Right Honourable,

The Love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end whereof this Pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous Moity. The warrant

I have of your Honourable Disposition, not the Worth of my untutor'd Lines makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty should shew greater: meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship; To whom I wish long life still, lengthened with all happiness.

Your Lordships in all Duty
Will. Shakespear.

Place this Leaf, after the Title of Tarquin and Lucrece.

Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive Pride surnam'd Superbus) after he had caus'd his Father-in-Law Servius Tullius to be cruelly Murder'd, and contrary to the Roman Laws and Customs, not requiring or staying for the People's Suffrages, had possessed himself of the Kingdom; went accompany'd with his Sons and other Noblemen of Rome to besiege Ardea. During which Siege, the principal Men of the Army, meeting one Evening at the Tent of Sextus Tarquinius the King's Son, in their Discourses after Supper every one commended the Vertues of his own Wife; among whom Colatinus extol'd the incomparable Chastity of his Wife Lucrece. In that pleasant Humour they all posted to Rome, and intending, by their secret and sudden Arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouch'd, only Colatinus finds his Wife (tho' it were late in the Night) spinning amongst her Maids, the other Ladies were found all dancing and revelling, or in several Disports. Whereupon the Noblemen yielded Colatinus the Victory, and his Wife the Fame. At that time Sextus Taquinius being inflam'd with Lucrece's Beauty, yet smothering his Passion for the present, departed with the rest back to the Camp, from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was (according to his state)

royally entertain'd and lodg'd by Lucrece at Colatium. The same Night he, treacherously stealing into her Chamber, violently Ravish'd her, and early in the Morning speeded away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth Messengers, one to Rome for her Father, another to the Camp for Colatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius: and finding Lucrece attir'd in Mourning Habit, demanded the Cause of her Sorrow. She, first taking an Oath of them for her Revenge, reveal'd the Actor, and whole Matter of his Dealing, and withall suddenly stabb'd her self. Which done, with one Consent, they all vow'd to root out the whole hated Family of the Tarquins: and bearing the dead Body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the People with the Doer and Manner of the vile Deed, with a bitter Invective against the Tyranny of the King; wherewith the People were so mov'd with one Consent, and a general Acclamation, that the Tarquins were all Exil'd, and the State-Government chang'd from Kings to Consuls.

Volume 7: The Rape of Lucrece
From the besieg'd Ardea all in post,
Born by the trustless Wings of false Desire,
Lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman Host,
And to Colatium bears the lightless Fire,
Which in pale Embers hid, lurks to aspire,
  And girdle, with imbracing Flames, the Wast
  Of Colatine's fair Love, Lucrece the chast.
Haply that Name of Chast, unhaply set
This bateless Edge on his keen Apetite:
When Colatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched Red and White;
Which triumph'd in that Sky of his Delight;
  Where mortal Star, as bright as Heaven's Beauties,
  With pure Aspects did him peculiar Duties.
For he the Night before, in Tarquin's Tent,
Unlock'd the Treasure of his happy State:
What prizeless Wealth the Heavens had him lent,

In the Possession of his Beauteous Mate;
Reckoning his Fortune at so high a Rate,
  That Kings might be espoused to more Fame,
  But King, nor Prince to such a peerless Dame.
O Happiness enjoy d but of a few!
And if possest, as soon decay'd and done!
As is the Morning's silver melting Dew,
Against the golden Splendor of the Sun;
A Date expir'd, and cancel'd e'er begun.
  Honour and Beauty in the Owner's Arms,
  Are weakly fortrest from a World of Harms.
Beauty it self, doth of it self persuade
The Eyes of Men without an Orator;
What needed then Apologies be made
To set forth that, which is so singular?
Or why is Colatine the Publisher
  Of that rich Jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish Cares because it is his own?
Perchance his Boast of Lucrece's Sov'reignty
Suggested this proud Issue of a King;
For by our Ears our Hearts oft tainted be.
Perchance, that Envy of so rich a Thing
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting (should vant
  His high pitcht Thoughts, that meaner Men
  The Golden Hap, which their Superiors want.
But some untimely Thought did instigate
His all too timeless speed, if none of those.
His Honour, his Affairs, his Friends, his State,
Neglected all, with swift Intent, he goes
To quench the Coal, which in his Liver glows.
  O rash false Heat wrapt in repentant Cold!
  Thy hasty Spring still blasts, and ne'er grows Old.

When at Colatia this false Lord arriv'd
Well was he welcom'd by the Roman Dame,
Within whose Feace Beauty and Vertue striv'd,
Which of them both should underprop her Fame.
When Vertue brag'd, Beauty would blush for shame;
  When Beauty boasted Blushes, in despight,
  Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.
But Beauty, in that white intituled
From Venus Doves, doth challenge that fair Field;
Then Vertue claims from Beauty Beauty's Red,
Which Vertue gave the Golden Age to guild
Her Silver Cheeks, and call'd it then their Shield;
  Teaching them thus to use it in the Fight,
  When Shame assail'd, the Red should fence the White.
This Heraldry in Lucrece Face was seen,
Argu'd by Beauties red and Vertues white,
Of either's Colour was the other Queen;
Proving from World's Minority their Right;
Yet their Ambition makes them still to fight.
  The Sov'reignty of either being so great,
  That oft they interchange each other's Seat.
This silent War of Lillies and of Roses,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair Face's Field,
In their pure Ranks his Traitor Eye incloses,
Where, left between them both it should be kill'd,
The Coward Captive vanquished doth yield
  To those two Armies, that would let him go
  Rather, than triumph in so false a Foe.
Now thinks he, that her Husband's shallow Tongue,
The niggard Prodigal, that prais'd her so,
In that high Task hath done her Beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren Skill to show.
Therefore that Praise, which Colatine doth owe,
  Inchanted Tarquin answers with Surmise,
  In silent Wonder of still gazing Eyes.
This earthly Saint, adored by this Devil,
Little suspected the false Worshipper.
‘For Thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream of Evil,
‘Birds never limb'd, no secret Bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good Chear,
  And reverend Welcome to her Princely Guest,
  Whose inward Ill no outward Harm exprest.
For That he colour'd with his high Estate,
Hiding base Sin in Pleats of Majesty,
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime too much Wonder of his Eye;
Which having all, all could not satisfy;
  But poorly rich so wanteth in his Store,
  That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she that never cop'd with stranger-Eyes,
Could pick no Meaning from their parling Looks;
Nor read the subtle shining Secresies
Writ in the Glassy Margents of such Books.
She touch'd no unknown Baits, nor fear'd no Hooks;
  Nor could she moralize his wanton Sight,
  More, than his Eyes were open'd to the Light.
He stories to her Ears her Husband's Fame
Won in the Fields of fruitful Italy;
And decks with Praises Colatine's high Name,
Made glorious by his manly Chivalry,
With bruised Arms and Wreaths of Victory.
  Her Joy with heav'd-up Hand she doth express,
  And wordless so greets Heav'n for his Success.

