The rape of Lucrece
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First part
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From the besieged Ardea all in post, |
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Borne by the
trustless wing of false desire, |
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Lust-breathed
Tarquin leaves the Roman host, |
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And to Collatium
bears the lightless fire, |
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Which, in pale
embers hid, lurks to aspire, |
5 |
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And girdle with
embracing flames the waist |
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Of Collatine's
fair love, Lucrece the chaste. |
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Haply that name of «chaste» unhappily
set |
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This bateless
edge on his keen appetite; |
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When Collatine
unwisely did not let |
10 |
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To praise the
clear unmatched red and white |
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Which triumph'd
in that sky of his delight, |
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Where mortal
stars, as bright as heaven's beauties, |
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With pure
aspects did him peculiar duties. |
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For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent |
15 |
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Unlock'd the
treasure of his happy state; |
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What priceless
wealth the heavens had him lent |
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In the
possession of his beauteous mate; |
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Reckoning his
fortune at such high-proud rate, |
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That kings might
be espoused to more fame, |
20 |
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But king nor
peer to such peerless dame. |
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O happiness enjoy'd, but of a few! |
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And, if
possess'd as soon decay'd and done |
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As is the
morning's silver-melting dew |
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Against the
golden splendour of the sun! |
25 |
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An expired date,
cancell'd ere well begun: |
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Honour and
beauty, in the owner's arms, |
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Are weakly
fortress'd from a world of harms. |
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Beauty itself doth of itself persuade |
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The eyes of men
without an orator; |
30 |
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What needeth
then apologies be made, |
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To set forth
that which is so singular? |
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Or why Collatine
the publisher |
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Of that rich
jewel he should keep unknown |
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From thievish
ears, because it is his own? |
35 |
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Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty |
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Suggested this
proud issue of a king; |
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For by our ears
our hearts oft tainted be: |
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Perchance that
envy of so rich a thing, |
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Braving compare,
disdainfully did sting |
40 |
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His high-pich'd
thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt |
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That golden hap
which their superiors want. |
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But some untimely thought did instigate |
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His
all-too-timeless speed, if none of those: |
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His honour, his
affairs, his friends, his state, |
45 |
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Neglected all,
with swift intent he goes |
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To quench the
coal which in his liver glows. |
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O rash-false
heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold, |
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Thy hasty spring
still blasts, and ne'er grows old! |
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When at Collation this false lord arrived, |
50 |
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Well was he
welcomed by the Roman dame, |
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Within whose
face beauty and virtue strived |
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Which of them
both should underprop her fame; |
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When virtue
bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame; |
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When beauty
boasted blushes, in despite |
55 |
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Virtue would
stain that o'er with silver white. |
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But beauty, in that white intituled, |
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From Venus'
doves doth challenge that fir field; |
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Then virtue
claims from beauty beauty's red, |
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Which virtue
gave the golden age to gild |
60 |
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Their silver
cheeks, and call'd it then their shield; |
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Teaching them
thus to use it in the fight, |
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When shame
assil'd, the red should fence the white. |
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This heraldry in Lucrece' f ace was seen, |
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Argued by
beauty's red and virtue's white; |
65 |
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Of either's
colour was the other queen, |
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Proving from
world's minority their right; |
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Yet their
ambition makes them still to fight; |
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The sovereignty
of either being so great, |
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That oft they
interchange each other's seat. |
70 |
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This silent war of lilies and of roses, |
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Which Tarquin
view'd in her fair face's field, |
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In their pure
ranks his traitor eye encloses; |
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Where, lest
between hem both it should be kill'd, |
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The coward
captive vanquished doth yield |
75 |
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To those two
armies, that would let him go |
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Rather than
triumph in so false a foe. |
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Now thinks he that her husband's shallow
tongue, |
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The niggard
prodigal that praised her so, |
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In that high
task hath done her beauty wrong, |
80 |
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Which far
exceeds his barren skill to show; |
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Therefore that
praise which Collatine doth owe |
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Enchanted
Tarquin answers with surmise, |
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In silent wonder
of still-gazing eyes. |
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This earthly saint, adored by this devil, |
85 |
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Little
suspecteth the false worshipper; |
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For unstain'd
thoughts do seldom dream on evil; |
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Birds never
limed no secret bushes tear: |
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So guiltless she
securely gives good cheer |
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And reverend
welcome to her princely guest, |
90 |
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Whose inward ill
no outward harm express'd: |
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For that he colour'd with his high estate, |
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Hiding base sin
in plaits of majesty; |
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That nothing in
him seem'd inordinate, |
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Save sometime
too much wonder of his eye, |
95 |
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Which. having
all, all could not satisfy; |
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But, poorly
rich, so wanteth in his store, |
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That, cloy'd
with much, he pineth still for more. |
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But, she, that never coped with stranger
eyes, |
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Could pick no
meaning from their parling looks, |
100 |
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Nor read the
subtle-shining secrecies |
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Writ in the
glassy margents of such books: |
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She touch'd no
unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks; |
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Nor could she
moralize his wanton sight, |
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More than his
eyes were open'd to the light. |
105 |
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He stories to her ears her husband's fame, |
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Won in the
fields of fruitful Italy; |
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And decks with
praises Collatine's high name, |
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Made glorious by
his manly chivalry |
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With bruised
arms and wreaths of victory: |
110 |
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Her joy with
heaven-up hand she doth express, |
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And wordless so
greets heaven for his success. |
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Far from the purpose of his coming hither, |
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He makes excuses
for his being there: |
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No cloudy show
of stormy blustering weather |
115 |
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Doth yet in his
fair welkin once appear; |
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Till sable
Night, mother of dread and fear, |
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Upon the world
dim darkness doth display, |
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And in her
vaulty prison stows the day. |
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For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, |
120 |
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Intending
weariness with heavy spright; |
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For after supper
long he questioned |
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With modest
Lucrece, and wore out the night; |
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Now leaden
slumber with life's strength doth fight |
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And every one to
rest themselves betake, |
125 |
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Save thieves and
cares and troubled minds that wake. |
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As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving |
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The sundry
dangers of his will's obtaining; |
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Yet ever to
obtain his will resolving, |
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Though
weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining; |
130 |
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Despair to gain
