To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;For then the eye interprets to the car The heavy motion that it doth behold, When every part a part of woe doth bear.
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
Her letter now is sealed and on it writ 'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.'
The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast As lagging fowls before the northern blast.
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain curtsies to her low, And blushing on her, with a steadfast eye Receives the scroll without or yea or no, And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie Imagine every eye beholds their blame;For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame:
When, silly groom, God wot, it was defect Of spirit, life and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect To talk in deeds, while others saucily Promise more speed but do it leisurely.
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age Pawned honest looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both their faces blazed;She thought he blushed, as knowing Tarquin's lust, And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed;Her earnest eye did make him more amazed;The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks till he return again, And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain, For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep and groan;So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy, Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen's **** the city to destroy, Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;Which the conceited painter drew so proud As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.
A thousand lamentable objects there, In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life:
Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear, Shed for the slaught'red husband by the wife;The red blood reeked, to show the painter's strife;And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring pioneer Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust;And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.
Such sweet observance in this work was had That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.
In great commanders grace and majesty You might behold, triumphing in their faces;In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces, Which heartless peasants did so well resemble That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either ciphered either's heart;Their face their manners most expressly told:
In Ajax's eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled;But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Showed deep regard and smiling government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight, Making such sober action with his hand That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight.
In speech, it seemed, his beard all silver white Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath which purled up to the sky.
About him were a press of gaping fades, Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice, All jointly list'ning, but with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice, Some high, some low, the painter was so nice;The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind.
Here one man's hand leaned on another's head, His nose being shadowed by his neighbour's ear;Here one being thronged bears back, all boll'n and red;Another smothered seems to pelt and swear;And in their rage such signs, of rage of rage they bear As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seemed they would debate with angry swords.
For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear Griped in an armed hand; himself behind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined.
And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field, Stood many Trojan mothers sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;And to their hope they such odd action yield That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strand of Dardan where they fought To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran, Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than Retire again, till meeting greater ranks They join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.
To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, To find a face where all distress is stelled.
Many she sees where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and dolour dwelled, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.
In her the painter had anatomized Time's ruin, beauty's wrack, and grim care's reign;Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised;1
Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Showed life imprisoned in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldam's woes, Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, And bitter words to ban her cruel foes:
