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Honour and beauty in the owner’s arms

Are weakly fortressed from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade

The eyes of men without an orator.

What needeth then apology be made

To set forth that which is so singular?

Or why is Collatine the publisher

Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown

From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sov’reignty

Suggested this proud issue of a king,

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be.

Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting

His high-pitched thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt

That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate

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,

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