doth traffic oft for gaining, |
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And when great
treasure is the meed proposed, |
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Though death be
adjunct, there's no death supposed. |
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond |
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That what they
have not, that which they posses, |
135 |
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They scatter and
unloose it from their bond, |
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And so, by
hoping more, they have but less; |
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Or, gaining
more, the profit of excess |
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Is but to
surfeit, and such griefs sustain, |
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That they prove
bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. |
140 |
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The aim of all is but to nurse the life |
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With honour,
wealth and ease, in waning age; |
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And in this aim
there is such thwarting strife |
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That one for all
or all for one we gage; |
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As life for
honour in fell battle's rage; |
145 |
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Honour for
wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost |
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The death of
all, and all together lost. |
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So that in venturing ill we leave to be |
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The things we
are for that which we expect; |
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And this
ambitious foul infirmity, |
150 |
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In having much,
torments us with defect |
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Of that we have:
so then we do neglect |
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The thing we
have, and, all for want of wit, |
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Make something
nothing by augmenting it. |
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Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, |
155 |
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Pawning his
honour to obtain his lust; |
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And for himself
himself he must forsake: |
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Then where is
truth, if there be no self-trust? |
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When shall he
think to find a stranger just, |
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When he himself
himself confounds, betrays |
160 |
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To slanderous
tongues and wretched hateful days? |
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Now stole upon the time the dead of night, |
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When heavy sleep
had closed up mortal eyes: |
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No comfortable
star did lend his light, |
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No noise but
owls'and wolves'death-boding cries; |
165 |
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Now serves the
season that they may surprise |
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The silly lambs:
pure thoughts are dead and still, |
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While lust and
murder wakes to stain and kill. |
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And now this lusful lord leap'd from his bed, |
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Throwing his
mantle rudely o'er his arm; |
170 |
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Is madly toss'd
between desire and dread; |
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Th'one sweetly
flatters, th'other feareth harm; |
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But honest fear,
betwitch'd with lust's foul charm, |
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Doth too too oft
betake him to retire, |
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Beaten aeay by
braind-stick rude desire. |
175 |
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His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, |
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That from the
cold stone sparks of fire do fly; |
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Whereat a waxen
torch forthwith he lighteth, |
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Which must be
lode-star to his lustful eye; |
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And to the flame
thus speaks advisedly: |
180 |
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«As from
this cold tint I enforced this fire, |
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So Lucrece must
I force to my desire.» |
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Here pale with fear he doth premeditate |
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The dangers of
his loathsome enterprise, |
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And in his
inward mind he doth debate |
185 |
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What following
sorrow may on this arise: |
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Then looking
scornfully he doth despise |
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His naked armour
of still-slaughter'd lust, |
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And justly thus
controls his thoughts unjust: |
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Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it
not |
190 |
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To darken her
whose light excelleth thine: |
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And die,
unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot |
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With your
uncleanness that which is divine: |
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Offer pure
incense to so pure a shrine; |
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Let fair
humanity abhor the deed |
195 |
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That spots and
stains love's modest snow-white weed. |
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O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! |
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O foul dishonour
to my household's grave! |
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Oh impious act,
including all foul harms! |
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A martial man to
be soft fancy's slave! |
200 |
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True valour
still a true respect should have; |
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Then my
digression is so vile, so base, |
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That it will
live engraven in my face. |
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Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive |
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And be an
eye-sore in my golden coat; |
205 |
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Some loathsome
dash the herald will contrive, |
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To cipher me how
fondly I did dote; |
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That my
posterity, shamed with the note, |
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Shall curse my
bones, and hold it for no sin |
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To wish that I
their father had not bin. |
210 |
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What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? |
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A dream, a
breath, a froth of fleeting joy. |
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Who buys a
minute's mirth to wail a week? |
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Or sells
eternity to get a toy? |
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For one sweet
grape who will the vine destroy? |
215 |
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Or what fond
beggar, but to touch the crown, |
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Would with the
sceptre straight be strucken down? |
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If Collatinus dream of my intent, |
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Will he not
wake, and in a desperate rage |
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Post hither,
this vile purpose to prevent? |
220 |
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This siege that
hath engirt his marriage, |
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This blur to
youth, this sorrow to the sage, |
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This dying
virtue, this surviving shame, |
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Whose crime will
bear an ever-during blame. |
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O what excuse can my invention make, |
225 |
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When thou shalt
charge me with so black a deed? |
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Will not my
tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, |
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Mine eyes forgo
their light, my false heart bleed?, |
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The guilt being
great, the fear doth still exceed; |
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And extreme fear
can neither fight nor fly, |
230 |
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But coward-like
with trembling terror die. |
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Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire |
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Or lain in
ambush to betray my life, |
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Or were he not
my dear friend, this desire |
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Might have
excuse to work upon his wife, |
235 |
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As in revenge or
quittal of such strife: |
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But as he is my
kinsman mi dear friend, |
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The shame and
fault finds no excuse nor end. |
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Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known: |
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Hateful it is;
there is no hate in loving; |
240 |
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I'll beg her
love; but she is not her own; |
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The worst is but
denial and reproving; |
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My will is
strong, past reason's weak removing; |
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Who fears a
sentence or an old man's saw |
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Shall by a
painted cloth be kept in awe. |
245 |
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Thus graceless holds he disputation |
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Tween frozen
conscience and hot-burning will, |
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And with good
thoughts makes dispensation, |
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Urging the
worser sense for vantage still; |
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Which in a
moment doth confound and kill |
250 |
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All pure
effects, and doth so far proceed |
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That what is
vile shows like a virtuous deed. |
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Quoth he, «she took me kindly by the
hand, |
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And gazed for
tidings in my eager eyes, |
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Fearing some
hard news from the warlike band, |
255 |
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Where her
beloved Collatinus lies. |
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O, how her fear
did make her colour rise! |
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First red as
roses that on lawn we lay, |
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Then white as
lawn, the roses took away. |
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And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd, |
260 |
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Forced it to
tremble with her loyal fear! |
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Which struck her