Far from the Purpose of his Coming thither,
He makes Excuses for his being there;
No cloudy Show of stormy blustring Weather
Doth yet in his fair Welkin once appear,
Till sable Night, sad Source of Dread and Fear,
  Upon the World dim Darkness doth display,
  And in her vaulty Prison shuts the Day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his Bed,
Intending Weariness with heavy Sprite:
For after Supper long he question'd
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the Night.
Now leaden Slumber with Life's Strength doth fight,
  And every one to rest themselves betake,
  Save Thieves, and Cares, and troubled Minds, that wake.
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry Dangers of his Will's obtaining,
Yet ever to obtain his Will resolving
Tho' weak-built Hopes persuade him to abstaining,
Despair to gain doth traffick oft for Gaining;
  And when great Treasure is the Meed propos'd,
  Tho' Death be adjunct, there's no Death suppos'd.
Those, that much covet are of Gain so fond,
That oft they have not that, which they possess;
They scatter and unloose it from their Bond,
And so by hoping more they have but less;
Or gaining more, the Profit of Excess
  Is but to surfeit, and such Griefs sustain,
  That they prove bankrupt in this poor, rich Gain.
The Aim of all, is but to nurse the Life,
With Honour, Wealth, and Ease in waining Age
And in this Aim there is such thwarting Strife,

That one for all, or all for one we gage:
As Life for Honour, in fell Battels rage,
  Honour for Wealth, and oft that Wealth doth cost
  The Death of all, and altogether lost.
So that in venturing all, we leave to be
The Things we are for that, which we expect:
And this ambitious foul Infirmity,
In having much, torments us with Defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
  The Thing we have, and, all for want of Wit,
  Make something nothing, by augmenting it.
Such Hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his Honour to obtain his Lust:
And for himself, himself he must forsake.
Then where is Truth, if there be no Self-Trust?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
  When he himself himself confounds, betrays,
  To slandrous Tongues the wretched hateful Lays?
Now stole upon the Time the Dead of Night,
When heavy Sleep had clos'd up mortal Eye;
No comfortable Star did lend his Light,
No Noise but Owls and Wolves death-boding Cries.
Now serves the Season, that they may surprize
  The silly Lambs, pure Thoughts are dead and still,
  Whilst Lust and Murder wakes to stain and kill.
And now this lustful Lord leapt from his Bed,
Throwing his Mantle rudely o'er his Arm,
Is madly tost between Desire and Dread;
Th' one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm,
But honest Fear, bewitch'd with Lust's foul Charm,
  Doth too too oft betake him to retire,
  Beaten away by brainsick rude Desire.

His Fauchion on a Flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold Stone sparks of Fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen Torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be Load-star to his lustful Eye:
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly;
  ‘As from this cold Flint I enforc'd this Fire,
  ‘So Lucrece must I force to my Desire.
Here pale with Fear, he doth premeditate
The Dangers of his loathsom Enterprize:
And in his inward Mind he doth debate
What following Sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully he doth despise
  His naked Armour of still slaughter'd Lust,
  And justly thus controuls his Thoughts unjust.
Fair Torch burn out thy Light, and lend it not
To darken her whose Light excelleth thine:
And die unhallow'd Thoughts before you blot
With your uncleanness, that which is Divine:
Offer pure Incense to so pure a Shrine:
  Let fair Humanity abhor the Deed,
  That spots and stains Love's modest snow-white Weed.
O Shame to Knighthood, and to shining Arms!
O foul Dishonour to my Houshould's Grave!
O impious Act including all foul Harms!
A martial Man to be soft Fancy's Slave!
True Valor still a true Respect should have.
  Then my Digression is so vile, so base,
  That it will live engraven in my Face.
Yes, tho' I die the Scandal will survive,
And be an Eye-sore in my Golden Coat:
Some loathsome Dash the Herald will contrive,

To cipher me how fondly I did dote:
That my Posterity shamed with the Note
  Shall curse my Bones, and hold it for no Sin,
  To wish, that I their Father had not been.
What win I if I gain the thing I seek?
A Dream, a Breath, a Froth of fleeting Joy.
Who buys a Minute's Mirth to wail a Week?
Or sells Eternity to get a Toy?
For one sweet Grape, who will the Vine destroy?
  Or what fond Beggar, but to touch the Crown,
  Would with the Scepter strait be strucken down?
If Colatinus Dream of my Intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate Rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This Siege, that hath ingirt his Marriage,
This Blur to Youth, this Sorrow to the Sage,
  This dying Vertue, this surviving Shame,
  Whose Crime will bear an ever-during Blame.
O what Excuse can my Invention make,
When thou shalt charge me with so black a Deed!
Will not my Tongue be mute, my frail Joints shake?
Mine Eyes forgo their Light, my false Heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the Fear doth still exceed,
  And extreme Fear can neither fight nor flie,
  But Coward like with trembling Terror die.
  Had Colatinus kill'd my Son or Sire,
Or lain in Ambush to betray my Life;
Or were he not my dear Friend, this Desire
Might have Excuse to work upon his Wife,
As in Revenge or Quital of such Strife:
  But as he is my Kinsman, my dear Friend,
  The Shame and Fault finds no Excuse nor End.

Shamful it is, if once the Fact be known;
Hateful it is; there is no Hate in loving.
I'll beg her Love; but she is not her own:
The worst is but denial, and reproving.
My Will is strong, past Reasons weak removing.
  Who fears a Sentence or an old Man's Sawe,
  Shall by a painted Cloth be kept in awe.
Thus (graceless) holds he Disputation,
'Tween frozen Conscience and hot-burning Will,
And with good Thoughts makes Dispensation,
Urging the worser Sense for Vantage still;
Which in a Moment doth confound and kill
  All pure Effects, and doth so far proceed,
  Then what is vile shews like a vertuous Deed.
Quoth he, she took me kindly by the Hand,
And gaz'd for Tidings in my eager Eyes,
Fearing some bad News from the warlike Band
Where her beloved Colatinus lies.
O how her Fear did make her Colour rise!
  First red as Roses, that on Lawn we lay,
  Then white as Lawn the Roses took away.
And now her Hand in my Hand being lock'd,
Forc'd it to tremble with her Loyal Fear:
Which strook her sad, and then it faster rock'd
Until her Husband's Welfare she did hear,
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a Chear,
  That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
  Self-love had never drown'd him in the Flood.
Why hunt I then for Colour or Excuses?
All Orators are dumb, when Beauty pleads.
Poor Wretches have remorse in poor Abuses,

Love thrives not in the Heart, that Shadows dreads,
Affection is my Captain, and he leads;
  And when his gaudy Banner is display'd,
  The Coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.
Then Childish Fear avant, debating die,
Respect and Reason wait on wrinkled Age:
My Heart shall never countermand mine Eye,
Sad Pause and deep Regard beseems the Sage;
My Part is Youth, and beats these from the Stage.
  Desire my Pilot is, Beauty my Prize,
  Then who fears sinking where such Treasure lies?
As Corn o'er-grown by Weeds, so heedful Fear
Is almost cloak'd by unresisted Lust.
Away he steals with open list'ning Ear,
Full of foul Hope, and full of fond Mistrust:
Both which, as Servitors to the unjust,
  So cross him with their opposite Persuasion,
  That now he vows a League, and now Invasion.
Within his Thought her heavenly Image sits,
And in the self-same Seat sits Colatine:
That Eye which looks on her, confounds his Wits;
That Eye which him beholds, as more Divine,
Unto a View so false will not incline:
  But with a pure Appeal seeks to the Heart,
  Which once corrupted takes the worser Part.
And therein heartens up his servile Powers,
Who flatter'd by their Leaders jocund Show,
Stuff up his Lust, as Minutes fill up Hours;
And as their Captain so their Pride doth grow,
Paying more slavish Tribute, than they owe.
  By reprobate Desire thus madly led,
  The Roman Lord doth march to Lucrece's Bed.

