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 hold-fast 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 the 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 wrack-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 

 Prev. P 12/35 next