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'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,

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,
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 th' abusing of his time.
O! Time! thou tutor both to good and bad!
Teach me to curse him, that thou taught'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,
As slanderous death's-man to so base a slave?
"The 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:
For greatest scandal waits 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;
But if the like the 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.
'Out, idle words! Servants to shallow fools;
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators!
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;
Debate, where leisure serves, with dull debators:
To trembling clients be you mediators.

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,
In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despight;
This helpless smoke of word: 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?
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 could'st not defend thy loyal dame,
And wast afraid to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself, and her for yielding so.'
This said, from her betumbled couch she starts
To find some desperate instrument of death.
But this no slaughter-house, no tool imparts,
To make more vent for passage of her breath,
Which thronging through her lips so vanisheth,

As smoke from Aetna, that in air consumes,
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes.
'In vain,' quoth she, 'I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life;
I fear'd by 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.
'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!

Poor helpless help, the treasure stolen 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,
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 dpating father of his fruit.
'Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;
Basely with gold, but stolen from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,

And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my forc'd 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:
My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like sluices,
As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale,
Shall gush pure streams, to purge my impure tale.'
By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow;
And solemn night with slow sad gait descended
To ugly hell; when lo! 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.
Revealing day through every cranny 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 tinckling beams eyes that are sleep

ing:

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 naught agrees;
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 se of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare;
No object but her passions strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues;
Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words;
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;
Grief best is pleased with grief's society.
True sorrow then is feelingly surprised,
When with like semblance it is sympathized.
'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore;
He ten times pines, that pines beholding food:
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more;

Great grief grieves most at that will do it good;
De p woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Which being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'er-
flows;

Grief dallied with nor law, nor limit knows.
'You mocking birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes intomb
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.

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 dishevel'd hair!
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear:

For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill.

'And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,
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 it wink, shall thereon fall and die.

Revenge on him, that made me stop my breath:
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:
'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, my honour is new-born.
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 may'st be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me!
Myself thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe:
And for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin so.
"This brief abridgment of my will I make :
My resolution, husband, do
My soul and body to the skies and ground,
take;
you
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.

These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languish-Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will,

ment.

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,
We will find out; and there we will unfold
To creatures stern sad tunes to change their
kinds;

Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle
minds.'

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,
Wildly determining which way to fly;
Or one incompass'd with a winding maze,
That cannot tread the way out readily:
So with herself is she in mutiny,

To live or die, which of the twain were better,
When life is shamed, and death reproaches
debtor.

'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 whole is swallow'd in confusion.
That mother tries a merciless conclusion,
Who having two sweet babes, when death takes

one,

Will slay the other and be nurse to none.
'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,
When both were kept from heaven and Collatine?
Ah me! the bark peal'd from the lofty pine,

His leaves will wither, and his sap decay;
So must my soul, her bark being peal'd away.
'Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted,
Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;
Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted,
Grossly ingirt with daring infamy.
Then let it not be call'd impiety,

If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole,
Through which I may 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,

How was I overseen, that thou shalt see it!

My blood shall wash the slander 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, and that shall conquer thee;
Thou dead, that dies, 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 call'd her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies,
For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies.
Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so,
As winter meads, when sun doth melt their

snow.

With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty ;
Her mistress she doth give demare good-morrow,
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;
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
E'en so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky;

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
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,
And therefore they are form'd 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 them not the authors of their ill,

No more than wax sha I be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champain plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep.
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils, that obscurely sleep:
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 wither'd flower,
But chide rough winter, that the flower has
kill'd:

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.
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.

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
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 staid,
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?'
'Madam, ere I was up,' reply'd 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,
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;
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.
(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.'
Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hov'ring 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:

Much like a press of people at a door,
Through 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
(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)
Some present speed to come 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,
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,
Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd ex-

cuse.

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
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
The heavy motion that it doth behold:
When every part a part of woe doth bear,
'Tis put a part of sorrow that we hear.

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
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,
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 stedfast eye,
Receives the scroll without or yea, or no,
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
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
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, wist'ly on him gazed,
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish
The more she thought he spy'd in her some ble-
mish.

But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone:
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.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting made for Priam's Troy;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,\
For Helen's rape the city to destroy.

Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd,
A thousand lamentable objeets there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life;
Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping tear,
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife.
The red blood reek'd to shew 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 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,
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
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!
The face of either cypher'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.
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,
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 list'ning, but with several graces,
As if 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,
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, (such signs of rage they bear)
As but for loss of Nestor's golden words,
It seems they would debate with angry swords.
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
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,

Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield,

That through their light joy seemed to appear,
(Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strand of Dardan where they fought,
To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran;
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges; and their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and than

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,

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Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead. On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldame's woes; Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, And bitter words, to ban her cruel foes. 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, And rail on Pyrrhus, that hath done him wrong, And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, 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. 'Show me the strumpet, that began this stir, That with my nails her beauty I may tear: Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath, that burning Troy did bear; Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here:

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 mo? Let sin alone committed, light alone 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! Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sounds! 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 doating Priam check'd his son's desire, Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.' Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted 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. So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell

To pencill'd pensiveness, and colour'd sorrow; She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,

And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament:
At last she sees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent;
His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content.
Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes,
So mild, that patience seem'd to scorn his woes.
In him the painter labour'd with his skill
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show,
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe;
Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but mingled so,

That blushing red no guilty instance gave,
Nor ashy pale, the fair that false hearts have.

But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertain'd a show so seeming just,
And therein so insconced his secret evil,
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
For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after slew;
Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the shining glory
Of rich-built Ilion; that the skies were sorry,
And little stars shot from their fixed places,
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:
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;
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.
'For e'en 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

With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,
So did I Tarquin, as my Troy did perish.
'Look, look, how list'ning Priam wets his eyes,
To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise?
For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds:
His eyes drop 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,
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 doth flatter,
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,
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest.
At last she smilingly with this gives o'er,

Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
It easeth some, though none it ever cured,
To think their dolour others have endured.
But now the mindful messenger comes back,
Brings home his lord, and other company;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black,
And round about her tear-distained eye
Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky.
These watergalls, in her dim element,
Foretel new storms to those already spent.
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,
Amazedly in her sad face he stares :

Her eyes, though sod in tears, look red and raw,
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.
He hath no power to ask her how she fares,
But stood like old acquaintance in a trance,
Met far from hence, wond'ring each other's
chance.

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,
And thus begins: 'What uncouth ill event
Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love! what spite hath thy fair colour spent?
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 sighs she gives her sorrow fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length address'd, to answer 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 words.
And now this pale swan in her watery nest,
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.
'Few words,' quoth she, 'shall fit the trespass best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending;
In me more woes than words are now depending:
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,
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,
With shining falchion, in my chamber came
A creeping creature with a flaming light,
And softly cried, Awake, thou Roman dame!
And entertain my love; else lasting shame

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
If thou my love's desire do contradict.
'For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he,
Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,

I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And swear I found you, where you did fulfil

"Fool! fool!" quoth she, 'his wounds will not The loathsome act of lust; and so did kill

be sore.'

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And time doth weary time with her complaining:
She looks 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 slow it creeps.
Which all this time hath over-slipt her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent,
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought,
By deep surmise of other's detriment,

I

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,
Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
should not live to speak another word:
So should my shame still rest upon record,
And never be forgot in mighty Rome,

Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.
'Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
(And far the weaker with so strong a fear)
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak,

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