sad, and then it faster rock'd, |
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Until her
husband's welfare she did head; |
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Whereat she
smiled with so sweet a cheer |
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That had
Narcissus seen her as she stood |
265 |
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Self-love had
never drown'd him in the flood. |
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Why hunt I them for colour or excuses? |
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All orators are
dumb when beauty pleadeth; |
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Poor wretches
have remorse in poor abuses; |
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Love thrives not
in the heart that shadows dreadeth: |
270 |
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Affection is my
captain, and he leadeth; |
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And when his
gaudy banner is display'd, |
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The coward
fights, and will not be dismay'd. |
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Then, childish fear avaunt! debating die! |
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Respect and
reason wait on wrinkled age! |
275 |
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My heart shall
never countermand mine eye; |
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Sad pause and
deep regard beseems the sage; |
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My part is
youth, and beats these from the stage: |
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Desire my pilot
is, beauty my price; |
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Then who fears
sinking where such treasure lies?» |
280 |
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As corn overgrown by weeds, so heedful fear |
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Is almost choked
by unresisted lust. |
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Away he steals
with open listening ear, |
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Full of foul
hope and full of fond mistrust; |
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Both which, as
servitors to the unjust, |
285 |
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So cross him
with their opposite persuasion, |
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That now he vows
a league, and now invasion. |
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Within his thought her heavenly image sits, |
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And in the
self-same seat sits Collatine: |
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That eye which
looks on her confounds his wits; |
290 |
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That eye which
him beholds, as more divine, |
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Unto a view so
false will not incline; |
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But with a pure
appeal seeks to the heart, |
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Which once
corrupted takes the worser part; |
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And therein heartens up his servile powers, |
295 |
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Who, flatter'd
by their leader's jocund show, |
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Stuff up his
lust, as minutes fill up hours; |
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And as their
captain, so their pride doth grow, |
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Paying more
slavish tribute than they owe. |
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By reprobate
desire thus madly led, |
300 |
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The Roam lord
marcheth to Lucrece' bed. |
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The locks between her chamber and his will, |
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Each one by him
enforced, retires his ward; |
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But, as they
open, they all rate his ill, |
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Which drives the
creeping thief to some regard: |
305 |
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The threshold
grates the door to have him heard; |
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Night-wandering
weasels shriek to see him there; |
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They fright him,
yet he still pursues his fear. |
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As each unwilling portal yields him way, |
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Through little
vents and crannies of the place |
310 |
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The wind wars
with his torch to make him stay, |
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And blows the
smoke of it into his face, |
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Extinguishing
his conduct in this case; |
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But his hot
heart, which fond desire doth scorch, |
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Puffs forth
another wind that fires he torch: |
315 |
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And being lighted, by the light he spies |
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Lucretia's
glove, wherein her needle sticks: |
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He takes if from
the rushes where it lies. |
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And griping it,
the needle his finger pricks; |
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As who should
say: «This glove to wanton tricks |
320 |
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Is not inured;
return again in haste; |
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Thou see'st our
mistress' ornaments are chaste.» |
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|
|
|
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay
him; |
|
|
|
He in the worst
sense construes their denial; |
|
|
|
The doors, the
wind, the glove, hat did delay him, |
325 |
|
|
He takes for
accidental things of trial; |
|
|
|
Or as those
which stop the hourly dial, |
|
|
|
Who with a
lingering stay his course doth let, |
|
|
|
Till every
minute pays the hour his debt. |
|
|
|
|
«So, so» quoth he, «these lets attend the
time, |
330 |
|
|
Like little
frosts that sometime threat the spring, |
|
|
|
To add a more
rejoicing to the prime, |
|
|
|
And give the
sneaped birds more cause to sing. |
|
|
|
Pain pays the
income of each precious thing; |
|
|
|
Huge rocks, high
winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands, |
335 |
|
|
The merchant
fears, ere rich at home he lands.» |
|
|
|
|
Now is he come unto the chamber door, |
|
|
|
That shuts him
from the heaven of his tought, |
|
|
|
Which with a
yielding latch, and with no more, |
|
|
|
Hath barr'd him
from the blessed thing he sought. |
340 |
|
|
So from himself
impiety hath wrought, |
|
|
|
That for his
prey to pray he doth begin, |
|
|
|
As if the heaven
should countenance his sin. |
|
|
|
|
But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, |
|
|
|
Having solicited
the eternal power |
345 |
|
|
That his foul
thoughts might compass his fair fair, |
|
|
|
And they would
stand auspicious to the hour, |
|
|
|
Even there he
stars: quoth he, I must deflower: |
|
|
|
The powers to
whom I pray abhor this fact; |
|
|
|
How can they
assist me in the act? |
350 |
|
|
|
The Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide! |
|
|
|
My will is
back'd with resolution: |
|
|
|
Thoughts are but
dreams till their effects be tried; |
|
|
|
The blackest sin
is clear'd with absolution; |
|
|
|
Against love'
fire fear's frost hath dissolution. |
355 |
|
|
The eye of
heaven is out, and misty night |
|
|
|
Covers the shame
that follows sweet delight.» |
|
|
|
|
This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the
latch, |
|
|
|
And with his
knee the door he opens wide. |
|
|
|
The dove sleeps
fast that this night-owl will catch; |
360 |
|
|
Thus treason
works ere traitors be espied. |
|
|
|
Who sees the
lurking serpent steps aside; |
|
|
|
But she, sound
sleeping, fearing no such thing, |
|
|
|
Lies at the
mercy of his mortal sting. |
|
|
|
|
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks |
365 |
|
|
And gazed on her
yet unstained bed. |
|
|
|
The curtains
being close, about he walks, |
|
|
|
Rolling his
greedy eyeballs in his head: |
|
|
|
By their high
treason is his heart misled; |
|
|
|
Which gives the
watch-word to his hand full soon |
370 |
|
|
To draw the
cloud that hides the silver moon. |
|
|
|
|
Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, |
|
|
|
Rushing from
forth a cloud, bereaves our sight; |
|
|
|
Even so, the
curtain drawn, his eyes begun |
|
|
|
To wink, being
blinded with a greater light; |
375 |
|
|
Whether it is
that she reflects so bright, |
|
|
|
That dazzleth
them, or else some shame supposed; |
|
|
|
But blind they
are, and keeps themselves enclosed. |
|
|
|
|
O, had they in that darksome prison died! |
|
|
|
Then had they
seen the period of the ill; |
380 |
|
|
Then Collatine
again, by Lucrece' side |
|
|
|
In his clear bed
might have reposed still: |
|
|
|
But they must
ope, this blessed league to kill; |
|
|
|
And
holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight |
|
|
|
Must sell her
joy, her life, her world's delight. |
385 |
|
|
|
Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, |
|
|
|
Cozening the
pillow of a lawful kiss; |
|
|
|
Who, therefore
angry, seems to part in sunder, |
|
|
|
Swelling on
either side to want his bliss; |
|
|
|
Between whose
hills her head entombed is: |
390 |
|
|
Where, like a
virtuous monument, she lies, |
|
|
|
To be admired of
lewd unhallow'd eyes. |
|
|
|
|
Without the bed other fait hand was, |
|
|
|
On the green
coverlet; whose perfect white |
|
|
|
Show'd like an
April daisy on the grass, |
395 |
|
|
With pearly
sweat, resembling dew of night. |
|
|
|
Her eyes, like
marigolds, had sheathed their light, |
|
|
|
And canopied in
darkness sweetly lay, |
|
|
|
Till they might
open to adorn the day. |
|
|
|
|
Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her
breath; |
400 |
|
|
modest wantons!
wanton modesty! |
|
|
|
Showing life's
triumph in the map of death, |
|
|
|
And death's dim
look in life's mortality: |
|
|
|
Each in her
sleep themselves so beauty |
|
|
|
As if between
them twain there were no strife, |
405 |
|
|
But that life
lived in death and death in life. |
|
|
|
|
Her breasts, like ivory globes circle with
blue, |
|
|
|
A pair of maiden
worlds unconquered, |
|
|
|
Save of their
lord no bearing yoke they knew, |
|
|
|
And him by oath
they truly honoured. |
410 |
|
|
These worlds in
Tarquin new ambition bred; |
|
|
|
Who, like a foul
usurper, went about |
|
|
|
From this fair
throne to heaven the owner out. |
|
|
|
|
What could he see but mightily he noted? |
|
|
|
What did he note
but strongly he desired? |
415 |
|
|
What he beheld,
on that he firmly doted, |
|
|
|
And in his will
his wilful eye he tired. |
|
|
|
With more than
admiration he admired |
|
|
|
Her azure veins,
her alabaster skin. |
|
|
|
Her coral lips,
her snow-white dimpled chin. |
420 |
|
|
|
As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey, |
|
|
|
So o'er sleeping
soul doth Tarquin stay, |
|
|
|
Sharp hunger by
the conquest satisfied, |
|
|
|
His rage of lust
by gazing qualified; |
|
|
|
Slack'd, not
suppress'd for standing by her side, |
425 |
|
|
His eye, which
late this mutiny restrains, |
|
|
|
Unto a greater
uproar temps his veins: |
|
|
|
|
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage
fighting, |
|
|
|
Obdurate vassals
fell exploits effecting |
|
|
|
In bloody death
and ravishment delighting, |
430 |
|
|
Nor children's
tears nor mother's groans despecting, |
|
|
|
Swell in their
pride, the onset still expecting: |
|
|
|
Anon his beating
heart, alarum striking, |
|
|
|
Gives the hot
charge, and bids them do their liking |
|
|
|
|
His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, |
435 |
|
|
His eye commends
the leading to his hand; |
|
|
|
His hand, as
proud of such a dignity, |
|
|
|
Smoking with
pride, march'd on to make his stand |
|
|
|
On her bare
breast, the heart of all her land; |
|
|
|
Whose ranks of
blue veins, as his hand did scale, |
440 |
|
|
Left their round
turrets destitute and pale. |
|
|
|
|
They, mustering the quiet cabinet |
|
|
|
Where their dear
governess and lady lies, |
|
|
|
Do tell her she
is dreadfully beset, |
|
|
|
And fright her
with confusion of their cries; |
445 |
|
|
She, much
amazed, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes, |
|
|
|
Who, peeping
forth this tumult to behold, |
|
|
|
Are by his
flaming torch dimm'd and controll'd. |
|
|
|
|
Imagine her as one in dead of night |
|
|
|
From forth dull
sleep by dreadful fancy waking, |
450 |
|
|
That thinks she
hath beheld some ghastly sprite. |
|
|
|
Whose grim
aspect sets every joint a-shaking; |
|
|
|
What terror'tis!
