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She throws her eyes about the painting, round,
In him the painter labor'd with his skill
But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew
Whose words, like wildfire, burnt the shining
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry.
And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell, wherein they view'd their faces.
This picture she advisedly 1 perused,
And chid the painter for his wondrous skill;
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,
'It cannot be,' quoth she, 'that so much guile (She would have said) can lurk in such a look :' But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue,
can lurk' from cancot'
'It cannot be' she in that sense forsook,
And turn'd it thus :- It cannot be, I find,
For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,
2. e. guilefuily cov...
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,
Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds. Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise? For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds: His eye drops fire; no water thence proceeds: Those round, clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,
Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.
'Such devils steal effects from lightless hell;
Only to flatter fools, and make them bold;
So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.'
Here, all enraged, such passion her assails,
Foo!! fool!' quoth she; his wounds will not
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And they that watch, see time how slow it
Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought,
Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
But now the mindful messenger, come back,
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw.
Watery appearances in the sky, attendant on rainbows.
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw; Her lively color kill'd with deadly cares.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares;
But stood, like old acquaintance in a trance,
Met far from home, wondering each other's chance.
At last, he takes her by the bloodless hand,
Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness;
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length, address'd1 to answer his desire,
And now this pale swan in her watery nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending: 'Few words,' quoth she,
'shall fit the trespass