Methinks that life in lovely woman first,
    And after life true honour should be dear;
    Nay, wanting honour—­of all wants the worst—­
    Friend! nought remains of loved or lovely here. 
    And who, alas! has honour’s barrier burst,
    Unsex’d and dead, though fair she yet appear,
    Leads a vile life, in shame and torment curst,
    A lingering death, where all is dark and drear. 
    To me no marvel was Lucretia’s end,
    Save that she needed, when that last disgrace
    Alone sufficed to kill, a sword to die. 
    Sophists in vain the contrary defend: 
    Their arguments are feeble all and base,
    And truth alone triumphant mounts on high!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CCXXV.

Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale.

HE EXTOLS THE VIRTUE OF LAURA.

      Tree, victory’s bright guerdon, wont to crown
    Heroes and bards with thy triumphal leaf,
    How many days of mingled joy and grief
    Have I from thee through life’s short passage known. 
    Lady, who, reckless of the world’s renown,
    Reapest in virtue’s field fair honour’s sheaf;
    Nor fear’st Love’s limed snares, “that subtle thief,”
    While calm discretion on his wiles looks down. 
    The pride of birth, with all that here we deem
    Most precious, gems and gold’s resplendent grace. 
    Abject alike in thy regard appear: 
    Nay, even thine own unrivall’d beauties beam
    No charm to thee—­save as their circling blaze
    Clasps fitly that chaste soul, which still thou hold’st most dear.

    WRANGHAM.

      Blest laurel! fadeless and triumphant tree! 
    Of kings and poets thou the fondest pride! 
    How much of joy and sorrow’s changing tide
    In my short breath hath been awaked by thee! 
    Lady, the will’s sweet sovereign! thou canst see
    No bliss but virtue, where thou dost preside;
    Love’s chain, his snare, thou dost alike deride;
    From man’s deceit thy wisdom sets thee free. 
    Birth’s native pride, and treasure’s precious store,
    (Whose bright possession we so fondly hail)
    To thee as burthens valueless appear: 
    Thy beauty’s excellence—­(none viewed before)
    Thy soul had wearied—­but thou lov’st the veil,
    That shrine of purity adorneth here.

    WOLLASTON.

CANZONE XXI.

I’ vo pensando, e nel pensier m’ assale.

SELF-CONFLICT.

      Ceaseless I think, and in each wasting thought
    So strong a pity for myself appears,
    That often it has brought
    My harass’d heart to new yet natural tears;
    Seeing each day my end of life draw nigh,
    Instant in prayer, I ask of God the wings
    With which the spirit springs,