but she, in worser taking, |
|
|
|
From sleep
disturbed, heedfully doth view |
|
|
|
The sight which
makes supposed terror true. |
455 |
|
|
|
Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears, |
|
|
|
Like to a
new-kill'd bird she trembling lies; |
|
|
|
She dares not
look; yet, winking, there appears |
|
|
|
Quick-shifting
antics, ugly in her eyes: |
|
|
|
Such shadows are
the weak brain's forgeries; |
460 |
|
|
Who, angry that
the eyes fly from their lights, |
|
|
|
In darkness
daunts them with more dreadful sights. |
|
|
|
|
His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,- |
|
|
|
Rude ram, to
batter such an ivory wall!- |
|
|
|
May feel her
heart, poor citizen! distress'd, |
465 |
|
|
Wounding itself
to death, rise up and fall, |
|
|
|
Beating her
bulk, that his hand shakes withal. |
|
|
|
This moves in
him more rage and lesser pity, |
|
|
|
To make the
breach and enter this sweet city. |
|
|
|
|
First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin |
470 |
|
|
To sound a
parley to his heartless foe; |
|
|
|
Who oér
the white sheet peers her whiter chin, |
|
|
|
The reason of
this rash alarm to know, |
|
|
|
Which he by dumb
demeanour seeks to show; |
|
|
|
But she with
vehement prayers urgeth still |
475 |
|
|
Under what
colour he commits this ill. |
|
|
|
|
Thus he replies: «The colour in thy
face, |
|
|
|
That even for
anger makes the lily pale |
|
|
|
And the red rose
blush at her own disgrace, |
|
|
|
Shall plead for
me and tell my loving tale: |
480 |
|
|
Under that
colour am I come to scale |
|
|
|
Thy
never-conquer'd fort: the fault is thine, |
|
|
|
For those thine
eyes betray thee unto mine. |
|
|
|
|
Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide. |
|
|
|
Thy beauty hath
ensnared thee to this night, |
485 |
|
|
Where thou with
patience must my will abide; |
|
|
|
My will that
marks thee for my earth's delight, |
|
|
|
Which I to
conquer sought with all my might; |
|
|
|
But as reproof
and reason beat it dead, |
|
|
|
By thy bright
beauty was it newly bred. |
490 |
|
|
|
I see what crosses my attempt will bring; |
|
|
|
I know what
thorns the growing rose defends; |
|
|
|
I think the
honey guarded with a sting; |
|
|
|
All this
beforehand counsel comprehends: |
|
|
|
But will is deaf
and hears no heedful friends; |
495 |
|
|
Only he hath an
eye to gaze on beauty, |
|
|
|
And dotes on
what he looks, against law or duty. |
|
|
|
|
I have debated, even in my soul, |
|
|
|
What wrong, what
shame, what sorrow I shall breed; |
|
|
|
But nothing can
affection's course control, |
500 |
|
|
Or stop the
headlong fury of his speed. |
|
|
|
I know repentant
tears ensue the deed, |
|
|
|
Reproach,
disdain and deadly enmity; |
|
|
|
Yet strive I to
embrace mine infamy.» |
|
|
|
|
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, |
505 |
|
|
Which, like a
falcon towering in the skies, |
|
|
|
Coucheth the
fowl below with his wings' shade, |
|
|
|
Whose crooked
beak threats if he mount he dies; |
|
|
|
So under his
insulting falchion lies |
|
|
|
Harmless
Lucretia, marking what he tells |
510 |
|
|
With trembling
fear, as fowl hear falcon's bells. |
|
|
|
|
«Lucrece» quoth he, «this night I must enjoy
thee; |
|
|
|
If thou deny,
then force must work my way, |
|
|
|
For in thy bed I
purpose to destroy thee: |
|
|
|
That done, some
worthless slave of mine I'll slay, |
515 |
|
|
To kill thine
honour with thy life's decay; |
|
|
|
And in thy dead
arms do I mean to place him, |
|
|
|
Swearing I slew
him, seeing thee embrace him. |
|
|
|
|
So thy surviving husband shall remain |
|
|
|
The scornful
mark of every open eye; |
520 |
|
|
Thy kinsmen hang
their heads at this disdain, |
|
|
|
Thy issue
blurr'd with nameless bastardy: |
|
|
|
And thou, the
author of their obloquy |
|
|
|
Shalt have thy
trespass cited up in thymes |
|
|
|
And sung by
children in succeeding times. |
525 |
|
|
|
But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend: |
|
|
|
The fault
unknown is as a thought unacted; |
|
|
|
A little harm
done to a great good end |
|
|
|
For lawful
policy remains enacted. |
|
|
|
The poisonous
simple sometime is compacted |
530 |
|
|
In a pure
compound; being so applied, |
|
|
|
His venom in
effect is purified |
|
|
|
|
Then, for thy husband and thy children's
sake, |
|
|
|
Tender my suit:
bequeath not to their lot |
|
|
|
The shame that
from them no device can take, |
535 |
|
|
The blemish that
will never be forgot; |
|
|
|
Worse than a
slavish wipe or mirth-hour's blot: |
|
|
|
For marks
descried in men's nativity |
|
|
|
Are nature's
faults, not their own infamy.» |
|
|
|
|
Second part
|
|
Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye |
540 |
|
|
He rouseth up
himself, and makes a pause; |
|
|
|
While she, the
picture of true piety, |
|
|
|
Like a white
hind under the gripe's sharp claws, |
|
|
|
Pleads, in a
wilderness where are no laws, |
|
|
|
To the rough
beats that knows no gentle right, |
545 |
|
|
No aught obeys
but his foul appetite. |
|
|
|
|
But when a black-faced cloud the world doth
threat, |
|
|
|
In his dim mist
the aspiring mountains hiding, |
|
|
|
From earth's
dark womb some gentle gust doth get, |
|
|
|
Which blows
these pitchy vapours from their biding, |
550 |
|
|
Hindering their
present fall by this dividing; |
|
|
|
So his
unhallow'd haste her words delays, |
|
|
|
And moody Pluto
winks Orpheus plays. |
|
|
|
|
Yet, foul night-waking vat, he doth but
dally, |
|
|
|
While in his
hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteht: |
555 |
|
|
Her sad
behaviour feeds his vulture folly, |
|
|
|
A swallowing
gulf that even in plenty wanteth; |
|
|
|
His ear her
prayers admits, but his heart granteth |
|
|
|
No penetrable
entrance to her plaining: |
|
|
|
Tears harden
lust, though marble wear with raining. |
560 |
|
|
|
Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed |
|
|
|
In the
remorseless wrinkles of his face; |
|
|
|
Her modest
eloquence with sighs is mixed, |
|
|
|
Which to her
oratory adds more grace. |
|
|
|
She puts the
period often from his place, |
565 |
|
|
And midst the
sentence so her accent breaks |
|
|
|
That twice she
doth begin ere once she speaks. |
|
|
|
|
She conjures him by high almighty Jove, |
|
|
|
By kinghood,
gentry, and sweet friendship's oath, |
|
|
|
By her untimely
tears, her husband's love, |
570 |
|
|
By holy human
law and common troth, |
|
|
|
By heaven and
earth, and all the power of both, |
|
|
|
That to his
borrow'd bed he make retire, |
|
|
|
And stoop to
honour, not to foul desire. |
|
|
|
|
Quoth she: «Reward not hospitality |
575 |
|
|
With such black
payment as thou hast pretended; |
|
|
|
Mud not the
fountain that gave drink to thee; |
|
|
|
Mar not the
tring that cannot be amended; |
