To look on one abash'd is impudence,
When of slight faults he hath too deep a sense.—
Her blushing het[1] her chamber: she look'd out,
And all the air she purpled round about;
And after it a foul black day befell,
Which ever since a red morn doth foretell,
And still renews our woes for Hero's woe;
And foul it prov'd, because it figur'd so
The next night's horror; which prepare to hear;
I fail, if it profane your daintiest ear.
[2]Then now[3] most strangely-intellectual fire,
That proper to my soul hast power t' inspire
Her burning faculties, and with the wings
Of thy unsphered flame visit'st the springs
Of spirits immortal! Now (as swift as Time
Doth follow motion) find th' eternal clime
Of his free soul, whose living subject stood
Up to the chin in the Pierean flood,
- ↑ i.e. heated.
- ↑ Chapman's noble address to the spirit of his departed precursor, Marlow.
- ↑ Following Sir E. Brydges, I have taken the liberty (inexcusable, I fear, by lovers of true editions) to substitute now for how, the reading of the old copies; and which wants nothing but intelligibility to render it superior to any other that could be suggested.
