Page:Hero and Leander - Marlowe and Chapman (1821).pdf/197

 And so short of himself in his high thought, Was our Leander in his fortunes brought, And in his fort of love that he thought won, But otherwise, he scorns comparison.

O sweet Leander! Thy large worth I hide In a short grave; ill favour'd storms must chide Thy sacred favour; I, in floods of ink Must drown thy graces, which white papers drink, E'en as thy beauties did the foul black seas. I must describe the hell of thy decease , That heaven did merit: yet I needs must see Our painted fools and cockhorse peasantry Still, still usurp, with long lives, loves, and lust, The seats of virtue; cutting short as dust Her dear bought issue; ill, to worse converts, And tramples in the blood of all deserts.

Night close and silent now goes fast before The captains and the soldiers to the shore, On whom attended the appointed fleet At Sestos' bay, that should Leander meet, Who feign'd he in another ship would pass: Which must not be, for no one mean there was