Third
part |
| This said, from her
be-tumbled couch she starteth, | | | | To find some desperate instrument of
death: | | | | But this no slaughterhouse no tool
imparteth | | | | To make more vent for passage of her
breath; |
1040 | | | Which, thronging through her lips, so
vanisheth | | | | As smoke from Etna that in air
consumes, | | | | Or that which from discharged cannon
fumes. | | |
|
| «In vain», quoth
she, «live, and seek in vain | | | | Some happy mean to end a hapless
life. |
1045 | | | I feared Tarquin's falchion to be
slain, | | | | Yet for the self-same purpose seek a
knife: | | | | But when I fear'd I was a loyal
wife: | | | | So am I now: O no, that cannot
be; | | | | Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled
me. |
1050 | |
|
| O, that is gone for which I
sought to live, | | | | And therefore now I need not fear to
die. | | | | To clear this spot by death, at least I
give | | | | A badge of fame to slander's
livery, | | | | A dying life to living
infamy: |
1055 | | | Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n
away. | | | | To burn the guiltless casket where it
lay! | | |
|
| Well, well, dear Collatine,
thou shalt not know | | | | The stained taste of violated
troth; | | | | I will not wrong thy true affection so,
|
1060 | | | To flatter thee with an infringed
oath; | | | | This bastard graff shall never come to
growth | | | | He shall not boast who did thy stock
pollute | | | | That thou art doting father of his
fruit. | | |
|
| Nor shall he smile at thee in
secret thought, |
1065 | | | Nor laugh with his companions at thy
state; | | | | But thou shalt know thy interest was not
bought | | | | Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth
thy gate. | | | | For me, I am the mistress of my
fate, | | | | And with my trespass never will
dispense, |
1070 | | | Till life to death acquit my forced
offence. | | |
|
| I will not poison thee with
my attaint, | | | | Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd
excuses; | | | | My sable ground of sin I will not
paint, | | | | To hide the truth of this false night's
abuses: |
1075 | | | My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like
sluices, | | | | As from a mountain-spring that feeds a
dale, | | | | Shall gust pure streams to purge my impure
tale.» | | |
|
| By this, lamenting Philomel
had ended | | | | The well tuned warble of her nightly
sorrow, |
1080 | | | And solemn night slow sad gait descended
| | | | To ugly hell; when, low, the blushing
morrow | | | | Lends light to all fair eyes that light
will borrow; | | | | But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to
see, | | | | And therefore still in night would
cloister'd be. |
1085 | |
|
| Revealing day through every
canny spies, | | | | And seems to point her out where she sits
weeping; | | | | To whom she sobbing speaks: «O eye
of eyes, | | | | Why pry'st thou through my window? leave
thy peeping: | | | | Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are
sleeping: |
1090 | | | Brand not my forehead with thy piercing
light, | | | | For day hath nought to do what's done by
night.» | | |
|
| Thus cavils she with every
thing she sees: | | | | True grief is fond and testy as a
child, | | | | Who wayward once, his mood with nought
agrees: |
1095 | | | Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them
mild; | | | | Continuance tames the one; the other
wild, | | | | Like an unpractised swimmer plunging
still | | | | With too much labour drowns for want of
skill. | | |
|
| So she, deep-drenched in a
sea of care, |
1100 | | | Holds disputation with each thing she
views, | | | | And to herself all sorrow doth
compare; | | | | No object but her passion's strength
renews, | | | | And as one shifts, another straight
ensues: | | | | Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no
words; |
1105 | | | Sometime 'tis mad and too much talk
affords. | | |
|
| 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; |
1110 | | | Grief best is pleased with grief's
society: | | | | True sorrow then is feelingly
sufficed | | | | When with like semblance it is
sympathized. | | |
|
| «Tis double death to
drown in ken of shore; | | | | He ten times pines that pines beholding
food; |
1115 | | | To see the salve doth make the wound ache
more; | | | | Great grief grieves most at that would do
it good; | | | | Deep woes roll forward like a gentle
flood, | | | | Who, being stopp'd the bounding banks
o'erflows; | | | | Grief dallied with nor law nor limit
knows.» |
1120 | |
|
| «You, mocking
birds», quoth she, «your tunes entomb | | | | Within your hollow-swelling feather'd
breasts, | | | | And in my hearing be you mute and
dumb: | | | | My restless discord loves no stops nor
rests; | | | | A woeful hostess brooks not merry
guests: |
1125 | | | Relish your nimble notes to pleasing
ears; | | | | Distress likes dumps when time is kept
with tears. | | |
|
| Come, Philomel, that sing'st
of ravishment, | | | | Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd
hair: | | | | As the dank earth weeps at thy
languishment, |
1130 | | | So I at each sad strain will strain a
tear, | | | | And with deep groans the diapason
bear; | | | | For burden-wise hum on Tarquin
still, | | | | While thou on Tereus descant'st better
skill. | | |
|
| And whiles against a thorn
thou bear'st thy part, |
1135 | | | To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched
I, | | | | To imitate thee well, against my
heart | | | | Will fix a sharp knife, to affright mine
eye; | | | | Who, if wink, shall thereon fall and
die. | | | | These means, as frets upon an
instrument, |
1140 | | | Shall tune our heart.strings to true
languishment. | | |
|
| 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 not parching heat nor freezing
cold, |
1145 | | | Will we find out; and there we will
unfold | | | | To creatures stern sad tunes, to charge
their kinds: | | | | Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear
gentle minds.» | | |
|
| As the poor frighted deer,
that stands at goze, | | | | Wildly determining which way to
fly, |
1150 | | | Or one encompass'd with a winding
maze, | | | | That cannot tread the way out
readily; | | | | So with herself is she
mutiny, | | | | To live or die, which of the twain were
better, | | | | When life is shamed and death reproach's
debtor. |
1155 | |
|
| «To kill myself»,
quoth she, «alack, what were it, | | | | But with my body my poor soul's
pollution? | | | | They that lose half with greater patience
bear it | | | | Than they whose is swallow'd in
confusion. | | | | That mother tries a merciless
conclusion |
1160 | | | Who, having two sweet babes, when death
takes one, | | | | Will slay the other and be nurse to
one. | | |
|
| My body or my soul, which was
the dearer, | | | | When the one pure, the other made
divine? | | | | Whose love of either to myself was
nearer, |
1165 | | | When both were kept for heaven and
Collatine? | | | | Ay me! the bark peel'd from the lofty
pine, | | | | His leaves will wither and his sap
decay; | | | | So must my soul, her bark being peel'd
away. | | |
|
| Her house is sack'd, her
quiet interrupted, |
1170 | | | Her mansion batter'd by the
enemy; | | | | Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd,
corrupted, | | | | Grossly engirt with daring
infamy: | | | | Then let not be call'd
impiety, | | | | If in this blemish'd fort I make some
hole |
1175 | | | Through which I many convey this troubled
soul. | | |
|
| Yet die I will not till my
Collatine | | | | Have heard the cause of my untimely
death; | | | | That he may vow, in that sad hour of
mine, | | | | Revenge on him that made me stop my
breath. |
1180 | | | My stained blood to Tarquin I'll
bequeath. | | | | Which by him tainted shall for him be
spent, | | | | And as his due writ in my
testament. | | |
|
| My honour I 'll bequeath unto
the knife | | | | That wounds my body so
dishonoured. |
1185 | | | Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd
life; | | | | The one will live, the other being
dead: | | | | So of shame's ashes shall my fame be
bred; | | | | For in my death I murder shameful
scorn: | | | | My shame so dead, mine honour is
new-born. |
1190 | |
|
| Dear lord of that dear jewel
I have lost, | | | | What legacy shall I bequeath to
thee? | | | | My resolution, love, shall be thy
boast, | | | | By whose example thou revenged mayst
be. | | | | How Tarquin must be used, read it in
me: |
1195 | | | Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy
foe, | | | | And, for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin
so. | | |
|
| This brief abridgement of my
will I make: | | | | My soul and body to the skies and
ground; | | | | My resolution, husband, do thou
take; |
1200 | | | Mine honour be the knife's that makes my
wound; | | | | My shame be his that did my fame
confound; | | | | And all my fame that lives disbursed
be | | | | To those that live and think no shame of
me. | | |
|
| Thou, Collatine, shalt
oversee this will; |
1205 | | | How was I overseen that thou shalt see
it! | | | | My blood shall wash the slader of mine
ill; | | | | My life's foul deed, my life's fair end
shall free it. | | | | Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say
"So be it": | | | | Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer
thee: |
1210 | | | Thou dead, both die, and both shall
victors be.» | | |
|
| This plot of death when sadly
she had laid, | | | | And wiped the brinish pearl from her
bright eyes, | | | | With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her
maid, | | | | Whose swift obedience to her mistress
hies; |
1215 | | | For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's
feathers flies. | | | | Poor Lucrece' cheek unto her maid seem
so | | | | As winter meads when sun doth melt their
snow. | | |
|
| Her mistress she doth give
demure good-morrow, | | | | With soft slow tongue, true mark of
modesty, |
1220 | | | And sorts a sad look to her lady's
sorrow, | | | | For why her face wore sorrow's
livery, | | | | But durst not ask of her
audaciously | | | | Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed
so, | | | | Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with
woe. |
1225 | |
|
| But as the earth doth weep,
the sun being set, | | | | Each flower moisten'd like a melting
eye, | | | | Even so the maid with swelling drops'gan
wet | | | | Her circle eyne, enforced by
sympaty | | | | Of those fair suns set in her mistress'
sky, |
1230 | | | Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their
light, | | | | Which makes the maid weep like the dewy
night. | | |
|
| A pretty while these pretty
creatures stand, | | | | Like ivory conduits coral cisterns
filling: | | | | One justly weeps; the other takes in
hand |
1235 | | | No cause, but company, of her drops
spilling: | | | | Their gentle sex to weep are often
willing, | | | | Grieving themselves to guess at other'
smarts, | | | | And then they drown their eyes or break
their hearts. | | |
|
| For men have marble, women
waxen, minds, |
1240 | | | And therefore are they form's as marble
will; | | | | The weak oppress'd, the impression of
strange kinds | | | | Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or
skill: | | | | Then call then not the authors of their
ill, | | | | No more than wax shall be accounted
evil |
1245 | | | Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a
devil. | | |
|
| Their smoothness, like a
goodly champaign plain, | | | | Lays open all the little worms that
creep; | | | | In men, as in a rough-grown grove,
remain | | | | Cave-keeping evils that obscurely
sleep: |
1250 | | | Through crystal walls each little mote
will peep: | | | | Though men can cover crimes with bold
stern looks, | | | | Poor women's faces are their own faults'
books. | | |
|
| No man inveigh against the
withered flower, | | | | But chide rough winter that the flower
hath kill'd: |
1255 | | | Not that devour'd, but that which doth
devour, | | | | Is worthy blame. O, let it not be
hild | | | | Poor women's faults, that they are so
fulfill'd | | | | With men's abuses: those proud lords to
blame | | | | Make weak-made women tenants to their
shame. |
1260 | |
|
| The precedent whereof in
Lucrece view, | | | | Assail'd by night with circumstances
strong | | | | Of present death, and shame that might
ensue | | | | By that her death, to do her husband
wrong: | | | | Such danger to resistance did
belong, |
1265 | | | That dying fear through all her body
spread; | | | | And who cannot abuse a body
dead? | | |
|
| By this, mild patience did
fair Lucrece speak | | | | To the poor counterfeit of her
complaining: | | | | «My girl», quoth she,
«on what occasion break |
1270 | | | Those tears from thee, that down thy
cheeks are raining? | | | | If thou dost weep for grief of my
sustaining, | | | | Know, gentle wench, it small avails my
mood: | | | | If tears could help, mine own would do me
good. | | |
|
| But tell me, girl, when went
-and there she stay'd |
1275 | | | Till after a deep groan- Tarquin from
hence?» | | | | «Madam, ere I was up», replied
the maid, | | | | «The more to blame my sluggard
negligence: | | | | Yet with the fault I thus far can
dispense; | | | | Myself was stirring ere the break of
day, |
1280 | | | And ere I rose was Tarquin gone
away. | | |
|
| But, lady, if your maid may
be so bold, | | | | She would request to know your
heaviness.» | | | | «O, peace!» quoth Lucrece:
«if it should be told, | | | | The repetition cannot make it
less, |
1285 | | | For more it is than I can well
express: | | | | And that deep torture may be call'd a
hell | | | | When more is felt than one hath power to
tell. | | |
|
| Go, get me hither paper, ink
and pen: | | | | Yet save that labour, for I have them
here. |
1290 | | | What should I say? One of my husband's
men | | | | Bid thou be ready by and by to
bear | | | | A letter to my lord, my love, my
dear: | | | | Bid him with speed prepare to carry
it; | | | | The cause craves haste and it will soon be
writ.» |
1295 | |
|
| Her maid is gone, and she
prepares to write, | | | | First hovering o'er the paper with her
quill: | | | | Conceit and grief an eager combat
fight; | | | | What wit sets down is blotted straight
with will; | | | | This is too curious-good, this blunt and
ill: |
1300 | | | Much like a press of people at the
door, | | | | Throng her inventions, which shall go
before. | | |
|
| At last she thus begins:
«Thou worthy lord | | | | Of that unworthy wife that greeteth
thee, | | | | Health to thy person! next vouchsafe
t'afford- |
1305 | | | If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt
see- | | | | Some present speed to came and visit
me. | | | | So, I commend me from our house in
grief: | | | | My woes are tedious, though my words are
brief.» | | |
|
| Here folds she up the tenor
of her woe, |
1310 | | | Her certain sorrow writ
uncertainly. | | | | By this short schedule Collatine may
know | | | | Her grief, but not her grief's true
quality: | | | | She dares not thereof make
discovery, | | | | Lest he should hold it her own gross
abuse, |
1315 | | | Ere she with blood had stain'd
excuse. | | |
|
| Besides, the life and feeling
of her passion | | | | She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear
her, | | | | When sighs and groans and tears may grace
the fashion | | | | Of her disgrace, the better so to clear
her |
1320 | | | From that suspicion which the world might
bear her. | | | | To shun this blot, she would not blot the
letter | | | | With words, till action might become them
better. | | |
|
| To see sad sights moves more
than hear them told; | | | | For then the eye interprets to the
ear |
1325 | | | The heavy motion that it doth
behold, | | | | When every part a part of woe doth
bear. | | | | Tis but a part of sorrow that we
hear: | | | | Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow
fords, | | | | And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of
words. |
1330 | |
|
| Her letter now is seal'd and
on it writ | | | | «At Ardea to my lord with more than
haste.» | | | | The post attends, and she delivers
it, | | | | Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as
fast | | | | As lagging fowls before the northern
blast: |
1335 | | | Speed more than speed but dull and slow
she deems: | | | | Extremity still urgeth such
extremes. | | |
|
| The homely villain court'sies
to her low, | | | | And blushing on her, with a steadfast
eye | | | | Receives the scroll without or yea or
no, |
1340 | | | And forth with bashful innocence doth
hie. | | | | But they whose guilt within their bosoms
lie | | | | Imagine every eye beholds their
blame; | | | | For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her
shame: | | |
|
| When, silly groom! God wot,
it was defect |
1345 | | | Of spirit, life and bold
audacity. | | | | Such harmless creatures have a true
respect | | | | To talk in deeds, while others
saucily | | | | Promise more speed but do it
leisurely: | | | | Even so this pattern of the worn-out
age |
1350 | | | Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to
gage. | | |
|
| His kindled duty kindled her
mistrust, | | | | That two red fires in both their faces
blazed; | | | | She thought he blush'd, as knowing
Tarquin's lust | | | | And blushing with him, wistly on him
gazed; |
1355 | | | Her earnest eye did make him more
amazed: | | | | The more she saw the blood his cheeks
replenish, | | | | The more she thought he spied in her some
blemish. | | |
|
| But long she thinks till he
return again, | | | | And yet the duteous vassal scarce is
gone, |
1360 | | | The weary time she cannot
entertain, | | | | For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep and
groan: | | | | So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired
moan, | | | | That she her plaints a little while doth
stay, | | | | Pausing for means to mourn some newer
way. |
1365 | |
|
| At lasts she calls to mind
where hangs a piece | | | | Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Try; | | | | Before the which is drawn the power of
Greece, | | | | For Helen's rape the city to
destroy, | | | | Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with
annoy |
1370 | | | Which the conceited painter drew so
proud, | | | | As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets
bow'd. | | |
|
| A thousand lamentable objects
there, | | | | In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless
life: | | | | Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping
tear, |
1375 | | | Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the
wife: | | | | The red blood reeked to show the painter's
strife; | | | | And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy
lights, | | | | Like dying coals burnt out in tedious
nights. | | |
|
| There might you see the
labouring pioneer |
1380 | | | Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with
dust; | | | | And from the towers of Troy there would
appear | | | | The very eyes of men through loop-holes
thrust, | | | | Gazing upon the Greeks with little
lust: | | | | Such sweet observance in this work was
had |
1385 | | | That one might see those far-off eyes look
sad. | | |
|
| In great commanders grace and
majesty | | | | You might behold, triumphing in their
faces, | | | | In youth, quick bearing and
dexterity; | | | | And here and there the painter
interlaces |
1390 | | | Pale cowards, marching on with trembling
paces; | | | | Which heartless peasants did so well
resemble | | | | That one would swear he saw them quake and
tremble. | | |
|
| In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what
art | | | | Of physiognomy might one
behold! |
1395 | | | The face of either cipher'd either's
heart; | | | | Their face their manners most expressly
told: | | | | In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour
roll'd; | | | | But the mild glance that sly Ulysses
lent | | | | Show'd deep regard and smiling
government. |
1400 | |
|
| There pleading might you see
grave Nestor stand, | | | | As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to
fight, | | | | Making such sober action with his
hand | | | | That it beguiled attention, charm'd the
sight: | | | | In speech, it seem'd, his beard all silver
white |
1405 | | | Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did
fly | | | | Thin winding breath which purl'd up to the
sky. | | |
|
| About him were a press of
gaping faces, | | | | Which seem'd to swallow up his sound
advice; | | | | All jointly listening, but with several
graces, |
1410 | | | As it some mermaid did their ears
entice, | | | | Some high, some low, the painter was so
nice; | | | | The scalps of many, almost hid
behind, | | | | To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the
mind. | | |
|
| Here one man's hand lean'd on
another's head, |
1415 | | | His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's
ear; | | | | Here one being throng'd bears back, all
boll'n and red; | | | | Another smother'd seems to pelt and
swear; | | | | And in their rage suchs signs of rage they
bear | | | | As, but for loss of Nestor's golden
words, |
1420 | | | It seem'd they would debate with angry
swords. | | |
|
|
Fourth
part |
| For much imaginary work was
there; | | | | Conceit deceitful, so compact, so
kind, | | | | That for Achilles' image stood his
spear | | | | Griped in an armed hand; himself
behind |
1425 | | | Was left unseen, save to the eye of
mind: | | | | A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a
head, | | | | Stood for the whole to be
imagined. | | |
|
| And from the walls of
strong-besieged Troy | | | | When their brave hope, bold Hector,
march'd to field, |
1430 | | | Stood many Trojan mothers sharing
joy | | | | To see their youthful sons bright weapons
wield; | | | | And to they hope they such odd action
yield | | | | That through their light joy seemed to
appear, | | | | Like bright things stain'd, a kind of
heavy fear. |
1435 | |
|
| And from the strand of
Dardan, where they fought, | | | | To Simois' reedy banks the red blood
ran, | | | | Whose wawes to initate the battle
saught | | | | With swelling ridges; and their ranks
began | | | | To break upon the galled shore, and
then |
1440 | | | Retire again, till meeting greater
ranks | | | | They join and shoot their foam at Simois'
banks. | | |
|
| To this well-painted piece is
Lucrece come, | | | | To find a face where all distress is
stell'd. | | | | Many she sees where cares have carved
some, |
1445 | | | But none where all distress and dolour
dwell'd, | | | | Till she despairing Hecuba
beheld, | | | | Staring on Priam's wounds with her old
eyes, | | | | Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot
lies. | | |
|
| In her the painter had
anatomised |
1450 | | | Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim
care's reign: | | | | Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were
disguised; | | | | Of what she was no semblance did
remain: | | | | Her blue blood changed to black in every
vein, | | | | Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes
had fed, |
1455 | | | Show'd life imprison'd in a body
dead. | | |
|
| On this sad shadow Lucrece
spends her eyes, | | | | And shapes her sorrow to the beldam's
woes, | | | | Who nothing wants to answer her but
cries, | | | | And bitter words to ban her cruel
foes: |
1460 | | | The painter was no god to lend her those;
| | | | And therefore Lucrece swears he did her
wrong, | | | | To give her so much grief and not a
tongue. | | |
|
| «Poor
instrument», quoth she, «without a sound, | | | | I 'll tune thy woes with my lamenting
tongue, |
1465 | | | And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted
wound, | | | | And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him
wrong, | | | | And with my tears quench Troy that burns
so long, | | | | And with my knife scratch out the angry
eyes | | | | Of all the Greeks that are thine
enemies. |
1470 | |
|
| Show me the strumpet that
began this stir, | | | | That with my nails her beauty I may
tear. | | | | Thy heat of loust, fond Paris, did incur
| | | | This load of wrath that burning Troy doth
bear: | | | | Thy eye kindley the fire that burneth
here; |
1475 | | | And here in Troy, for trespass of thine
eye, | | | | The sire, the son, the dame and daughter
die. | | |
|
| Why should the private
pleasure of some one | | | | Become the public plague of many moe?
| | | | Let sin, alone committed, light alone
|
1480 | | | Upon his head that hath transgressed
so; | | | | Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty
woe: | | | | For one's offence why should so many
fall, | | | | To plague a private sin in
general? | | |
|
| Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here
Priam dies, |
1485 | | | Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus
swounds, | | | | Here friend by friend in bloody channel
lies, | | | | And friend to friend gives unadvised
wounds, | | | | And one man's lust these many lives
confounds: | | | | Had doting Priam check'd his son's
desire, |
1490 | | | Troy had been bright with fame and not
with fire.» | | |
|
| Here feelingly she weeps
Troy's painter woes: | | | | For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging
bell | | | | Once set on ringing, with his own weight
goes; | | | | Then little strength rings out the doleful
knell: |
1495 | | | So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth
tell | | | | To pencill'd pensiveness and colour'd
sorrow; | | | | She lends them works, and she their looks
doth borrow. | | |
|
| She throws her eyes about the
painting round, | | | | And who she finds forlorn she doth
lament. |
1500 | | | 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. |
1505 | |
|
| 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 |
1510 | | | 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 ensconced his secret
evil, |
1515 | | | That jealousy itself could not
mistrust | | | | False-creeping craft and perjury should
thrust | | | | Into so bright a day such black-faced
storms, | | | | Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like
forms. | | |
|
| The well-skill'd workman this
mild image drew |
1520 | | | For perjure Sinon, whose enchanting
story | | | | The credulous old Priam after
slew; | | | | Whose works, like wildfire, burnt the
shining glory | | | | Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were
sorry, | | | | And little stars shot from their fixed
places, |
1525 | | | When their glass fell wherein they view'd
their faces. | | |
|
| This picture she advisedly
perused, | | | | And chid the painter for his wondrous
skill, | | | | Saying, some shape in Sinon's was
abused; | | | | So fair a form lodged not a mind so
ill: |
1530 | | | And still on him she gazed, and gazing
still | | | | Such signs of truth in his plain face she
spied | | | | That she concludes the picture was
belied. | | |
|
| «It cannot be»
quoth she, «that so much guile.» | | | | She would have said «can lurk in
such a look»; |
1535 | | | But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the
while, | | | | And from her tongue «can lurk»
from «cannot» took: | | | | «It cannot be» she in that
sense forsook, | | | | And turn'd it thus, «It cannot be, I
find, | | | | But such a face should bear a wicked
mind: |
1540 | |
|
| For even as subtle Sinon here
is painted, | | | | So sober-sad, so weary and so
mild, | | | | As if with grief or travail he had
fainted, | | | | To me came Tarquin armed: so
beguiled | | | | With outward honesty, but yet
defiled |
1545 | | | With inward vice: as Priam him did
cherih, | | | | So did I Tarquin; so my Troy dir
perish. | | |
|
| Look, look, how listening
Priam wets his eyes, | | | | To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon
sheds! | | | | Priam, why art thou old and yet not
wise? |
1550 | | | For every tear he falls a Trojan
bleeds: | | | | His eye drops fire, no water thence
