wheel about? O Virgins, that same pearl of chastity Shines like the Moon, to light your thoughts throughout, " Pure cogitations never harbours doubt, But like the fairest-purest chrysolit, Admits no bruise without a crack with it. Spin merrily my maiden-paradise, Thus with a merry cheer I whirled their wheels, And made them rid at once more than at twice, " Such pretty pleasure true affection feels, " That times old head runs swifter than his heels: " For mirths fledged wings, are of so quick a flight, " I hat makes the morn seem noon, the noon seem night My maids, those airy sinews in your hands, Were of a finer thread than that you spin, It was a merry age in golden bands, When Saturn sowed the earth, and did begin To teach bad husbands a new way to win: " Than was true labour exercised and done, " When gods did reel, what Goddesses had spun. Those times are waxen bald, a prouder air Blows in the heaven, and breathes upon the earth, That age is out of date, another heir Claims his possession by an iron birth, And in an iron throne of death and dearth Rules this young age, sucking until it whine, Even at the dugs of Pluto's proserpine. Thus like Diana by a lily fount, Sat I amidst my vestal elements, Thus did myself still with myself account, To free my thoughts from chained discontents And stir up mirth, the nurse of nourishments: Thus with a lightsome spirit and souls carouse, I like a housewife cherished up my house. When Roman dames tickled with pride and lust, Ravished with amorous Philosophy, Printed the measures of their feet in dust, Tempering their blood with Musics harmony, " (The very Synode-house of Venery) Then I at home instead of melody, Grated my wheel upon the axle-tree. How like Arachne turned I my wheel? Each of my maids how like a shepherdess? Had Collatine my shepherd held the reel, We four might well have made a country mess, " But one abroad, makes one at home the less: My Collatine my shepherd was at Rome, And left poor me to feed his flock at home. Is Venus made a Laundress to the Court? Cupid her son elected for a page? No marvel if Diana's stars do sport With Venus' planets upon Cupid's stage: " Iron must have fire, this is an iron age: " Our souls like smiths with anvils of desire, " Beat on our flesh, and still we sparkle fire. The Prince's Court is e'en a firmament, All wrought with beams by day, and stars by night, The Prince himself the sunny element, From whence all beams and stars do borrow light, To paint their faces with a red and white: Those beams ambassadors of his bright array, Those stars his counsellors by night and day. How comes it then? speak, speak, Iniquity, Thou blur of kingdoms, and thou blot of Kings, Thou Metamorphosis of purity, That shap'st the greater things to lesser things, How comes it then, that Cupid's bowstring swings About the heels of time? Iniquity, It is the halter of thy luxury. Thou hast burnt out the humour of thy bones, And made them powders of impiety, To strew about the earth as thick as stones, Like wombs of lust, in tombs of lechery, And all thy sinews, O Iniquity, Are so dried up, and now so slender spun, " That Venus makes them bowstrings for her son. Where is the spring of bloods virginity, That wont to serve thy veins like conduit heads, And cleanse thy cistern of iniquity, With maiden-humours from chaste Flora's meads? Then slepst thou like a Lord, in honours beds: Then Virtue was thy bedfellow, now know, " As great an ebb follows as great a flow. Lo, under that base type of Tarquin's name, I cipher figures of iniquity, He writes himself the shamer, I the shame, The Actor he, and I the tragedy, The stage am I, and he the history: The subject I, and he the ravisher, He murdering me, made me my murderer. O Lust, this pen of mine that writes thee lust, Lies blasted at the sulphur of thy fire, The quill and feathers burnt to ashy dust, Like dust and ashes flies before Desire, Unable to endure thy flamed attire: " For in the sky of contrariety, " The winners life is, when the losers die. If l proceed: O fiery Incolants, Of that vast hell, which Pluto terms his haul, Tarquin's companions, ye I say that haunts The banks of burning baths, to you I call, Send me Prometheus heart t'endite withal: And from his vulture's wings a pen of blood, Thrice steeped and dipped in Phlegetonticke flood. Then shall I stamp the figure of the night On Tarquin's brow, and mark him for her son, The heir of darkness, bastard of the light, The cloud of heaven, th' clipser of the sun, The stain in Vesta's cheeks, which first begun In Tarquin's flesh, begot of fiery dust. " O thou the hell of love, untutred Lust. " It bribe's the flesh to war against the spirit, " With tickling blood mustering in every vain, " It weans the conscience from her heavenly merit, " Depraving all chaste thoughts, her maiden train, " It makes the heart think, and unthink again: " It taints the breath