The Locks between her Chamber and his Will,
Each one by him enforc'd, recites his Ward;
But as they open, they all rate his Ill,
Which drives the creeping Thief to some Regard;
The Threshold grates the Door to have him heard;
  Night-wandring Weezels shreek to see him there,
  They fright him, yet he still pursues his Fear.
As each unwilling Portal yields him way,
Thro' little Vents and Crannies of the Place,
The Wind wars with his Torch to make him stay,
And blows the Smoke of it into his Face,
Extinguishing his Conduct in this Case.
  But his hot Heart, which fond Desire doth scorch,
  Puffs forth another Wind that fires the Torch.
And being lighted by the Light he spies
Lucrecia's Glove, wherein the Needle sticks;
He takes it from the Rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the Needle, his Finger pricks,
As who should say, this Glove to wanton Tricks
  Is not inur'd; return again in haste,
  Thou seest our Mistress Ornaments are chaste.
But all these poor Forbiddings could not stay him,
He in the worst Sense construes their Denial.
The Doors, the Wind, the Glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental Things of Trial,
Or as those Bars, which stop the hourly Dial;
  Which with a lingring Stay his Course doth let,
  Till every Minute pays the Hour his Debt.
So, so, quoth he, these Lets attend the Time,
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 Pirats, Shelves and Sands,
  The Merchant fears, e'er rich at home he Lands.
Now is he come unto the Chamber Door,
That shuts him from the Heaven of his Thought,
Which with a yielding Latch, and with no more,
Hath barr'd him from the blessed thing he sought.
So from himself Impiety hath wrought,
  That for his Prey to pray he doth begin,
  As if the Heavens should countenance his Sin.
But in the Midst of his unfruitful Prayer,
Having sollicited th' eternal Power,
That his foul Thoughts might compass his fair Fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the Hour,
Even there he starts, quoth he, I must deflour.
  The Powers to whom I pray, abhor this Fact,
  How can they then assist me in the Act?
Then Love and fortune be my God's my Guide,
My Will is back'd with Resolution:
Thoughts are but Dreams till their Effects be try'd,
Black Sin is clear'd with Absolution;
Against Love's Fire, Fear's Frost hath Dissolution.
  The Eye of Heaven is out, and misty Night
  Covers Shame, that follows sweet Delight.
This said the 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.
Thus Treason works e'er Traitors be espy'd:
VVho 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,
And gazeth on her yet unstained Bed:
The Curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy Eye-balls in his Head,
By their high Treason in his Heart misled,
  VVhich gives the Watch-word to his Hand too soon
  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:
Whether it is, that she reflects so bright,
  That dazleth them, or else some Shame suppos'd;
  But blind they are, and keep themselves inclos'd.
O had they in that darksom Prison died!
Then had they seen the Period of their Ill;
Then Colatine 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.
Her Lilly Hand her rosy Cheeks lies under,
Cozening the Pillow of a lawful Kiss,
Which therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either Side to want his Bliss,
Between whose Hills, her Head intombed is;
  Where like a virtuous Monument she lies,
  To be admir'd of leud unhallow'd Eyes.
Without the Bed her other fair Hand was
On the green Coverlet, whose perfect white
Shew'd like an April Dazy on the Grass,

With pearly Sweat, resembling Dew of Night.
Her Eyes like Marigolds had sheath'd their Light,
  And canoped in Darkness sweetly lay,
  Till they might open to adorn the Day.
Her Hair like Golden Threads plaid with her Breath,
O modest Wantons, wanton Modesty!
Showring Life's Triumph in the Map of Death,
And Death's dim Look in Life's Mortality.
Each in her Sleep themselves so beautify,
  As if between them twain there were no Strife,
  But that Life liv'd in Death, and Death in Life.
Her Breasts like Ivory Globes circled with Blew,
A pair of maiden Worlds unconquered:
Save of their Lord, no bearing Yoke they knew,
And him by Oath they truly honoured.
These Worlds in Tarquin, new Ambition bred,
  Who like a foul Usurper went about,
  From this fair. Throne to have the Owner out.
VVhat could he see but mightily he noted?
VVhat did he note, but strongly he desir'd?
VVhat he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his Will his wilful Eye he tyr'd.
With more, than Admiration he admir'd
  Her Azure Veins, her Alabaster Skin,
  Her Coral Lips, her Snow-white dimpled Chin.
As the grim Lion fauneth o'er his Prey,
Sharp Hunger by the Conquest satisfy'd:
So o'er this sleeping Soul doth Tarquin stay,
His Rage of Lust by gazing qualify'd,
Slack'd, not supprest; for standing by her Side,
  His Eye which late this Mutiny restrains,
  Unto a greater Uproar tempts his Veins.

And they, like stragling Slaves for Pillage fighting,
Obdurate Vassals fell Exploits effecting,
In bloody Death and Ravishment delighting,
Nor Childrens Tears, nor Mothers Groans respecting,
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 chears up his burning Eye;
His Eye commends the Leading to his Hand;
His Hand, as proud of such a Dignity,
Smoaking with Pride, marcht on to make his Stand
On her bare Breasts, the Heart of all her Land,
  VVhose Ranks of blew Veins, as his Hand did scale,
  Left their round Turrets destitute and pale.
They mustring to the quiet Cabinet,
VVhere their dear Governess and Lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,
And fright her with Confusion of her Cries.
She much amaz'd breaks ope her lockt up Eyes;
  VVho peeping forth this Tumult to behold,
  Are by his flaming Torch dim'd and control'd.
Imagine her as one in Dead of Night,
From forth dull Sleep by dreadful Fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some gastly Sprite,
VVhose grim Aspect sets every Joint a shaking,
VVhat Terror 'tis: but she in worser taking,
  From Sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view,
  The Sight, which makes supposed Terror rue.
VVrapt and confounded in a thousand Fears,
Like to a new-kill'd Bird she trembling lies:
She dares not look, yet winking there appear

Quick shifting Anticks ugly in her Eyes,
Such Shadows are the weak Brain's Forgeries;
  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 VVall)
May feel her Heart (poor Citizen) distrest,
Wounding it self 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
To sound a Parley to his heartless Foe,
Who o'er the white Sheet peers her whiter Chin,
The Reason of this Alarum to know,
Which he by dumb Demeanor seeks to show:
  But she with vehement Prayers urgeth still,
  Under what Colour he commits this Ill.
Thus he replys, The Colour in thy Face,
That even for Anger makes the Lilly pale,
And the red Rose blush at her own Disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving Tale.
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 forestal thee, If thou mean to chide:
Thy Beauty hath insnar'd thee to this Night,
Where thou with Patience must my will abide;
My VVill, 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 it was newly bred.