|
|
|
End thy ill aim
before thy shoot be ended; |
|
|
|
He is no woodman
that doth bend his bow |
580 |
|
|
To strike a poor
unseasonable doe. |
|
|
|
|
My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare
me; |
|
|
|
Thyself art
mighty; for thine own sake leave me: |
|
|
|
Myself a
weakling; do not then ensnare me; |
|
|
|
Thou look'st not
like deceit; do not deceive me. |
585 |
|
|
My sight, like
whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee: |
|
|
|
If ever man were
moved with woman's moans, |
|
|
|
Be moved with my
tears, my sight, my groans. |
|
|
|
|
All which together, like a troubled ocean, |
|
|
|
Beat at thy
rocky and wreck-threatening heart, |
590 |
|
|
To soften it
with their continual motion; |
|
|
|
For stones
dissolved to water do convert. |
|
|
|
O, if no harder
than a stone thou art, |
|
|
|
Melt at tears,
and be compassionate! |
|
|
|
Soft pity enters
at an iron gate. |
595 |
|
|
|
In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee: |
|
|
|
Hast thou put on
his shape to do him shame? |
|
|
|
To all the host
of heaven I complain me, |
|
|
|
Thou wrong'st
his honour, wound'st his princely name. |
|
|
|
Thou art not
what thou seem'st; and if the same, |
600 |
|
|
Thou seem'st not
what thou art, a good, a king; |
|
|
|
For kings, like
gods, should govern every thing. |
|
|
|
|
How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, |
|
|
|
When thus thy
vices bud before thy spring! |
|
|
|
If in thy hope
thou darest do such outrage, |
605 |
|
|
What darest thou
not when once thou art a king? |
|
|
|
O, be
remember'd, no outrageous thing |
|
|
|
From vassal
actors can be wiper away; |
|
|
|
Then king's
misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. |
|
|
|
|
This deed will make thee only loved for fear; |
610 |
|
|
But happy
monarchs still are fear'd for love: |
|
|
|
With foul
offenders thou perforce must bear, |
|
|
|
When they in
thee the like offences prove: |
|
|
|
If but for fear
of this, thy will remove; |
|
|
|
For princes are
the glass, the school, the book, |
615 |
|
|
Where subjects'
eyes do learn, do read, do look. |
|
|
|
|
And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall
lean? |
|
|
|
Must he in thee
read lectures of such shame? |
|
|
|
Wilt thou be
glass wherein it shall discern |
|
|
|
Authority for
sin, warrant for blame, |
620 |
|
|
To privilege
dishonour in thy name? |
|
|
|
Thou back'st
reproach against long-livin laud, |
|
|
|
And makest fair
reputation but a bawd. |
|
|
|
|
Hast thou command? by him that gave it thee, |
|
|
|
From a pure
heart command thy rebel will: |
625 |
|
|
Draw not thy
sword to guard iniquity, |
|
|
|
For it was lent
thee all that brood to kill. |
|
|
|
Thy princely
office how canst thou fulfil, |
|
|
|
When, pattern'd
by thy fault, foul sin may say |
|
|
|
He learn'd sin
and thou didst teach the way? |
630 |
|
|
|
Think but how vile a spectacle it were, |
|
|
|
To view thy
present trespass in another. |
|
|
|
Man's faults do
seldom to themselves appear; |
|
|
|
Their own
transgressions partially they smother: |
|
|
|
This guilt would
seem death-worthy in thy brother |
635 |
|
|
O, how are they
wrapp'd in with infamies |
|
|
|
That from their
own misdeeds askance their eyes! |
|
|
|
|
To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, |
|
|
|
Not to seducing
lust, thy rash relier: |
|
|
|
I sue for exiled
majesty's repeal; |
640 |
|
|
Let him return,
and flattering thoughts retire: |
|
|
|
His true respect
will prison false desire, |
|
|
|
And wipe the dim
mist from thy doting eyne, |
|
|
|
That thou shalt
see thy state and pity mine.» |
|
|
|
|
«Have done» quoth he: «my uncontrolled
tide |
645 |
|
|
Turns not, but
swells the higher by this let. |
|
|
|
Small lights are
soon blown out, huge fires abide, |
|
|
|
And with the
wind in greater fury fret: |
|
|
|
The petty
streams that pay a daily debt |
|
|
|
Tot their salt
sovereign, with their fresh falls' haste |
650 |
|
|
Add to his flow,
but alter not his taste.» |
|
|
|
|
«Thou art» quoth she, «a sea, sovereign
king; |
|
|
|
And, lo, there
falls into thy boundless flood |
|
|
|
Black lust,
dishonour, shame, misgoverning, |
|
|
|
Who seek to
stain the ocean of thy blood. |
655 |
|
|
If all these
petty ills shall charge thy good, |
|
|
|
Thy sea within a
puddle's womb is hearsed, |
|
|
|
And not the
puddle in thy sea dispersed. |
|
|
|
|
So shall these slaves be king, and thou their
slave; |
|
|
|
Thou nobly base,
they basely dignified; |
660 |
|
|
Thou their fair
life, and they thy fouler grave: |
|
|
|
Thou loathed in
their shame, they in thy pride: |
|
|
|
The lesser thing
should not the greater hide; |
|
|
|
The cedar stoops
not to the base shrub's foot, |
|
|
|
But low shrubs
wither at the cedar's root. |
665 |
|
|
|
So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy
state.»- |
|
|
|
«No
more» quoth he; «by heaven, I will not hear
thee: |
|
|
|
Yield to my
love; if not, enforced hate, |
|
|
|
Instead of
love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee: |
|
|
|
That done,
despitefully I mean to bear thee |
670 |
|
|
Unto the base
bed of some rascal groom, |
|
|
|
To be thy
partner in this shameful doom.» |
|
|
|
|
This said, he sets his foot upon the light, |
|
|
|
For light and
lust are deadly enemies: |
|
|
|
Shame folded up
in blind concealing night, |
675 |
|
|
When most
unseen, then most doth tyrannize. |
|
|
|
The wolf hath
seized his prey, the poor lamb cries, |
|
|
|
Till with her
own white fleece her voice controll'd |
|
|
|
Entombs her
outcry in her lips' sweet fold: |
|
|
|
|
For with the nightly linen that she wears |
680 |
|
|
He pens her
piteous clamours in her head, |
|
|
|
Cooling his hot
face in the chastest tears |
|
|
|
That ever modest
eyes with sorrow shed. |
|
|
|
O, that prone
lust should stain so pure a bed! |
|
|
|
The spots
whereof could weeping purify, |
685 |
|
|
Her tears should
drop on them perpetually. |
|
|
|
|
But she lost a dearer thing than life, |
|
|
|
And he hath won
what he would lose again: |
|
|
|
This forced
league doth force a further strife; |
|
|
|
This momentary
joy breeds months of pain; |
690 |
|
|
This hot desire
converts to cold disdain: |
|
|
|
Pure Chastity is
rifled of her store, |
|
|
|
And Lust, the
thief, far poorer than before. |
|
|
|
|
Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, |
|
|
|
Unapt for tender
smell or speedy flight, |
695 |
|
|
Make slow
pursuit, or altogether balk |
|
|
|
The prey wherein
by nature they delight, |
|
|
|
So
surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night: |
|
|
|
His taste
delicious, in digestion souring, |
|
|
|
Devours his
will, that lived by foul devouring. |
700 |
|
|
|
O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit |
