Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/83

But as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping theefe to some regard.
The threshold grates the dore to have him heard:
Night-wandring Weezels shreeke to see him there,
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place,
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch:

And being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks;
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks;
As who should say, this glove to wanton tricks
Is not inur'd, return again in hast,
Thou seest our Mistress ornaments are chast.

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him,
He in the worst sense construes their denial;
The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of tryal;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
Who with a lingering stay his course doth let,
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

So