I see what Crosses my Attempts will bring;
I know what Thorns the growing Rose defends;
I think the Honey guarded with a Sting.
All this before-hand Counsel comprehends;
But Will is deaf, and hears no heedful Friends.
  Only he hath an Eye to gaze on Beauty,
  And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst 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 controul,
Or stop the headlong Fury of his Speed.
I know repentant Tears insue the Deed.
  Reproach, Disdain, and deadly Enmity.
  Yet strive I to imbrace mine Infamy.
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman Blade,
Which like a Faulcon tow'ring in the Skies,
Coucheth the Fowl below with his Wings Shade,
Whose crooked Beak threats, if he mount he dies:
So under his insulting Fauchion lies
  Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells,
  With trembling Fear, as Fowl hear Faulcon'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 thine I'll slay,
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 imbrace him.
So thy surviving Husband shall remain,
The scornful Mark of every open Eye;
The Kinsmen hang their Heads at this Disdain,

Thy Issue blur'd with nameless Bastardy;
And thou the Author of their Obloquy,
  Shalt have thy Trespass cited up in Rhimes,
  And sung by Children in succeeding Times.
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 sometimes is compacted
  In purest Compounds; being so apply'd,
  His Venom in Effect is purify'd.
Then for thy Husband, and thy Children's sake,
Tender my Suit, bequeath'd not to their Lot,
The Shame that from them no Device can take,
The Blemish that will never be forgot,
Worse, than a slavish Wipe, or birth-hour's Blot,
  For Marks describ'd in Mens Nativity,
  Are Nature's Faults, not their own Infamy.
Here with a Cockatrice dead-killing Eye,
He rouseth up himself, and makes a Pause;
While she, the Picture of true Piety,
Like a white Hind beneath the Gripe's sharp Claws,
Pleads in a Wilderness, where no Laws;
  To the rough Beast, that knows no gentle Right,
  Nor ought obeys but his foul Appetite.
But when a black-fac'd Cloud the VVorld does threat,
In his dim Mist th' aspiring Mountain hiding,
From Earth's dark Womb some gentle Gust does get,
Which blow these pitchy Vapours from their biding,
Hindring their present Fall by this dividing.
  So his unhallow'd haste her VVords delays,
  And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.

Like foul night-waking Cat he doth but dally,
VVhile in his hold-fast Foot the weak Mouse panteth;
Her sad Behaviour feeds his Vulture Folly,
A swallowing Gulf, that e'en in Plenty wanteth.
His Ear her Prayers admits, but his Heart granteth
  No penetrable Entrance to her plaining,
  Tears harden Lust, tho' Marble wears with raining
Her pity-pleading Eyes are sadly fix'd
In the remorsless VVrinkles of his Face:
Her modest Eloquence with Sighs is mix'd,
VVhich to her Oratory adds more Grace.
She puts the Period often from his Place,
  And midst the Sentence so her Accent breaks,
  That twice she doth begin e'er once she speaks.
She conjures him by high Almighty Jove;
By Knighthood, Gentry, and sweet Friendship's Oath;
By her untimely Tears, her Husband's Love;
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
VVith such black Payment, as thou hast pretended,
Mud not the Fountain, that gave Drink to thee,
Mar not the Thing that cannot be amended:
End thy ill Aim, before thy shoot be ended.
  He is no VVood-man, that doth bend his Bow,
  To strike a poor unseasonable Doe.
My Husband is thy Friend, for his Sake spare me;
Thy self art Mighty, for thy own Sake leave me;
My self a VVeakling, do not then insnare me;

Thou look'st not like Deceit, do not deceive me!
My Sighs like Whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee.
  If ever Man was mov'd with Woman's Moans,
  Be moved with my Tears, my Sighs, my Groans.
All which together, like a troubled Ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatning Heart,
To soften it with their continual Motion;
For Stones dissolv'd to Water do convert.
O! if no harder, than a Stone thou art,
  Melt at my Tears, and be compassionate!
  Soft pity enters at an Iron Gate.
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,
  Thou seem'st not what thou art, a God, a King,
  For Kings like Gods should govern every thing.
How will thy Shame be feeded in thine Age,
When thus thy Vices bud before thy Spring?
If in thy Hope thou dar'st do such Outrage,
What dar'st thou! not when once thou art a King?
O! be remembred, no outragious thing
  From Vassal Actors can be wip'd away,
  Then Kings Misdeeds cannot be hid in Clay.
This Deed shall make thee only lov'd for Fear,
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,
  Where Subjects Eyes do learn, do read, do look.

And wilt thou be the Shool where Lust shall learn?
Must he in thee read Lectures of such Shame?
Wilt thou be Glass wherein it shall discern
Authority for Sin, Warrant for Blame?
To priviledge Dishonour in thy Name.
  Thou back'st Reproach against long-living Laud,
  And mak'st fair Reputation but a Baud.
Hast thou commanded? by Him that gave it thee,
From a pure Heart command thy rebel Will:
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 to sin, and thou didst teach the way.
Think but how vile a Spectacle it were,
To view thy present Trespass in another:
Mens Faults do seldom to themselves appear,
Their own Transgressions partially they smother.
This Guilt would seem death-worthy in thy Brother.
  O! how are they wrapt in with Infamies,
  That from their own Misdeeds askaunce their Eyes!
To thee, to thee, my heav'd up Hands appeal,
Not to seducing Lust thy rash reply;
I sue for exil'd Majesty's Repeal,
Let him return and flattering Thoughts retire.
His true Respect will prison false Desire,
  And wipe the dim Mist from thy doting Eyes,
  That thou shalt see thy State and pity mine.
Have done, quoth he, my uncontrouled Tide,
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
  To their salt Sovereign with their fresh false haste,
  Add to his Flow, but alter not the Taste.
Thou art (quoth she) a Sea, a Sovereign King,
And lo! there falls into thy boundless Flood
Black Lust, Dishonour, Shame, Misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the Ocean of thy Blood.
If all these petty Ills should change thy Good,
  Thy Sea within a puddle Womb is burs'd,
  And not the Puddle in thy Sea dispers'd.
So shall these Slaves be King, and thou their Slave:
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified;
Thou their fair Life, and they thy fouler Grave:
Thou loathed in thy Shame, they in thy Pride,
The lesser thing shou'd not the greater hide.
  The Cedar stoops not to the base Shrub's Foot,
  But low Shrubs wither at the Cedar's Root.
So let thy Thoughts low Vassals to thy State.
No more quoth he, by Heav'n 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
  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,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The Wolf has seiz'd his Prey, the poor Lamb cries,
  Till with her own white Fleece her Voice control'd,
  Intombs her Outcry in her Lips sweet Fold.

For with the nightly Linen, that she wears,
He pens her pitious Clamors in her Head,
Cooling his hot Face in the chastest Tears,
That ever modest Eyes with Sorrow shed.
O! that foul Lust should should stain so pure a Bed!
  The Spots whereof could VVeeping purify,
  Her Tears should drop on them perpetually.
But she hath lost a dearer thing, than Life,
And he hath won what he wou'd lose again;
This forced League doth force a further strife,
This Momentary Joy breeds Months of Pain,
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,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk
The Prey wherein by Nature they delight:
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fears this Night;
  His Taste delicious, in Digestion souring,
  Devours his VVill, that liv'd by foul devouring.
O! deeper Sin, than bottomless Conceit
Can comprehend in still Imagination!
Drunken Desire must vomit his Receit,
E'er he can see his own Abomination.
VVhile Lust is in his Pride, no Exclamation
  Can curb his Heat, of Reign his rash Desire,
  Till, like a Jade, Self-will himself doth tire.
And then with lank and lean discolor'd Cheek,
VVith heavy Eye, knit Brow, and strengthless Pace,
Feeble Desire all recreant, poor and meek,

Like to a Bankrupt Beggar wails his Case:
The Flesh being proud, Desire does fight with Grace.
  For there it revels, and when that decays,
  The guilty Rebel for Remission prays.
So fares it with this Fault-full Lord of Rome,
VVho this Accomplishment so hotly chas'd;
For, now against himself he sounds this Doom,
That thro' the length of Time he stands disgrac'd.
Besides, his Soul's fair Temple is defac'd,
  To whose weak Ruins muster Troops of Cares,
  To ask the spotted Princess how she fares.
She says, her Subjects with foul Insurrection
Have batter'd down her consecrated VVall,
And by their mortal Fault brought in Subjection
Her Immortality, and made her thrall
To living Death and Pain perpetual.
  VVhich in her Prescience she controled still,
  But her Foresight could not forestall their VVill.
E'en in this Thought thro' the dark Night he stealeth,
A Captive Victor, that hath lost in Gain:
Bearing away the Wound, that nothing healeth,
The Scar, that will despight of Cure remain:
Leaving his Spoil perplex'd in greater Pain.
  She bears the load of Lust he left behind,
  And he the Burden of a guilty Mind.
He like a theevish Dog creeps sadly thence,
She like a weary'd 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;
  She stays exclaiming on the direful Night,
  He runs and chides his vanish'd loath'd Delight.