with fire, the brain with blood, " And sets a devil where a God had stood. Being in the eye, Lust is a Cockatrice, " Hemlock in taste, a canker in the thought, " And in the life a moth, which in a trice Consumes that treasure which so dear was bought, And cost so many drops of blood (for nought) So many streams of blood, and baths of sweat, To bathe our spirits, and to quench our heat. O hell-eyde Lust, when I behold thy face Praefigured in my Ghost, drawn in my mind, I think of Sydons' flowers that grow apace, And favour thee by quality and kind, " They look like faith before, and fame behind: But if thou savour these well-favoured evils, They have the sight of gods, the sent of devils. If I had like a curious herbalist, measured thy quantity by quality, Or Esculapius-wise, on Reason's fist, Had planted virtue by the property, Or with the lapidaries policy " Made choice by insight, that's the note of wit, And not by outward hue to judge of it, Then like that skilful Esculapius, (Setting apart the colour of deceit) I might have known Tarquin from Tyreus, And Lucrece bed from Philomela's bait, Vesta concei●'d what Venus did conceit: But wanting Esculapius in my choice, I left sweet verdure for a flattering voice. " Did Beauty that same bavins blaze, incense thee? " That flower of ●…me which buds with vanity, " That string of fortune's wheel, which doth commence thee The graduate of hell borne iniquity, Was beauty made the mark of luxury? Then heavens from henceforth let the world behold " Beauty in lead, deformity in gold. Say Beauties beams dazzled thy cloudy eyes, " This Beauty hangs but at the heels of time, And when times wings a loftier measure flies, Then Beauty like poor jearus must climb, Or plunge into the puddle of her slime: " For Beauty's limbs are of a waxen frame, " And melts like Icarus wings at every flame. Saw'st thou the colours which acquaint Phydias drew, In dead-live pictures with a touch of art. Such red and white hath Beauty being new, Made only to amazeth ' amazers heart, Yet Phydias colours piercing like a dart Were stained with every breath, and lost their prime, " So Beauty's blot drops from the pen of time. But O my heaven, shall I forget thy spheres, O spheres of heaven, shall I let pass your skies? O skies which wears out time, and never wears, Shall I make dim the tapers of your eyes? O eyes of heaven, Sun, Moon, and stars that rise To wake the day, and free imprisoned night, Shall my oblivious vapour cloud your light? 'tis thou o chastity, shall I sorsake thee, Or drown thy memory in my bloody stream? Remember o my soul, did she not make thee Out of Diana's ribs? did not that beam, (Which glisters in thy spirit like joves-eie-gleame,) Reflect from Vesta's face upon thy heart, Like Phoebus' brow the pride of heavens art. O thou that mak'st the Via Lactea whiter, " That virgin-gallery of majestic jove, " Fair juno's maze, to foot it, doth delight her, " The silver path of heaven, and bathe of love, There sits the lamb, the swan, the turtle dove, Ensigns of peace, of faith, and chastity: " O silver stage to golden harmony. " That choir of saints in virgin-ornament, " Where Angels sing like choristers of heaven, " Where all the Martyrs kneel the element " Where Cynthia's rob, and great Apollo's steaven, Hangs at the altar of this milken haven: And to conclude, not able to begin, I write of that which flesh hath never seen. 'twas thou o chastity m'eternall eye, The want of thee made my ghost reel to hell, 'twas thou o chastity, that guild'st the sky With beams of virtue, it is thou dost dwell In that white-milken-christall-siluer cell: Thou laundress to the gods and goddesses, Washing their souls in fonts of holiness. O thou that deckest our Phoebus in the East, Circling his temples with spiritual beams, And guides his vestal chariot to the west, Through that pure crystal track of lacteall streams, Silvering his wheels with alabaster gleams, Then tempering the bright porphurie of his face, " With chaste Endymion's blush, the die of grace. That doing duty to his father jove Upon his knee of fire, bids him arise, And blessing all his beams with kissing love, Like a majestic father guilds his eyes, To add a rarer shine unto the skies, Then takes his chariot with a brighter pride, And cries aloud, S. Vesta be my guide. S. Vesta, O thou sanctifying Saint, That lends a beam unto the clearest Sun, Which else within his fiery course would faint, And end his race ere he had half begun, Making the world believe his power were done, His oil burned out, his lamp returned to slime, His fires extinguishde by the breath of time. " O thou the pearl that hangs on juno's brow, " Like to the Moon the massy pearl of night, " Thou jewel in the ear of jove, to show The pride of love, the purity of light, " Thou Atlas of both worlds, umpire of right: " Thou haven of heaven, th'assigner of each sign, " Sanctities saint, Divinities