I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus, Which is that god in office, guiding men?

Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To mask their brows and hide their infamy; But I alone, alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with show'rs of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both faces blazed. She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin's lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.

I have marked A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes, And in her eye there hath appeared a fire To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth.

Yet will she blush, here be it said, To bear her secrets so bewrayed.

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite, Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes, That banish what they sue for: redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will, Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindess shall his death draw out To ling'ring sufferance.