"She throws her eyes about the painting round, And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament; At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content: Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes. In him the painter labour'd with his skill To hide deceit, and give the harmless show An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe; Cheeks, neither red nor pale, but mingled so That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. But like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertain'd a show so seeming just, And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust—— The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew For perjur'd Sinon." This is a picture, of which the colouring, but too often overcharged in every other part of the poem, may be pronounced chaste and correct. A simple and unaffected flow of thought, expressed in diction of equal purity and plainness, are essential requisites towards the production of the pathetic, either in poetry or prose; and, unfortunately, in the _Rape of Lucrece_, these excellences, especially in their combined state, are of very rare occurrence. We are not, however, totally destitute of passages which, by their tenderness and simplicity, appeal to the heart. Thus the complete wretchedness of Lucretia is powerfully and simply painted in the following lines:— "The little birds that tune their morning's joy, Make her moans mad with their sweet melody. For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy; Sad souls are slain in merry company; Grief best is pleas'd with grief's society: True sorrow then is feelingly suffic'd, When with like semblance it is sympathiz'd." She, accordingly, invokes the melancholy nightingale, and invites her, from similarity of fate, to be her companion in distress.— "And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold, Some dark deep desert, seated from the way, That knows nor parching heat nor freezing cold, Will we find out; and there we will unfold To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds: Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds." "Shakspeare has here," says Mr. Malone, in a note on the first of these stanzas, "as in all his writings, shown an intimate acquaintance with the human heart. Every one that has felt the pressure of grief will readily acknowledge that _mirth doth search the bottom of annoy_."[38:A]