divine. " O thou the silver taper of the Moon, Set in an alabaster candlestick, That by the bed of heaven at afternoon, Stands like a lily (which fair virgins pick, To match it with the lily of their cheek: " Thou lily lamb, thou crystal feathered dove, That nestles in the palace of thy jove. O touch my veins again, thou blood divine, O feed my spirit thou food angelical, And all chaste functions with my soul combine. Colour my ghost with chastity, whose All Feeds fat lean Death and time in general: Come silver dove, heavens alabaster nun, I'll hug thee more than ever I have done. Lucrece, alas, thou picture of thyself, " Drawn poor and pale by that old painter time, " And overdasht by Death that meager elf, Which dries our element of blood to thime, And tempreth our old ashes with new slime: Lucrece I say how canst thou Lucrece be? " Wanting a God to give a life to thee. bleed no more lines, (my heart,) this Knife, my pen, This blood my ink, hath writ enough to Lust, " Tarquin, to thee thou very devil of men I send these lines, thou art my fiend of trust, To thee I dedicate my tomb of dust: To thee I consecreate this little-Most, Writ by the bloody fingers of my Ghost. This little scroll of fire (that burns my hand, In repetition of thy fiery name) I fold upon my heart (my bloody land) And to thy ghost my ghost doth send the same, " Entitled, The lines of blood and flame, " The Ghost of Lucrece, that's the Ghost of blood, " The Ghost of Tarquin, that's the fiery flood. Now for thy title, and deserved style, In dedication to thy worthiness, " To thee the second of Cocytus I'll, " Chief signior to the Phlegetonticke mess, " High steward unto Pluto's holiness: " Temprer of flames, the L. Tysiphonie, My bloody fires begs patronage of thee. Now lack I nothing but the post of hell, To fly like Vesta's arrow from my bow With these my red hot news, and then to tell " How many times my heart did ebb and flow, (Like seas) with tears above, and blood below: And from poor Lucrece mouth tell Tarquin thus, That Philomela hath writ to Tyreus. Here stops the stream of tragic blood and fire, And now Melpomene hales my spirit in, The stage is down, and Philomela's choir Is hushed from pricksong: Acheron's bells begin To call our ghosts clad in the spirits of sin: Now Tyreus meets with ravishde Philomela, Lucrece with Tarquin; in the haul of hell. FINIS. The Epilogue. RHamnusia in a chariot of Revenge, Heaped up with Ghosts of blood, and spirits of fire, Hath piled up Lucrece Ghost, so to avenge Her chaste untimely blood, of flamed desire: Now at the bar of hell (Revenges choir) Pleads Lucrece with a tongue of tears and bloods, First speaks her heart, and then her eyes, in floods. Can death that shrimp of spirits, that bonny wretch, That meagre-element, that beggar god, From Lucrece sky such heavenly colours fetch? From beauty's wrist to wrest that golden rod, Which makes all red and white disperse abroad? Death's power is come, and beauties triumph past, She was as chaste as fair, as fair as chaste. Her hair which in Arachne's finest loom, Was kissed with silver shickles, O that hair, Which made Collatium shine in spite of Rome, Keaming her trefses, like Ioues golden heir, He made Rome bright, she made Collatium fair: (breath That hair which daunc'st in beams before her Serves now to stuff the gaping ribs of death. Her eyes the curious fabric of her world, Apollo's touchstones where he tried his beams, And when her eyes outmatcht his fires: he hurled His crown of splendour into quenching streams, Raging to see beauties enrolled themes Writ in her eie-rowles: but alas, those eyes Which lived in beauty, now in beauty dies. Her tongue which Orpheus tuned beforehe died, And strung before he ●ou●nied unto hell, That new Parnassus by a rivers side, Where music sojourns, and the Muses dwell, O tongue of hers, Diana's silver bell, That rung chaste prayers to the church of heaven, Now she of it, and it of her bereaven. Her breath which had a violet perfume Tempered with rose alverdure, O her breath, Through discord of her tongue, did all consume Unto the air of earth, she did bequeath That pension of her life, from life to death: How ill was this best owed on Death, that elf, " Which robs all others, yet still poor itself. Her teats, twixt whom an alabaster bridge Parts each from other; like two crystal bowls (Standing aloof upon the body's ridge) Bears chastities white- Nectar-flowing souls, O valley decked with Flora's silver rolls: Why givest thou suck to death? it will be fed, For know, death must not die till all be dead. And to conclude, her all in every sphere, (That like the Sun on crystal elements) Did shine in clearness bright, in brightness clear, Her head her skies, her soul her firmaments, Now stained by death, before by ravishments: First Tarquin-life, clad her in death's array, Now Tarquin-death, hath stolen her life away. FINIS.