He thence departs a heavy Convertite;
She there remains a hopless Cast-away:
He in his Speed looks for the Morning Light;
She prays she never may behold the Day.
For Day (quoth she) Night-scapes doth open lay:
  And my true Eyes have never practis'd how
  To cloak Offences with a cunning Brow.
They think not but, that every Eye can see
The same Disgrace, which they themselves behold:
And therefore would they still in Darkness lie,
To have their unseen Sin remain untold.
For they their Guilt with weeping will unfold,
  And grave like Water that doth eat in Steel,
  Upon their Cheeks what helpless Shame they 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
Some purer Chest to close so pure a Mind.
  Frantick with Grief, thus breaths she forth her Spight
  Against the unseen Secrecy of Night.
O Comfort-killing Night! Image of Hell!
Dim Register and Notary of Shame!
Black Stage for Tragedies and Murders fell!
Vast Sin-concealing Chaos! Nurse of Blame!
Blind muffl'd Bawd! dark Harbour of Defame!
  Grim Cave of Death! whispering Conspirator
  With close-tongued Treason and the Ravisher!
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
  His wonted Height, yet e'er he go to Bed,
  Knit poisonous Clouds about his golden Head.
With rotten Damps ravish the Morning Air,
Let their exhal'd unwholesom Breaths make sic
The Life of Purity, the supreme Fair,
E'er he arrive his weary Noon-tide Prick:
And let thy misty Vapors 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,
The silver-shining Queen he would disdain,
Her twinkling Handmaids too (by him defil'd)
Thro' Night's black Bosom should not peep again.
So should I have Copartners in my Pain;
  And Fellowship in Woe doth Woe asswage,
  As Palmers, that make short their Pilgrimage.
Where now have I 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, alone must sit and pine;
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-recking Smoke,
Let not the jealous Day behold that Face,
Which underneath thy black all-hiding Cloak
Immodestly lies 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.

Make me not Object to the tell-tale Day;
The Light shall shew, character'd in my Brow,
The Story of sweet Chastity's Decay,
The impious Breach of holy Wedlock's Vow.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
  To cipher what is writ in learned Books,
  Will quote my loathsom Tespass 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,
Will couple my Reproach to Tarquin's Shame.
Feast-finding Ministrels tuning my Defame,
  Will tie the Hearers to attend each Line,
  How Tarquin wronged me, I Colatine.
Let my good Name, that senseless Reputation,
For Colatine's dear Love be kept unspotted:
If that be made a Theme for Disputation,
The Branches of another Root are rotted,
And undeserv'd Reproach to him allotted,
  That is as clear from this Attaint of mine,
  And I, e'er this, was pure to Colatine.
O! unseen Shame, invisible Disgrace!
O! unfelt Sore, crest-wounding private Scar!
Reproach is stampt in Colatinus Face,
And Tarquin's Eye may read the Mote afar,
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 Colatine, thine Honour lay in me,
From me, by strong Assault, it is bereft.
My Hony 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 wandring Wasp hath crept,
  And suck'd the Hony which thy chast Bee kept.
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,
  And talk'd of Vertue; O unlook'd for Evil!
  When Vertue is prophan'd in such a Devil.
VVhy should the Worm intrude the maiden Bud?
Or hateful Cuckows hatch in Sparrows Nests?
Or Toads infect fair Founts with Venom Mud?
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 Gold,
Is plagu'd with Cramps, and Gouts and painful Fits;
And scarce hath Eyes his Treasure to behold,
But like still pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless Bans the Harvest of of his Wits:
  Having no other Pleasure of his Gain,
  But Torment, that it cannot cure his Pain.
  So then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd by his Young,
Who in their Pride do presently abuse it:
Their Father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed blessed Fortune long.
  The Sweets we wish for turn to loathed Sours,
  E'en in the Moment, that we call them ours.

Unruly Blasts wait on the tender Spring;
Unwholesome Weeds take Root with precious Flowers;
The Adder hisseth where the sweet Birds sing;
What Vertue 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.
O! Oportunity! thy Guilt is great;
'Tis thou, that execut'st 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 spurnst at Right, at Law, at Reason;
  And in thy shady Cell, where none may spy her,
  Sits Sin to seize the Souls, that wander by her.
Thou mak'st the Vestal violate her Oath;
Thou blow'st the Fire when Temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'st Honesty, thou murder'st Troth:
Thou foul Abettor, thou notorious Bawd!
Thou plantest Scandal, and displacest Laud.
  Thou Ravisher, thou Traitor, thou false Thief!
  Thy Hony turns to Gall, thy Joy to Grief.
Thy secret Pleasure turns to open Shame;
Thy private Feasting to a publick Fast;
Thy smothering Titles to a ragged Name;
Thy sugar'd Tongue to bitter Worm-wood Taste:
Thy violent Vanities can never last.
  How comes it then, vile Opportunity,
  Being so bad, such Numbers seek for thee?
When wilt thou be the humble Suppliants Friend?
And bring him where his Suit may be obtain'd?
When wilt thou sort an Hour great Strife's to end?

Or free that Soul, which Whretchedness hath chain'd?
Give Physick to the sick, Ease to the pain'd?
  The Poor, Lame, Blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee,
  But they ne'er met with Opportunity.
The Patient dies while the Physician sleeps;
The Orphan pines while the Oppressor feeds;
Justice is feasting while the VVidow weeps;
Advice is sporting while Infection breeds;
Thou grant'st no time for charitable Deeds.
  VVrath, Envy, Treason, Rape and Murder rages,
  Thy henious Hours wait on them as their Pages.
When Truth and Vertue have to do with thee,
A thousand Crosses keep them from thy Aid;
They buy thy Help, but Sin ne'er gives a Fee,
He gratis comes, and thou art well apaid,
As well to hear, as grant what he hath said.
  My Colatine would else have come to me,
  When Tarquin did, but he was staid by thee.
Guilty thou art of Murder and of Theft;
Guilty of Perjury and Subornation;
Guilty of Treason, Forgry and Shift;
Guilty of Incest, that Abomination;
An Accessary by thine Inclination
  To all Sins past, and all thaat are to come
  From the Creation to the general Doom.
Mishapen Time, Copesemate of ugly Night;
Swift subtle Post, Carrier of grisly Care;
Eater of Youth, false Slave to false Delight
Base Watch of Woes, Sin's Pack-horse, Vertue's Snare,
Thou nursest all, and murderest all that are.
  O! hear me then, injurious shifting Time!
  Be guilty of my Death, since of my Crime.