proceeds; | | | | Those round clear pearls of his that move
thy pity | | | | Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy
city. | | |
|
| Such devils steal effects
from lightless hell; |
1555 | | | For Sinon in his fire doth quake with
cold, | | | | And in that cold hot-burning fire doth
dwell; | | | | These contraries such unity do
hold, | | | | Only to flatter fools and make them
bold: | | | | So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears dot
flatter, |
1560 | | | That he finds means to burn his Troy with
water.» | | |
|
| Here, all enraged, such
passion her assails, | | | | That patience is quite beaten from her
breast. | | | | She tears the senseless Sinon with her
nails, | | | | Comparing him to that unhappy
guest |
1565 | | | Whose deed hath made herself herself
detest: | | | | At last she smilingly with this gives
o'er; | | | | «Fool, fool» quot she,
«his wounds will not be sore.» | | |
|
| Thus ebbs and flows the
current of her sorrow, | | | | And time doth weary time with her
complaining. |
1570 | | | She look for night, and then she longs for
morrow, | | | | And both she thinks too long with her
remaining: | | | | Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp
sustaining: | | | | Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom
sleeps, | | | | And they that watch see time how snow it
creeps. |
1575 | |
|
| Which all this time hath
overslipp'd her thought, | | | | That he with painted images hath
spent; | | | | Being from the feeling of her own grief
brought | | | | By deep surmise of other's
detriment, | | | | Losing her woes in shows of
discontent. |
1580 | | | It easeth some, though none it ever
cured, | | | | To think their dolour others have
endured. | | |
|
| But now the mindful messenger
come back | | | | Bring home his lord and other
company; | | | | Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning
black: |
1585 | | | And round about her tear-distained
eye | | | | Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in
the sky: | | | | These water-galls in her dim
element | | | | Foretell new storms to those already
spent. | | |
|
| Wich when her sad-beholding
husband saw; |
1590 | | | Amazedly in her sad face he
stares: | | | | Her eyes, though sod in tears, look,d red
and raw, | | | | Her lively colour kill'd with deadly
cares. | | | | He hath no power to ask her how she
fares: | | | | Both stood, like old acquaintance in a
trance, |
1595 | | | Met far from home, wondering each other's
chance. | | |
|
| At last he takes her by the
bloodless hand, | | | | And thus begins: «What uncouth ill
event | | | | Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost
trembling stand? | | | | Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair
colour spent? |
1600 | | | Why art thou thus attired in
discontent? | | | | Unmask, dear dear, this moody
heaviness, | | | | And tell thy grief, that we may give
redress.» | | |
|
| Three times with sight she
gives her sorrow fire, | | | | Ere once she can discharge one word of
woe: |
1605 | | | At length adress'd to ansver his
desire, | | | | She modestly prepares to let them
know | | | | Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the
foe; | | | | While Collatine and his consorted
lords | | | | With sad attention long to hear her
works. |
1610 | |
|
| And now this pale swan in her
watery nest | | | | Begins the sad dirge of her certain
ending: | | | | «Few words», quot she,
«shall fit the trespass best, | | | | Where no excuse can give the fault
amending: | | | | In me moe woes than words are now
depending; |
1615 | | | And my laments would be drawn out too
long, | | | | To tell them all with one poor tired
tongue. | | |
|
| Then be this all the task it
hath to say: | | | | Dear husband, in the interest of thy
bed | | | | A stranger came, and on that pillow
lay |
1620 | | | Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary
head; | | | | And what wrong else may be
imagined | | | | By foul enforcement might be done to
me, | | | | From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not
free. | | |
|
| For in the dreadful dead of
dark midnight, |
1625 | | | With shining falchion in my chamber
came | | | | A creeping creature, with a flaming
light, | | | | And softly cried "Awake, thou Roman
dame, | | | | And entertain my love; else lasting
same | | | | On thee and thine this night I will
inflict, |
1630 | | | If thou my love's desire do
contradict." | | |
|
| "For some hard-favour'd groom
of thine", quoth he, | | | | "Unless thou yoke thy liking to my
will, | | | | I'll murder straight, and then I 'll
slaughter thee, | | | | And swear I found you where you did
fulfil |
1635 | | | The loathsome act of lust, and so did
kill | | | | The lechers in their deed: this act will
be | | | | My fame, and thy perpetual
infamy." | | |
|
| With this, I did begin to
start and cry; | | | | And then against my heart he set his
sword, |
1640 | | | Swaring, unless I took all
patiently, | | | | I should not live to speak another
word; | | | | So should my shame still rest upon
record, | | | | And never be forgot in mighty
Rome | | | | The adulterate death of Lucrece and her
groom. |
1645 | |
|
| Mine enemy was strong, mi
poor self weak, | | | | And far the weaker with so strong a
fear: | | | | My bloody judge forbade my tongue to
speak; | | | | No rightful plea might plead for justice
there: | | | | His scarlet lust came evidence to
swear |
1650 | | | That my poor beauty had purloin'd his
eyes; | | | | And when the judge is robb'd, the prisoner
dies. | | |
|
| O, teach me how to make mine
