faint heart, but stoutly say, ‘So be it.’ Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee. Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.” 

 This plot of death when sadly she had laid, And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untuned tongue she hoarsely called her maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies; For fleet-winged duty with thought’s feathers flies. Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. 

 Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty, And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow, For why her face wore sorrow’s livery, But durst not ask of her audaciously Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, Nor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe. 

 But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moistened like a melting eye, Even so the maid with swelling drops ’gan wet Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky, Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. 

 A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling. One justly weeps; the other takes in hand No cause, but company, of her drops spilling. Their gentle sex to weep are often willing, Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts, And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts. 

 For men have marble, women waxen, minds, And therefore are they formed as marble will; The weak oppressed, th’ impression of strange kinds Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill. Then call them not the authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamped the semblance of a devil. 

 Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep; In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep. Through crystal walls each little mote will peep. Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books. 

 No man inveigh against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed; Not that devoured, but that which doth devour, Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfilled With men’s abuses! Those proud lords, to blame, Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. 

 The precedent whereof in 

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