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Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife:

The red blood reek'd, to show the painter's strife;

The dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioner

Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust;

And from the towers of Troy there would appear

The very eyes of men through loopholes thrust,

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:

Such sweet observance in this work was had,

That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty

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 so well resemble,

That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art

Of physiognomy might one behold!

The face of either 'cipher'd either's heart;

Their face their manners most expressly told:

In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd;

But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent

Show'd deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,

As't were encouraging the Greeks to fight;

Making such sober action with his hand

That it beguiled attention, charm'd the sight:

In speech, it seem'd, his beard, all silver white,

Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly

Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,

Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice;

All jointly listening, but with several graces,

As if some mermaid did their ears entice;

Some high, some low, the painter was so nice:

The scalps of many, almost hid behind,

To jump up higher seem'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 boll'n and red;

Another smother'd seems to pelt and swear;

And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,

As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words,

It seem'd they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there;

Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,

That for Achilles' image stood his spear,

Grip'd in an armed hand; himself, behind,

Was left unseen, save 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, sharing joy

To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;

And to their hope they such odd action yield,

That through their light joy seemed to appear,

(Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear,

And, from the strond of Dardan, where they fought,

To Simois' reedy banks, the red blood ran,

Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

With swelling ridges; and their ranks began

To break upon the galled shore, and than

Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,

They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,

To find a face where all distress is stell'd.

Many she sees where cares have carved some,

But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd,

Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,

Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.

In her the painter had anatomiz'd

Time's ruin, beauty's wrack, and grim care's reign:

Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguis'd;

Of what she was no semblance did remain:

Her blue blood, chang'd to black in every vein,

Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,

Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead.

On this sad shadow 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 swears he did her wrong,

To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.

'Poor instrument,' quoth she, 'without a sound,

I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting