Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/75

That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,
Which having all, all could not satisfie;
But poorly rich so wanteth in his store,
That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never cop't with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books,
She toucht no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks,
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,
More than his eyes were open'd to the light.

He stories to her ears her husbands fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with praises Colatines high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory;
Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,
And wordless so greets heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there;
No cloudy show of stormy blustring weather
Doth yet in his fair Welkin once appear,
Till sable night sad source of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison shuts the day.

For