|
|
|
Can comprehend
in still imagination! |
|
|
|
Drunken Desire
must vomit his receipt, |
|
|
|
Ere he can see
his own abomination. |
|
|
|
While Lust is in
his pride, no exclamation |
705 |
|
|
Can curb his
heat or rein his rash desire, |
|
|
|
Till, like a
jade, Self-will himself doth tire. |
|
|
|
|
And then with lank and lean discolour'd
cheek, |
|
|
|
With heavy eye,
knit brow, and strengthless pace, |
|
|
|
Feeble Desire,
all recreant, poor and meek, |
710 |
|
|
Like to a
bankrupt beggar wails his case: |
|
|
|
The flesh being
proud, Desire doth figth with Grace, |
|
|
|
For there it
revels, and when that decays |
|
|
|
The guilty rebel
for remission prays. |
|
|
|
|
So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, |
715 |
|
|
Who this
accomplishment so hotly chased; |
|
|
|
For now against
himself he sounds this doom, |
|
|
|
That through the
length of times he stands disgrace: |
|
|
|
Besides, his
soul's fair temple is defaced, |
|
|
|
To whose weak
ruins muster troops of cares, |
720 |
|
|
Ti ask the
spotted princess how she fares. |
|
|
|
|
She says, her subjects with foul insurrection |
|
|
|
Have batter'd
down her consecrated wall, |
|
|
|
And by their
mortal fault brought in subjection |
|
|
|
Her immortality,
and made her thrall |
725 |
|
|
To living death
and pain perpetual: |
|
|
|
Which in her
prescience she controlled still, |
|
|
|
But her
foresight could not forestall their will. |
|
|
|
|
Even in this though through the dark night he
stealeth, |
|
|
|
A captive victor
that hath lost in gain; |
730 |
|
|
Bearing away the
wound that nothing healeth, |
|
|
|
The scar that
will, despite of cure, remain; |
|
|
|
Leaving his
spoil perplex's in greater pain. |
|
|
|
She bears the
load of lust he left behind, |
|
|
|
And he the
burthen of a guilty mind. |
735 |
|
|
|
He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence; |
|
|
|
She like a
wearied lamb lies panting there; |
|
|
|
He scowls, and
hates himself for his offence; |
|
|
|
She, desperate,
with her nails her flesh doth tear; |
|
|
|
He faintly
flies, sweating with guilty fear; |
740 |
|
|
She stays,
exclaiming on the direful night; |
|
|
|
He runs, and
chides his vanish'd, loathed delight. |
|
|
|
|
He thence departs a heavy convertite; |
|
|
|
She there
remains a hopeless cast-away; |
|
|
|
He in his speed
looks for the morning light; |
745 |
|
|
She prays she
never my behold the day, |
|
|
|
«For
day», quoth she, «night's scapes doth open
lay, |
|
|
|
And my true eyes
have never practised how |
|
|
|
To cloak
offences with a cunning brow. |
|
|
|
|
They think not but that every eye can see |
750 |
|
|
The same
disgrace which they themselves behold; |
|
|
|
And therefore
would they still in darkness be, |
|
|
|
To have their
unseen sin remain untold; |
|
|
|
For they their
guilt with weeping will unfold, |
|
|
|
And grave, like
water that doth eat in steel, |
755 |
|
|
Upon my cheeks
helpless shame I feel.» |
|
|
|
|
Here she exclaims against repose and rest, |
|
|
|
And bids her
eyes hereafter still be blind. |
|
|
|
She wakes her
heart by beating on her breast, |
|
|
|
And bids it leap
from thence, where it may find |
760 |
|
|
Some purer chest
to close so pure a mind. |
|
|
|
Frantic with
grief thus breathes she forth her spite |
|
|
|
Against the
unseen secrecy of night: |
|
|
|
|
«O comfort-killing Night, image of
hell! |
|
|
|
Dim register and
notary of shame! |
765 |
|
|
Black stage for
tragedies and murders fell! |
|
|
|
Vast
sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame! |
|
|
|
Blond muffled
bawd! dark harbour for defame! |
|
|
|
Grim cave of
death! whispering conspirator |
|
|
|
With
close-tongued treason and the ravisher! |
770 |
|
|
|
O hateful, vaporous and foggy Night! |
|
|
|
Since thou art
guilty of my cureless crime, |
|
|
|
Muster thy mists
to meet the eastern light, |
|
|
|
Make war against
proportion'd course of time; |
|
|
|
Or if thou wilt
permit the sun to climb |
775 |
|
|
His wonted
height, yet ere he go to bed, |
|
|
|
Knit poisonous
clouds about his golden head. |
|
|
|
|
With rotten damps ravish the morning air; |
|
|
|
Let their
exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick |
|
|
|
The life of
purity, the supreme fait, |
780 |
|
|
Ere he arrive
his weary noon-tide prick; |
|
|
|
And let thy
misty vapours march so thick |
|
|
|
That in their
smoky ranks his smother'd light |
|
|
|
May set at noon
and make perpetual night. |
|
|
|
|
Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's
child, |
785 |
|
|
The
silver-shining queen he would distain; |
|
|
|
Her twinkling
handmaids too, by him defiled, |
|
|
|
Through Night's
black bosom should not peep again: |
|
|
|
So should I have
co-partners in my pain; |
|
|
|
And fellowship
in woe doth woe assuage, |
790 |
|
|
As palmers' chat
makes short their pilgrimage. |
|
|
|
|
Where now I have no one to blush with me, |
|
|
|
To cross their
arms and hang their heads with mine, |
|
|
|
To mask their
brows and hide their infamy; |
|
|
|
But I alone must
sit and pine, |
795 |
|
|
Seasoning the
earth with showers of silver brine, |
|
|
|
Mingling my talk
with tears, my grief with groans, |
|
|
|
Poor wasting
monuments of lasting moans. |
|
|
|
|
O, Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, |
|
|
|
Let not the
jealous Day behold that face |
800 |
|
|
Which underneath
thy black all-hiding cloak |
|
|
|
Immodestly
martyr'd with disgrace! |
|
|
|
Keep still
possession of thy gloomy place, |
|
|
|
That all the
faults which in thy reign are made |
|
|
|
May likewise be
sepulchred in thy shade! |
805 |
|
|
|
Make me not object to the tell-tale Day! |
|
|
|
The light will
show, character'd in my brow, |
|
|
|
The story of
sweet chastity's decay, |
|
|
|
The impious
breach of holy wedlock vow: |
|
|
|
Yea, the
illiterate, that know not how |
810 |
|
|
To cipher what
is writ in learned books, |
|
|
|
Will quote my
loathsome trespass in my looks. |
|
|
|
|
The nurse, to still her child, will tell my
story, |
|
|
|
And fright her
crying babe with Tarquin's name; |
|
|
|
The orator, to
deck his oratory, |
815 |
|
|
Will couple my
reproach to Tarquin's shame; |
|
|
|
Feast-finding
minstrels, tuning my defame, |
|
|
|
Will tie the
hearers to attend each line, |
|
|
|
How Tarquin
wronged me, I Collatine. |
|
|
|
|
Let my good name, that senseless reputation, |
820 |
|
|
For Collatine's
dear love be kept unspotted: |
|
|
|
If that he made
a theme for disputation, |
|
|
|
The branches of
another root are rotted, |
|
|
|
And undeserved
reproach to him allotted |
|
|
|
That is as clear
from this attaint of mine |
825 |
|
|
As I, ere this,
was pure to Collatine. |
|
|
|
|
O unseen shame! invisible disgrace! |
|
|
|
O unfelt sore!
