But she, that never coped with stranger eyes, Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books; She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no hooks, Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were opened to the light. 

 He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory. Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. 

 Far from the purpose of his coming thither, He makes excuses for his being there. No cloudy show of stormy blust’ring weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear, Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the day. 

 For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness with heavy sprite; For after supper long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night. Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight, And every one to rest themselves betake, Save thieves and cares and troubled minds that wake. 

 As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining, Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining. Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining, And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there’s no death supposed. 

 Those that much covet are with gain so fond For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond; And so, by hoping more, they have but less, Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrout in this poor-rich gain. 

 The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife That one for all or all for one we gage: As life for honour in fell battle’s rage, Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. 

 So that in vent’ring ill we leave to be The things we are, for that which we expect; And this ambitious foul infirmity, In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have. So then we do neglect The thing we have, and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it. 

 Such 

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