His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those; His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. O rash false heat, wrapped in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts and ne’er grows old! 

 When at Collatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, Within whose face beauty and virtue strived Which of them both should underprop her fame. When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that o’er with silver white. 

 But beauty, in that white intituled From Venus’ doves, doth challenge that fair field. Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assailed, the red should fence the white. 

 This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen, Argued by beauty’s red and virtue’s white. Of either’s colour was the other queen, Proving from world’s minority their right. Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; The sovereignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other’s seat. 

 Their silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin viewed in her fair face’s field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Where, lest between them both it should be killed, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him go Rather than triumph in so false a foe. 

 Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue, The niggard prodigal that praised her so, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show. Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. 

 This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper; For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil; Birds never limed no secret bushes fear. So guiltless she securely gives good cheer And reverend welcome to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm expressed. 

 For that he coloured with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty, That nothing in him seemed inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy; But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store That, cloyed with much, he pineth still for more. 

 

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