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To those two armies that would let him go

Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue,

The niggard prodigal that praised her so,

In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show.

Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe

Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise

In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

This earthly saint adorèd by this devil

Little suspecteth the false worshipper,

For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil.

Birds never limed no secret bushes fear,

So guiltless she securely gives good cheer

And reverent welcome to her princely guest,

Whose inward ill no outward harm expressed,

For that he coloured with his high estate,

Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty,

That nothing in him seemed inordinate

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

Which, having all, all could not satisfy,

But poorly rich so wanteth in his store

That, cloyed with much, he pineth still for more.

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 margins of such books.

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