Why hath thy Servant Opportunity
Betray'd the Hours, thou gav'st me to repose?
Cancel'd my Fortunes and inchained me
To endless Date of never-ending Woes?
Time's Office is to find the Hate of Foes;
  To eat up Error by Opinion bred,
  Not spend the Dowry of a lawful Bed.
Time's Glory is to calm contending Kings;
To unmask Falshood, and bring Truth to Light;
To stamp the Seal of Time in aged things;
To wake the Morn, and centinel the Night;
To wrong the Wronger till he render Right;
  To ruinate proud Buildings with thy Hours,
  And smear with Dust their glittering golden Towers.
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 antient Ravens Wings;
To dry the old Oak's Sap, and cherish Springs;
  To spoil Antiquities of hammer'd Steel,
  And turn the giddy Round of Fortune's Wheel.
To shew the Beldame Daughters of her Daughter;
To make the Child a Man, the Man a Child;
To slay the Tyger, that doth live by Slaughter;
To tame the Unicorn and Lion wild;
To mock the Subtle in themselves beguil'd;
  To chear the Plowman with increaseful Crops,
  And waste huge Stones with little Water-drops.
Why work'st thou Mischief in thy Pilgrimage,
Unless thou could'st return to make amends?
One poor retiring Minute, in an Age,

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand Friends,
Lending him Wit, that to bad Debtors lends.
  O! this dread Night! wouldst thou one Hour come back,
  I could prevent this Storm, and shun this Wrack.
Thou ceaseless Lacky to Eternity,
With some Mischance cross Tarquin in his Flight.
Devise Extremes beyond Extremity
To make him curse this cursed crimeful Night.
Let ghastly Shadows his lewd Eyes affright,
  And the dire Thought of his committed Evil
  Shape every Bush a hideous shapeless Devil.
Disturb his Hours of Rest with restless Trances;
Afflict him in his Bed with bedrid Groans.
Let there bechance him pitiful Mischances,
To make him moan, but pity not his Moans.
Stone him with harden'd Hearts harder, than Stone,
  And let mild Women to him lose their Mildness;
  Wilder to him, than Tygers in their Wildness.
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 do's 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 Time
  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 Deaths-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 mist,
  But little Stars may hide them when they list.
The Crow may bathe his cole-black Wings in Mire,
And unperceiv'd 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 gaz'd upon with every Eye.
Oh! idle Words, Servants to shallow Fools;
Unprofitable Sounds, weak Arbitrators;
Busy your selves in skill contending Schools;
Debate where Leisure serves with dull Debators:
To trembling Clients be their Mediators:
  For me, I force not Argument a Straw,
  Since that my Case is past all Help of Law.
In vain I rail at Opportunity,
At Time, at Tarquin, and unsearchful Night!
In vain I cavil with mine Infamy,

In vain I spurn at my confirm'd Despight:
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 quiverst thou at this Decree?
Honour thy self to rid me of this Shame;
For if I die, my Honour-lives in thee:
But if I live, thou liv'st in my Defame;
Since thou couldst not defend thy Loyal Dame,
  And wast afraid to scratch her wicked Foe,
  Kill both thy self 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 thro' her Lips so vanisheth,
  As Smoke from Ætna, that in Air consumes,
  Or that which from discharg'd 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 Fauchion 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: Oh 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 stol'n away,
  To burn the guiltless Casket where it lay.

Well, well, dear Colatine, thou shalt not know
The stained Taste of violated Troth:
I will not wrong thy true Affection so,
To flatter thee with an infring'd Oath,
This bastard Grass 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,
Nor laugh with his Companions at thy State.
But thou shalt know thy Interest was not bought
Basely with Gold, but stoln 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 first 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 Sluces,
  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-tun'd Warble of her nightly Sorrow;
And solemn Night with slow sad Gate descended
To ugly Hell; when lo the blushing Morrow
Lends Light to all fair Eyes, that Light would borrow.
  But cloudy Lucrece shames her self 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 thro' my Window? Leave thy peeping,
Mock with thy tickling Beams, Eyes, that are sleeping.
  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 way-ward once, his Mood with nought agrees.
Old Woes, not instant Sorrows bear them mild;
Continuance tames the one, the other wild,
  Like an unpractis'd Swimmer plunging still,
  With too much Labour drowns for want of Skill.
So she deep trenched in a Sea of Care,
Holds Disputation with each thing she views;
And to her self all Sorrow doth compare,
No Object but her Passions Strength renews,
And as one shifts, another straight ensues.
  Sometimes her Grief is dumb, and hath no Words;
  Sometime 'tis mad, and too much Talk affords.
The little Birds, that tune their Mornings 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 pleas'd with Grief's Society.
  True Sorrow then is feelingly surpriz'd,
  When with like Semblance it is simpathiz'd.
'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 ake more;
Great Grief grieves most at that will do it good;
Deep Woes roll forward like a gentle Flood,
  Which being stopt, the bounding Banks o'erflows;
  Grief dallied with, nor Law, nor Limit knows.

You mocking Birds, quoth she, your Tunes in tomb
Within your hollow swelling feather'd Breasts;
And in my hearing be you ever dumb,
My restless Discord loves no Stops nor Rests;
A woful 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 my Tear,
And with deep Groans the Diapason bear.
  For Burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
  While thou on Tereus descants better Skill.
And while 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.
  These Means, as frets upon an Instrument,
  Shall tune our Heartstrings to true Languishment.
And for poor Bird, thou sing'st not in the Day,
As shaming any Eye should thee behold:
Some dark deep Desart seated from the Way,
That knows nor 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 incompast with a winding Maze,

That cannot tread the Way out readily:
So with her self is she in Mutiny,
  To live or die, which of the twain were better,
  When Life is sham'd and Death reproaches Debtor?
To kill my self, 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 swallowed 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 my self was nearer?
When both were kept for Heaven and Colatine.
Ay 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,
Grosly ingirt with daring Infamy.
Then let it not be call'd Impiety,
  If in this blemish'd Fort I make some Hole,
  Thro' which I may convey this troubled Soul.
Yet die I will not; till my Colatine
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;
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 dishonoured 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 reveng'd may'st be.
How Tarquin must be us'd read it in me.
My self thy Friend, will kill my self thy Foe,
  And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
This brief Abridgment of my Will I make:
My Soul and Body to the Skies and Ground,
My Resolution (Husband) do you take;
My 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.
Then Colatine shall oversee this Will,
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 wip'd the brinish Pearl from her bright Eyes,
With untun'd Tongue she hoarsly call'd her Maid,

VVhose swift Obedience to her Mistress hies,
For fleet-wing'd Duty with Thought's Feathers lies.
  Poor Lucrece Cheeks unto her Maid seem so,
  As VVinter Meads, when Sun do's melt their Snow.
Her Mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
VVith soft flow Tongue, true Marks of Modesty;
And sorts a sad Look to her Ladies Sorrow,
(For why her Face wore Sorrow's Livery).
But durst not ask of her audaciously
  VVhy her two Suns were cloud-eclipsed so?
  Nor why her fair Cheeks over-wash'd with VVoe?
But as the Earth doth weep, the Sun being set,
Each Flower moisten'd like a melting Eye:
E'en so the Maid with swelling Drops gan wet
Her circled Eyne enforced, by Simpathy
Of those fair Suns set in her Mistress Sky;
  VVho in a salt-wav'd Ocean quench their Light,
  VVhich 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 ghess 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 opprest, th' 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 shall be accounted Evil,
  Wherein is stampt the Semblance of a Devil.

