Death is now the phoenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest.
Leaving no posterity:—
’Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
THE RAPE OF LUCRECE
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON,
and Baron of Titchfield.
The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness.
Your Lordship’s in all duty,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.