own excuse! | | | | Or, at the least, this refuge let me
find; | | | | Though my gross blood be stain'd with this
abuse, |
1655 | | | Immaculate and spotless is my
mind; | | | | That was not forced; that never was
inclined | | | | To accessary yieldings, but still
pure | | | | Doth in her poison'd closet yet
endure.» | | |
|
| Lo, here, the hopeless
merchant of this loss, |
1660 | | | With head declined, and voice damm'd up
with woe, | | | | With sad-set eyes and wretched arms
across, | | | | From lips new-waxen pale begins to
blow | | | | The grief away that stop his answer
so: | | | | But, wretched as he is, he strives in
vain; |
1665 | | | What he breathes out his breath drinks up
again. | | |
|
| As through an arch the
violent roaring tide | | | | Outruns the eye that doth behold his
haste, | | | | Yet in the eddy boundeth in his
pride | | | | Back to the strait that forced him on so
fast, |
1670 | | | In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being
past: | | | | Even so his sight, his sorrow, make a
saw, | | | | To push grief on and back the same grief
draw. | | |
|
| Which speechless woe of his
poor she attendeth | | | | And his untimely frenzy thus
awaketh: |
1675 | | | «Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow
lendeth | | | | Another power; no flood by raining
slaketh, | | | | My woe too sensible thy passion
maketh, | | | | More feeling-painful: let it then
suffice | | | | To drown one woe, one pair of weeping
eyes. |
1680 | |
|
| And for my sake, when I might
charm thee so, | | | | For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend
me: | | | | Be suddenly reverged on my
foe, | | | | Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost
defend me | | | | From what is past: the help that thou
shalt lend me |
1685 | | | Comes all too late, yet let the traitor
die; | | | | For sparing justice feeds
iniquity. | | |
|
| But ere I name him, you fair
lords», quoth she, | | | | «Speaking to those that came with
Collatine, | | | | Shall plight your honourable faiths to
me, |
1690 | | | With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of
mine; | | | | For 'tis a meritorious fair
design | | | | To chase injustice with revengeful
arms: | | | | Knights, by their oaths, should right poor
ladies' harms.» | | |
|
| At this request, with noble
disposition |
1695 | | | Each present lord began to promise
aid, | | | | As bound in knighthood to her
imposition, | | | | Longing to hear the hateful foe
bewray'd. | | | | Bt she, that yet her sad task hath not
said, | | | | The protestation stops. «O,
speak», quoth she |
1700 | | | «How may this forced stain be wiped
from me? | | |
|
| What is the quality of my
offence, | | | | Being constrain'd with dreadful
circumstance? | | | | May my pure mind with the foul act
dispense, | | | | My low-declined honour to
advance? |
1705 | | | May any terms acquit me from this
chance? | | | | The poison'd fountain clears itself
again; | | | | And why not I from this compelled
stain?» | | |
|
| With this, they all at once
began to say, | | | | Het body's stain her mind untainted
clears; |
1710 | | | While with a joyless smile she turns
away | | | | The face, that map which deep impression
bears | | | | Of hard misfortune, carved in it with
tears. | | | | «No, no», quoth she, «no
dame hereafter living | | | | By my excuse shall claim excuse's
giving.» |
1715 | |
|
| Here with a sigh, as if her
heart would break, | | | | She throws forth Tarquin's name:
«He, he», she says, | | | | But more than «he» her poor
tongue could not speak; | | | | Till after many accents and
delays, | | | | Untimely breathings, sick and short
assays, |
1720 | | | She utters this: «He, he, fair
lords, 'tis he, | | | | That guides this hand to give this wound
to me.» | | |
|
| Even here she sheathed in her
harmless breast | | | | A harmful knife, that thence her soul
unsheathed: | | | | That blow did bail if from the deep
unrest |
1725 | | | Of that polluted prison where it
breathed: | | | | Her contrite sight unto the clouds
bequeathed | | | | Her winged sprite, and through her wounds
doth fly | | | | Life's lasting date from cancell'd
destiny. | | |
|
| Stone-still, astonish'd with
this deadly deep, |
1730 | | | Stood Collatine and all his lordly
crew; | | | | Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her
bleed, | | | | Himself on her self-slaughtered body
threw; | | | | And from the purple fountain Brutus
drew | | | | The murderous knife, and, as it left the
place, |
1735 | | | Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in
chase; | | |
|
| And bubbling from her breast,
it doth divide | | | | In two slow rivers, that the crimson
blood | | | | Circles her body in on every
side, | | | | Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly
stood |
1740 | | | Bare and unpeopled in this fearful
flood. | | | | Some of her blood still pure and red
remain'd, | | | | And some look'd black, and that false
Tarquin stain'd. | | |
|
| About the mourning and
congealed face | | | | Of that black blood a watery rigol
goes, |
1745 | | | Which seems to weep upon the tainted
place: | | | | And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
| | | | Corrupted blood some watery token
shows; | | | | And blood untainted still doth red
abide, | | | | Blushing at that which is so
putrified. |
1750 | |
|
| «Daughter, dear
daughter», old Lucretius cries, | | | | «That life was mine which thou hast
here deprived. | | | | If in the child the father's image
lies, | | | | Where shall I live now Lucrece is
unlived? | | | | Thou wast not to this end from me
