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 

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