crest-wounding, private scar! |
|
|
|
Reproach is
stamp'd in Collatinus' face, |
|
|
|
And Tarquin's
eye may read the mot afar, |
830 |
|
|
How he in peace
is wounded, not in war. |
|
|
|
Alas, how many
bear such shameful blows, |
|
|
|
Which not
themselves, but he that gives them knows! |
|
|
|
|
If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me, |
|
|
|
From me by
strong assault it is bereft. |
835 |
|
|
My honey lost,
and I, a drone-like bee, |
|
|
|
Have no
perfection of my summer left, |
|
|
|
But robb'd and
ransack'd by injurious theft; |
|
|
|
In thy weak hive
a wandering wasp hath crept, |
|
|
|
And suck'd the
honey which thy chaste bee kept. |
840 |
|
|
|
Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack; |
|
|
|
Yet for thy
honour did I entertain him; |
|
|
|
Coming from
thee, I could not put him back, |
|
|
|
For it had been
dishonour to disdain him, |
|
|
|
Besides of
weariness he did complain him, |
845 |
|
|
And talk'd of
virtue: O unlook'd-for evil, |
|
|
|
When virtue is
profaned in such a devil! |
|
|
|
|
Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud? |
|
|
|
Or hateful
cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests? |
|
|
|
Or toads infect
fair founts with venom mud? |
850 |
|
|
Or tyrant folly
lurk in gentle breasts? |
|
|
|
Or kings be
breakers of their own behests? |
|
|
|
But no
perfection is so absolute |
|
|
|
That some
impurity doth not pollute. |
|
|
|
|
The aged man that coffers up his fold |
855 |
|
|
Is plagued with
cramps and gouts and painful fits, |
|
|
|
And scarce hath
eyes his treasure to behold, |
|
|
|
But like
still-pining Tantalus he sits |
|
|
|
And useless
barns the harvest of his wits, |
|
|
|
Having no other
pleasure of his gain |
860 |
|
|
But torment that
it cannot cure his pain. |
|
|
|
|
So then he hath it when he cannot use it, |
|
|
|
And leaves it to
be masterd'd by his young; |
|
|
|
Who in their
pride do presently abuse it; |
|
|
|
Ther father was
too weak, and they too strong, |
865 |
|
|
To hold their
cursed-blessed fortune long. |
|
|
|
The sweets we
wish for turn to loathed sours |
|
|
|
Even in the
moment that we call them ours. |
|
|
|
|
Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring; |
|
|
|
Unwholesome
weeds take root with precious flowers; |
870 |
|
|
The adder hisses
where the sweet birds sing; |
|
|
|
What virtue
breeds iniquity devours: |
|
|
|
We have no good
that we can say is ours, |
|
|
|
But ill-annexed
Opportunity |
|
|
|
Or kills his
life or else his quality. |
875 |
|
|
|
O Opportunity, thy guilt is great! |
|
|
|
Tis thou that
executest the traitor's treason; |
|
|
|
Thou set'st the
wolf where he the lamb may get; |
|
|
|
Whoever plots
the sin, thou point'st the season; |
|
|
|
Tis thou that
spurn'st at right, at law, at reason; |
880 |
|
|
And in thy shady
cell, where none may spy him, |
|
|
|
Sits Sin, to
seize the souls that wander by him. |
|
|
|
|
Thou makest the vestal violate her oath; |
|
|
|
Thou blow'st the
fire when temperance is thaw'd; |
|
|
|
Thou smother
honesty, thou munder'st troth; |
885 |
|
|
Thou foul
abettor! thou notorious bawd! |
|
|
|
Thou plantest
scandal and displacest laud: |
|
|
|
Thou ravisher,
thou traitor, thou false thief, |
|
|
|
Thy honey turns
to gall, thy to grief! |
|
|
|
|
Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, |
890 |
|
|
Thy private
feasting to a public fast, |
|
|
|
Thy smoothing
titles to a ragged name, |
|
|
|
Thy sugar'd
tongue to bitter wormwood taste; |
|
|
|
Thy violent
vanities can never last. |
|
|
|
How comes it
then, vile Opportunity, |
895 |
|
|
Being so bad,
such numbers seek for thee? |
|
|
|
|
When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's
friend, |
|
|
|
And bring him
where his suit may be obtained? |
|
|
|
When wilt thou
sort an hour great strifes to end? |
|
|
|
Or free that
soul which wretchedness hath chained? |
900 |
|
|
Give physic to
the sick, ease to the pained? |
|
|
|
The poor, lame,
blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee |
|
|
|
But they ne'er
meet with Opportunity. |
|
|
|
|
The patient dies while the physician sleeps; |
|
|
|
The orphan pines
while the oppressor feeds; |
905 |
|
|
Justice is
feasting while the widow weeps; |
|
|
|
Advice is
sporting while infection breeds: |
|
|
|
Thou grant'st no
time for charitable deeds: |
|
|
|
Wrath, envy,
treason rape, and munder's rages, |
|
|
|
Thy heinous
hours wait on them as their pages. |
910 |
|
|
|
When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, |
|
|
|
A thousand
crosses keep them from thy aid: |
|
|
|
They buy thy
help, bur Sin ne'er gives a fee; |
|
|
|
He gratis comes,
and thou art well appaid |
|
|
|
As well to hear
as grant what he hath said. |
915 |
|
|
My Collatine
would else have come to me |
|
|
|
When Tarquin
did, but he was stay'd by thee. |
|
|
|
|
Guilty thou art of munder and of theft, |
|
|
|
Guilty perjury
and subornation, |
|
|
|
Guilty treason,
forgery and shift, |
920 |
|
|
Guilty of
incest, that abomination |
|
|
|
An accessary by
thine inclination |
|
|
|
To all sins past
and all that are to come |
|
|
|
From the
creation to the general doom. |
|
|
|
|
Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, |
925 |
|
|
Swift subtle
post, carrier of grisly care, |
|
|
|
Eater of youth,
false slave to false delight, |
|
|
|
Base watch of
woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare |
|
|
|
Thou nursest all
and murder'st all that are: |
|
|
|
O, hear me them,
injurious, shifting Time! |
930 |
|
|
Be guilty of my
death, since of my crime. |
|
|
|
|
Why hath thy servant Opportunity |
|
|
|
Betray'd the
hours thou gavest me to repose, |
|
|
|
Cancell'd my
fortunes and enchained me |
|
|
|
To endless date
of never-ending woes? |
935 |
|
|
Time's office is