derived. |
1755 | | | If children pre-decease
progenitors, | | | | We are their offspring, and they none of
ours. | | |
|
| Poor broken glass, I often
did behold | | | | In thy sweet semblance my old age new
born: | | | | But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and
old, |
1760 | | | Shows me a bare-boned death by time
outworn: | | | | O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast
torn, | | | | And shiver'd all the beauty of my
glass, | | | | That I no more can see what once I
was. | | |
|
| O, time, cease thou thy
course and last no longer, |
1765 | | | If they surcease to be that should
survive. | | | | Shall rotten death make conquest of the
stronger, | | | | And leave the faltering feeble souls
alive? | | | | The old bess die, the young posses their
hive: | | | | Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and
see |
1770 | | | Thy father die, and not the father
thee!» | | |
|
| By this, starts Collatine as
from a dream, | | | | And bids Lucretius give his sorrow
place; | | | | And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding
stream | | | | He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his
face, |
1775 | | | And counterfeits to die with her a
space; | | | | Till manly shame bids him posses his
breath, | | | | And live to be revenged on her
death. | | |
|
| The deep vexation of his
inwar soul | | | | Hath served a dumb arrest upon his
tongue; |
1780 | | | Who, mad that sorrow should his use
control | | | | Or keep him from heart-easing words so
long, | | | | Begins to talk; but through his lips do
throng | | | | Weak words, so thick come in his poor
heart's aid | | | | That no man could distinguish what he
said. |
1785 | |
|
| Yet sometime
«Tarquin» was pronounced plain, | | | | But through his teeth, as if the name he
tore. | | | | This windy tempest, till it blow up
rain, | | | | Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it
more; | | | | At last rains, and busy winds give
o'er: |
1790 | | | Then son and father weep with equal
strife | | | | Who should weep most, for daughter or for
wife. | | |
|
| The one doth call her his,
the other his, | | | | Yet neither may possess the claim the
lay. | | | | The father say «She's mine.»
«O, mine she is», |
1795 | | | Replies her husband: «do not take
away | | | | My sorrow's interest; let no mourner
say | | | | He weeps for her, for she was only
mine, | | | | And only must be wail'd by
Collatine.» | | |
|
| «O», quoth
Lucretius, «I did give that life |
1800 | | | Which she too early and too late hath
spill'd.» | | | | «Woe, woe», quoth Collatine,
«she was my wife; | | | | I owed her, and 'tis mine that she hath
kill'd.» | | | | «My daughter» and «my
wife» with clamours fill'd | | | | The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece'
life, |
1805 | | | Answer'd their cries, «my
daughter» and «my wife» | | |
|
| Brutus, who pluck'd the knife
from Lucrece' side, | | | | Seeing such emulation in their
woe, | | | | Began to clothe his wit in state and
pride, | | | | Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's
show. |
1810 | | | He with the Romans was esteemed
so | | | | As silly-jeering idiots are with
kings, | | | | For sportive words and uttering foolish
things: | | |
|
| But now he throws that
shallow habit by | | | | Wherein deep policy did him
disguise, |
1815 | | | And arm's his long-hid wits
advisedly | | | | To cheek the tears in Collatine'
eyes. | | | | «Thou wronged lord of Roma»,
quoth he, «arise: | | | | Let my unsounded self, supposed a
fool, | | | | Now set thy long-experienced wit to
school. |
1820 | |
|
| Why, Collatine, is woe the
cure for woe? | | | | Do wounds help wounds, or grief help
grievous deeds? | | | | Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
| | | | For his foul act by whom thy fair wife
bleeds? | | | | Such childish humour from weak minds
proceeds: |
1825 | | | Thy wretched wife mistook the matter
so, | | | | To slay herself, that should have slain
her foe. | | |
|
| Courageous Roman, do not
steep thy heart | | | | In such releting dew of
lamentations, | | | | But kneel with me and help to bear thy
part |
1830 | | | To rouse our Roman gods with
invocations, | | | | That they will suffer these
abominations, | | | | Since Rome herself in them doth stand
disgraced, | | | | By our strong arms from forth her fair
streets chased. | | |
|
| Now, by the Capitol that we
adore, |
1835 | | | And by this chaste blood so injustly
stained, | | | | By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat
earth's store, | | | | By all our country rights in Rome
maintained, | | | | And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late
complained | | | | Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody
knife, |
1840 | | | We will revenge the death of this true
wife.» | | |
|
| This said, he struck his hand
upon his breast, | | | | And kiss'd te fatal knife, to end his
wow, | | | | And to his protestation urgend the
rest, | | | | Who, jointly to the ground their kness
they bow; |
1845 | | | Then jointly to the ground their kness
they bow; | | | | And that deep vow, which Brutus made
before, | | | | He doth again repeat, and that they
swore. | | |
|
| When they had sworn to his
advised doom, | | | | They did conclude ti bear dear Lucrece
thence |
1850 | | | To show her bleeding body thorough
Rome, | | | | And so to publish Tarquin's fould
offence: | | | | Which being done with speedy
diligence, | | | | The Romans plausibly did give
consent | | | | To Tarquin's everlasting
banishment. |
1855 | |
|
|