Their Smoothness, like a Champain Plain,
Lays open all the little Worms, that creep.
In Men, as a rough grown Grove remain
Cave-keeping Evils, that obscurely sleep;
Thro' Christal Walls each little Mote will peep.
  Tho' Men can cover Crimes with bold stern Look,
  Poor Womens Faces are their own Faults Books.
No Man invieghs against the wither'd Flower,
But chides rough Winter, that the Flower has killd:
Not that's devour'd, but that, which doth devour
Is worthy Blame, O let it not be held
Poor Womens Faults, that they are so fulfill'd
  With Mens Abuses, those proud Lords to blame,
  Make weak-mad 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.
  The dying Fear thro' 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 (raining?
Those Tears from thee, that down thy Cheeks are
If thou dost weep for Grief of my sustaining,
  Know gentle Wench, it small avails my Mood,
  If Tears cou'd 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, e'er I was up (reply'd the Maid)

The more to blame my sluggard Negligence:
Yet with the Fault I thus far can dispense,
  My self was stirring e'er the break of Day,
  And e'er 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 hovering o'er the Paper with her Quill;
Conceit and Grief an eager Combat fight,
What Wit sets down is blotted still with Will;
This is too curious good, this blunt and ill;
  Much like a Press of People at a 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
(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, tho' my Words are brief.

Here folds she up the Tenor of her Woe,
Her certain Sorrow writ uncertainly;
By this short Schedule Colatine may know
Her Grief, but not her Grief's true Quality;
She dares not therefore make Discovery,
  Lest he should hold it her own gross Abuse,
  E'er she with Blood had stain'd her stain'd Excuse.
Besides the Life and feeling of her Passion,
She hords 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 wou'd 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 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.
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-fac'd Groom to hie as fast,
As lagging Souls before the Northern Blast.
  Speed, more, than Speed, but dull and slow she deems,
  Extremity still urgeth such Extremes.
The homely Villain cursies 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 lie.
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 blaz'd.
She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's Lust;
And blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd,
Her earnest Eye did make him more amaz'd:
  The more she saw the Blood his Cheeks replenish,
  The more she thought he spy'd in her some blemish.
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,
Threatning 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 Objects 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 gleem'd forth their ashy Lights,
  Like dying Coals burnt out in tedious Nights.
There might you see the labouring Pioneer
Begrim'd with Sweat, and smeared all with Dust;
And from the Towers of Troy there wou'd appear
The very Eyes of Men thro' 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;
  VVhich heartless Peasants did so well resemble,
  That one wou'd swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O! what Art
Of Physiognomy might one behold!
The Face of either cipher'd either's Heart;
Their Face, their Manners most expresly told.
In Ajax Eyes blunt Rage and Rigor roll'd.
  But the mild Glance that she Ulysses lent,
  Shew'd deep Regard and smiling Government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere incouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober Actions with his Hand,

That it beguil'd Attention, charm'd the Sight:
In Speech it seem'd his Beard, all silver white,
  Wag'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 listning, but with several Graces,
As if some Mairmaid did their Ears intice,
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 swoln 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,
Grip'd in an armed Hand, himself behind
Was left unseen, save 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 thro' their Light Joy seemed to appear,
  (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy Fear.

And from the Strond of Dardan where they fought
To Simois reedy Banks the red Blood ran;
Whose Waves to imitate the Battel sought
With swelling Ridges; and their Ranks began
To break upon the galled Shore, and then
  Retire again, till meeting greater Ranks
  They join, and shoot their Fome 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,
But none where all Distress and Dolour dwell'd,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
  Staring on Priam's Wounds with her old Eyes,
  Who bleeding under Pirrhus proud Foot lies.
In her the Painter had anatomiz'd
Time's Ruin, Beauty's Wrack, and grim Cares Reign;
Her Cheeks with Chops and Wrinkles were disguis'd.
Of what she was, no Semblance did remain;
Her blue Blood chang'd to black in every Vein.
  Wanting the Spring, that those shrunk Pipes had fed,
  Shew'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.
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 drop sweet Balm in Priam's painted Wound,

And rail on Pirrhus, 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.
Shew me this 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 publick Plague of many moe?
Let Sin alone committed light alone
Upon his Head, that hath transgressed so.
Let guiltless Souls be freed from guilty Woe.
  For ones 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 Troylus 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 doting 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 a ringing, with his own Weight goes;
Then little Strength rings out the doleful Knell.
So Lucrece set awork, sad Tales doth tell
  To pencil'd Pensiveness, and colour'd Sorrow;
  She lends them VVords, and she their Looks doth borrow,

She throws her Eyes about the painted 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 tho' full of Cares, yet shew'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 Gate, calm Looks, Eyes wailing still,
A Brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome VVoe;
Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but mingled so,
  That blushing Red, no guilty Instance gave,
  Nor a shy 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 insconc'd this secret Evil,
That Jealousy it self could not mistrust,
False creeping Craft and Perjury should thrust
  Into so bright a Day such black-fac'd Storms,
  Or blot with Hell-born Sin such Saint-like Forms.
The well-skill'd VVoman this wild Image drew
For perjur'd Sinon, whose inchanting 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,
  VVhen their Glass fell wherein they view'd their Faces.
This Picture she advisedly perus'd,
And chid the Painter for his wondrous Skill:
Saying, some Shape in Sinon's was abus'd,

So fair a Form lodg'd not a Mind so ill:
And still on him she gaz'd, 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 Travel he had fainted)
To me came Tarquin armed so beguild
VVith outward Honesty, but yet defil'd
  VVith inward Vice; as Priam him did cherish,
  So did I Tarquin, so my Troy did perish.
Look, look how listning 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 inrag'd such Passion her assails,
That Patience is quite beaten from her Breast;
She tears the sensless Sinon with her Nails,
Comparing him to that unhappy Guest,
VVhose Deed hath made her self her self detest.
  At last she smilingly with this gives o'er,
  Fool, Fool, quoth she, his VVounds will not 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 Sorrows sharp sustaining.
  Tho' VVoe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps,
  And they, that watch, see Time how slow it creeps.
VVhich 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 others Detriment,
Loosing her VVoes in shews of Discontent.
  It easeth some, tho' none it ever cur'd,
  To think their Dolour others have endur'd.
But now the mindful Messenger comes back,
Brings home his Lord, and other Company;
VVho finds his Lucrece clad in mourning Black,
And round-about her tear-distained Eye
Blew Circles stream'd, like Rainbows in the Sky.
  These VVatergalls in her dim Element,
  Foretel new Storms to those already spent.
VVhich when her sad beholding Husband saw,
Amazedly in her sad Face he stares:
Her Eyes, tho' sod in Tears, look red and raw,

Her lively Colour kill'd with deadly Cares.
He has no Power to ask her how she fares,
  But stood like old Acquaintance in a Trance,
  Met far from Home, wondring each others 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 attir'd 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
E'er 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 Colatine and his consorted Lords
  With sad Attention long to hear her Words.
And now this pale Swan in her wat'ry Nest,
Begins the sad Dirge of her certain ending.
Few Words, quoth she, shall fit the Trespass best,
Wherein 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 that Wrong else may be imagined
  By foul Inforcement might be done to me,
  From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.