to fine the hate of foes, |
|
|
|
To eat up errors
by opinion bred, |
|
|
|
Not spend the
dowry of a lawful bed. |
|
|
|
|
Time's glory is to calm contending kings, |
|
|
|
To unmask
falsehood and bring truth to light, |
940 |
|
|
To stamp the
seal of mine in aged things, |
|
|
|
To wake the morn
and sentinel the night, |
|
|
|
To wrong the
wronger till render right, |
|
|
|
To ruinate proud
buildings with thy hours, |
|
|
|
And smear with
dust their glittering golden towers; |
945 |
|
|
|
To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, |
|
|
|
To feed oblivion
with decay of things, |
|
|
|
To blot old
books and alter their contents, |
|
|
|
To pluck the
quills from ancient ravens' wings, |
|
|
|
To dry the old
oak's sap and cherish springs |
950 |
|
|
To spoil
antiquities of hammer'd steel |
|
|
|
And turn the
giddy round of Fortune's wheel; |
|
|
|
|
To show the beldam daughters of her daughter, |
|
|
|
To make the
child a man, the man a child, |
|
|
|
To slay the
tiger that doth live by slaughter, |
955 |
|
|
To tame the
unicorn and lion wild! |
|
|
|
To mock the
subtle in themselves beguiled, |
|
|
|
To cheer the
ploughman with increaseful crops, |
|
|
|
And waste stones
with little water-drops. |
|
|
|
|
Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, |
960 |
|
|
Unless thou
couldst return to make amends? |
|
|
|
One poor
retiring minute in an age |
|
|
|
Would purchase
thee a thousand friends, |
|
|
|
Lending him wit
that to bad debtors lends: |
|
|
|
O, this dread
night, wouldst thou one hour come back, |
965 |
|
|
I could prevent
this storm and shun thy wrack! |
|
|
|
|
Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity, |
|
|
|
With some
mischance cross Tarquin in his flight: |
|
|
|
Devise extremes
beyond extremity, |
|
|
|
To make him
curse this cursed crimeful night; |
970 |
|
|
Let ghastly
shadows his lewd eyes affright, |
|
|
|
And the dire
thought of his committed evil |
|
|
|
Shape every bush
a hideous shapeless devil. |
|
|
|
|
Disturb his of rest with restless trances, |
|
|
|
Afflict him in
his bed with bedrid groans; |
975 |
|
|
Let there
bechance him pitiful mischances, |
|
|
|
To make him
moan; but pity not his moans: |
|
|
|
Stone him with
harden'd hearts, harder than stones; |
|
|
|
And let mild
women to him lose their mildness, |
|
|
|
Wilder him than
tigers in their wildness. |
980 |
|
|
|
Let him have time to tear his curled hair, |
|
|
|
Let him have
time against himself to rave, |
|
|
|
Let him have
time of time's help to despair, |
|
|
|
Let him have
time to live a loathed slave, |
|
|
|
Let him have
time a beggar's orts to crave, |
985 |
|
|
And time to see
one that by alms doth live |
|
|
|
Disdain to him
disdained scraps to give. |
|
|
|
|
Let him have time to see his friends his
foes, |
|
|
|
And merry fools
to mock at him resort; |
|
|
|
Let him have
time to mark how slow time goes |
990 |
|
|
In time of
sorrow, and how swift and short |
|
|
|
His time of
folly and his time of sport; |
|
|
|
And ever let his
unrecalling crime |
|
|
|
Have time to
wail the abusing of his time. |
|
|
|
|
O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, |
995 |
|
|
Teach me to
curse him that thou taugh'st this ill! |
|
|
|
At his own
shadow let the thief run mad, |
|
|
|
Himself himself
seek every hour to kill! |
|
|
|
Such wretched
hands such wretched blood should spill; |
|
|
|
For who so base
would such an office have |
1000 |
|
|
As slanderous
deathsman to so base a slave? |
|
|
|
|
To baser is he, coming from a king, |
|
|
|
To shame his
hope with deeds degenerate: |
|
|
|
The mightier
man, the mightier is the thing |
|
|
|
That makes him
honour'd or begets him hate; |
1005 |
|
|
For greatest
scandal wait on greatest state. |
|
|
|
The moon being
clouded presently is miss'd, |
|
|
|
But little stars
may hide them when they list. |
|
|
|
|
The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in
mire, |
|
|
|
And unperceived
fly with the filth away; |
1010 |
|
|
But if the like
snow-white swan desire, |
|
|
|
The stain upon
his silver down will stay. |
|
|
|
Poor grooms are
sightless night, kings glorious day: |
|
|
|
Gnats are
unnoted wheresoe'er they fly, |
|
|
|
But eagles gazed
upon with every eye. |
1015 |
|
|
|
Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools! |
|
|
|
Unprofitable
sounds, weak arbitrators! |
|
|
|
Busy yourselves
in skill-contending schools; |
|
|
|
Debate where
leisure serves with dull debaters; |
|
|
|
To trembling
clients be you mediators: |
1020 |
|
|
For me, I force
not argument a straw, |
|
|
|
Since that my
case is past the help of law. |
|
|
|
|
In vain I rail at Opportunity, |
|
|
|
At Time, at
Tarquin, and uncheerful Night; |
|
|
|
In vain I cavil
with mine infamy, |
1025 |
|
|
In vain I spurn
at my confirm'd despite: |
|
|
|
This helpless
smoke of words doth me no right. |
|
|
|
The remedy
indeed to do me good |
|
|
|
Is to let forth
my foul-defiled blood. |
|
|
|
|
Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree? |
1030 |
|
|
Honour thyself
to rid me of this shame; |
|
|
|
For if I die, my
honour lives in thee, |
|
|
|
But if I live,
thou livest in my defame: |
|
|
|
Since thou
couldst not defend thy loyal dame, |
|
|
|
And wast afeard
to scratch her wicked foe, |
1035 |
|
|
Kill both
thyself and her for yielding so.» |
|
|
|
|
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. |
|
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|
|
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, |
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|
|
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, |
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|
|
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 |
|
|
|
THE END OF POEM «The rape of
Lucrece»
|