“Thou art,” quoth she, “a sea, a sovereign king, And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good, Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed, And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. 

 “So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave; Thou nobly base, they basely dignified; Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave; Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride. The lesser thing should not the greater hide; The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot, But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root. 

 “So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state”— “No more,” quoth he, “by heaven, I will not hear thee. Yield to my love. If not, enforced hate, Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear thee. That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, To be thy partner in this shameful doom.” 

 This said, he sets his foot upon the light, For light and lust are deadly enemies. Shame folded up in blind concealing night, When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries, Till with her own white fleece her voice controlled Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold. 

 For with the nightly linen that she wears He pens her piteous clamours in her head, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed! The spots whereof could weeping purify, Her tears should drop on them perpetually. 

 But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, And he hath won what he would lose again. This forced league doth force a further strife; This momentary joy breeds months of pain; This hot desire converts to cold disdain. Pure Chastity is rifled of her store, And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. 

 Look as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk The prey wherein by nature they delight; So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night. His taste delicious, in digestion souring, Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. 

 O deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend in still imagination! Drunken desire must vomit his receipt, Ere he can see his own abomination. While lust is in his pride no exclamation Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire, Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire. 

 And then with lank 

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