For in the dreadful Dead of dark Midnight,
With shining Fauchion in my Chamber came
A creeping Creature with a flaming Light,
And softly cry'd, 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 yoak thy Liking to my Will,
I'll murder streight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
The loathsome Act of Lust; and so did kill
  The Leachers 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 sets his Sword,
Swearing, 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,
  Th' Adult'rate 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 forbad my Tongue to speak:
No rightful Plea might plead for Justice there:
His scarlet Lust came Evidence to swear,
  That my poor Beauty had purloin'd his Eyes;
  And when the Judge is rob'd, the Prisoner dies.
O! teach me how to make mine own Excuse,
Or, at the least this Refuge let me find;
Tho' my gross Blood be stain'd with this Abuse,

Immaculate and spotless is my Mind.
That was not forc'd, that never was inclin'd
  To accessary Yieldings, but still pure
  Doth in her poison'd Closet yet indure.
Lo! here the hopeless Merchant of this Loss,
With Head inclin'd, and Voice dam'd up with VVoe.
VVith sad set Eyes, and wretched Arms across,
From Lips new waxen pale begins to blow
The Grief away, that stops his Answer so.
  But wretched as he is, he strives in vain,
  VVhat he breathes out, his Breath drinks up again.
As thro' an Arch, the violent roaring Tide
Out-runs the Eye, that doth behold his Haste;
Yet in the Eddie boundeth in his Pride,
Back to the Strait, that forc'd him on so faste,
In Rage sent out, recall'd in Rage being past:
  Even so his Sighs, his Sorrows make a Saw,
  To push Grief on, and back the same Grief draw.
VVhich speechless VVoe of his poor she attendeth,
And his untimely Frenzy thus awaketh.
Dear Lord, thy Sorrow to my Sorrow lendeth
Another Power, no Flood my raining slacketh;
My VVoe too sensible thy Passion maketh
  More feeling painful, let it then suffice
  To drown one VVoe, one Pair or weeping Eyes.
And for my sake when I might charm thee so,
For she, that was thy Lucrece—now attend me,
Be suddenly revenged on my Foe.
Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past, the Help, that thou shalt lend me
  Comes all to late, yet let the Traitor die;
  For sparing Justice feeds Iniquity.

But e'r I name him, you fair Lor'ds, quoth she,
(Speaking to those, that came with Colatine)
Shall plight your honourable Faiths to me,
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,
Each present Lord began to promise Aid,
As bound in Knighthood to her Imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful Foe bewray'd:
But she that yet her sad Task hath not said,
  The Protestation stops. O speak quoth she,
  How may this forced Stain be wip'd from me?
What is the Quality of my Offence,
Being constrain'd with dreadful Circumstances?
May my pure Mind with the foul Act dispense
My low declined Honour to advance?
May any Terms acquit me from this Chance?
  The poison'd Fountain clears it self again,
  And why not I from this compelled Stain?
  With this they all at once began to say,
Her Body's Stain the Mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless Smile she turns away
The Face, that Map, which deep Impression
Of hard Misfortune carv'd it in with Tears.
  No no, quoth she, no Dame hereafter living
  By my Excuse shall claim Excuses giving.
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,
  She utters this, He, he, fair Lord '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 it from the deep Unrest
Of that polluted Prison where it breathed;
Her contrite Sighs unto the Clouds bequeathed
  Her winged Spright, and thro' her Wounds doth fly
  Life's lasting Date from cancel'd Destiny.
Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly Deed,
Stood Colatine and all his Lordly Crew,
Till Lucrece Father, that beholds her Bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd Body threw:
And from the purple Fountain Brutus drew
  The murd'rous Knife and as it left the Place,
  Her Blood in pure Revenge, held it in Chase.
And bubling 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
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 watry Rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted Place;
And ever since, a, pitying Lucrece woes,
Corrupted Blood, some wat'ry Token shows,
  And Blood untainted still doth red abide,
  Blushing at that which is so putrify'd.

Daughter, dear Daughter, old Lucretius cries,
That Life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd;
If in the Child the Father's Image lies,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd?
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd.
  If Children prædecease Progenitors,
  We are their Off-spring 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 cold,
Shews me a barebon'd Death by Time out-worn.
O! from my Cheeks my Image thou hast torn
  And shiver'd all the Beauty from my Glass,
  That I no more can see what once I was.
O! Time, cease thou thy Course and haste no longer,
If thou surcease to be, that should survive:
Shall rotten Death make Conquest of the Stronger,
And leave the faltring feeble Souls alive?
The old Bees die, the young possess their Hive;
  Then live sweet Lucrece, live again and see
  Thy Father die, and not thy Father thee.
By this starts Colatine 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,
And counterfeits to die with her a Space;
  Till manly Shame bids him possess his Breath,
  And live to be revenged on her Death.
The deep Vexation of his inward Soul
Hath serv'd a dumb Arrest upon his Tongue,
Who made that Sorrow should his use controul,

Or keep him from heart-easing Words so long,
Begins to talk, but thro' his Lips do throng
  Weak Words, so thick come in his poor Heart's Aid,
  That no Man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
But thro' his Teeth, as if his Name he tore.
This windy Tempest, till it blow up Rain,
Held back his Sorrow's Tide to make it more.
At last it rains, and busy Windsgive o'er:
  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 they lay.
The Father says, she's mine; O mine she is,
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 Colatine.
O! quoth Lucretius, I did give that Life,
Which she too early and too late hath spil'd.
Wo! wo! quoth Colatine, she was my Wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine, that she hath kill'd.
My Daughter and my Wife with Clamours fill'd
  The disperst Air, who holding Lucrece Life,
  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 cloath his Wit in State and Pride,
Burying in Lucrece Wound his Follies show:
He with the Romans was esteemed so,
  As silly jeering Ideots are with Kings,
  For sportive Words, and uttering foolish Things.

But now he throws that shallow Habit by,
Wherein the Policy did him disguise,
And arm'd his long-hid VVits advisedly,
To check the Tears in Colatinus Eyes.
Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise;
  Let my unsounded Self, suppos'd a Fool,
  Now set thy long experienc'd VVit to School.
VVhy Colatine, is VVo the Cure for VVo?
Do VVounds help VVounds, or Grief help grievous Deeds?
Is it Revenge to give thy self a Blow
For his foul Act, by whom thy fair VVife bleeds?
Such childish Humour from weak Minds proceeds,
  Thy wretched VVife mistook the matter so,
  To slay her self, that should have slain her Foe.
Couragious Roman, do not steep thy Heart
In such lamenting Dew of Lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy Part,
To rouse our Roman Gods with Invocations,
That they will suffer these Abominations;
  (Since Rome her self in them doth stand disgrac'd)
  By our strong Arms from forth her fair Streets chas'd.
Now by the Capitol, that we adore!
And by this chast Blood so unjustly stain'd!
By Heaven's fair Sun, that breeds the fat Earth's Store!
By all our Country Rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chast Lucrece Soul, that late complain'd
  Her VVrongs to us, and by this bloody Knife!
  VVe will revenge the Death of this true VVife.
This said, he strook his Hand upon his Breast,
And kiss'd the fatal Knife to end his Vow:
And to his Protestation urg'd the rest,

VVho wondring at him did his VVords allow;
Then jointly to the ground their Knees they bow,
  And that deep Vow which Brutus made before,
  He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advised Doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To shew the bleeding Body throughout Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul Offence.
VVhich being done, with speedy Diligence,
  The Romans plausibly did give consent,
  To Tarquin's everlasting Banishment.

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