So Woe hath wearied Woe, Moan tired Moan,
That she her Plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for Means to mourn fome newer way.
At laft fhe calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful Painting made for Priam's Troy,
Before the which is drawn the Power of Greece,
For Helen's Rape the City to destroy,
Threatning cloud-killing Ilion with Annoy;
Which the conceited Painter drew fo proud,
As Heaven (it feem'd) to kiss the Turrets bow'd.
A thousand lamentable Objects there,
In fcorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless Life:
Many a dire Drop feem'd a weeping Tear,
Shed for the flaughter'd Husband by the Wife.
The red Blood reek'd to fhew the Painter's Strife,
And dying Eyes gleem'd forth their ashy Lights,
Like dying Coals burnt out in tedious Nights.
There might you fee the labouring Pioneer
Begrim'd with Sweat, and fmeared all with Duft;
And from the Towers of Troy there would appear
The very Eyes of Men thro Loop-holes thruft;
Gazing upon the Greeks with little Luft.
Such sweet Obfervance in this work was had, "That one might fee thofe far off Eyes look fad.
In great Commanders, Grace and Majefty
You might behold triumphing in their Faces;
In Youth Quick-bearing and Dexterity:
And here and there the Painter interlaces
Pale Cowards marching on with trembling Paces,
Which heartless Peasants did fo well refemble,
That one would fwear he faw them quake and
In Ajax and Ulyffes, O what Art
Of Phyfiognomy might one behold!
The Face of either cipher'd either's Heart;
Their Face, their Manners moft exprefly told.
In Ajax Eyes blunt Rage and Rigor roll'd.
But the mild Glance that the Vlyffes lent,
Shew'd deep Regard and fmiling Government.
There pleading might you fee grave Neftor stand,
As 'twere incouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making fuch fober Actions with his Hand,
That it beguil'd Attention, charm'd the Sight;
In Speech it feem'd his Beard, all filver white,
Wag'd up and down, and from his Lips did fly
Thin winding Breath, which purl'd up to the Sky.
About him were a Prefs of gaping Faces,
Which feem'd to swallow up his found Advice;
All jointly liftning, but with several Graces,
As if fome Mermaid did their Ears intice,
Some high, fome low, the Painter was so nice.
The Scalps of many almost hid behind,
To jump up higher feem'd to mock the Mind.
Here one Man's Hand lean'd on another's Head,
His Nose being shadow'd by his Neighbour's Ear;
Here one being throng'd bears back all boln and red;
Another mother'd, feems to pelt and swear,
And in their Rage fuch Signs of Rage they bear,
As but for lofs of Neftor's Golden Words,
It seems they would debate with angry Swords.
For much imaginary Work was there;
Conceit deceitful, fo compact, fo kind,
That for Achilles Image stood his Spear,
Grip'd in an armed Hand, himself behind
Was left unfeen, fave to the Eye of Mind,
A Hand, a Foot, a Face, a Leg, a Head,
Stood for the Whole to be imagined.
And from the Walls of strong besieged Troy,
When their brave Hope, bold Hector, march'd to
(Field,
Stood many Trojan Mothers, fharing Joy
To see their youthful Sons bright Weapons wield,
And to their Hope they fuch odd Action yield,
That thro their Light Joy feemed to appear
(Like bright things ftain'd) a kind of heavy Fear.
And from the ftrond of Dordan where they fought,
To Simois reedy Banks the red blood ran,
Whofe Waves to imitate the Battel fought
With swelling Ridges, and their Ranks began
To break upon the galled Shore, and then
Retire again, till meeting greater Ranks
They join, and fhoot their Fome at Simois Banks.
To this well-painted Picce is Lucrece come,
To find a Face where all diftrefs is ftell'd:
Many fhe fees, where Cares have carved fome,
But none where all Distress and Dolor dwell'd;
Till the despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priam's Wounds with her old Eyes,
Which bleeding under Pirrhus proud Foot lies.
In her the Painter had anatomiz'd
Time's ruin, Beauty's wrack, and grim Cares reign;
Her Cheeks with Chops and Wrinkles were difguis'd,
Of what he was, no Semblance did remain,
Her blew Blood chang'd to black in every Vein.
Wanting the Spring that thofe fhrunk Pipes had
Shew'd Life imprifon'd in a Body dead.
On this fad fhadow Lucrece spends her Eyes,
And shapes her Sorrow to the Beldame's Woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but Cries,
And bitter Words to ban her cruel Foes.
The Painter was no God to lend her those ;
And therefore Lucrece fwears he did her wrong,
To give her fo much Grief, and not a Tongue.
Poor Inftrument (quoth fhe) without a Sound,
I'll tune thy Woes with my lamenting Tongue;
And drop fweet Balm in Priam's painted Wound,
And rail on Pirrbus that hath done him wrong,
And with my Tears quench Troy that burns fo long;
And with my Knife fcratch out the angry Eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine Enemies.
Shew me this Strumpet that began this stir,
That with my Nails her Beauty I may tear:
Thy heat of Luft, fond Paris, did incur
This load of Wrath that burning Troy did bear;
Thy Eye kindled the Fire that burneth here.
And here in Troy, for Trespass of thine Eye,
The Sire, the Son, the Dame, and Daughter die.
Why should the private Pleasure of fome one
Become the publick Plague of many moe?
Let Sin alone committed, light alone
Upon his Head that hath tranfgreffed fo.
Let guiltless Souls be freed from guilty woe.
For ones Offence why fhould fo many fall?
To plague a private Sin in general.
Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies!
Here manly Hector faints, here Troylus founds,
Here Friend by Friend in bloody Channel lies,
And Friend to Friend gives unadvised Wounds,
And one Man's Luft thefe many Lives confounds.
Had doting Priam check'd his Son's defire,
Troy had been bright with Fame,and not with Fire.
Mere feelingly the weeps Troy's painted Woes:
For Sorrow like a heavy hanging Bell,
Once fet a ringing, with his own weight goes;
Then little strength rings out the doleful Knell.
So Lucrece fet awork, fad Tales doth tell
To pencil'd Penfiveness, and color'd Sorrow;
She lends them Words, and the their Looks doth
She throws her Eyes about the painted Round,
(borrow.
And whom he finds forlorn fhe doth lament:
At laft the fees a wretched Image bound,
That piteous Looks to Phrygian Shepherds lent,
His Face the full of Cares, yet fhew'd Content.
Onward to Troy with these blunt Swains he goes,
So mild that Patience feem'd to fcorn his Woes.
In him the Painter labour'd with his Skill
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show,
An humble Gate, calm Looks, Eyes wailing ftill,
A Brow unbent, that feem'd to welcome Woe;
. Cheeks, neither red nor pale, but mingled fo,
That blufhing red, no guilty Inftance gave,
Nor ashy pale, the Fear that falfe Hearts have.
But like a conftant and confirmed Devil,
He entertain'd a fhow fo feeming just,
And therein fo infconft this fecret Evil,
That Jealoufy it self could not miftruft,
Falfe creeping Craft and Perjury should thruft
Into fo bright a Day fuch blackfac❜d Storms,
Or blot with Hell-born Sin fuch Saint-like Forms,
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