And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,
  And girdle with embracing flames the waist
  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.
Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let^{3 note}
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
  Where mortal stars^{4 note}

In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
  That kings might be espoused to more fame,
  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame^{5 note}

His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows^{4 note}.
  O rash-false heat, wrapt in repentant cold^{5 note}

Which of them both should underprop her fame:
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;
  When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
  Virtue would stain that or with silver white^{7 note}

  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,
Argued by beauty's red, and virtue's 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 sovereignty of either being so great,
  That oft they interchange each other's seat.
This silent war of lilies and of roses
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field^{9 note},
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses^{1 note}

Where, lest 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 Collatine doth owe^{2 note}


,
  Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
  In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.
This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth the false worshipper;
For thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream on evil;
Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear^{3 note}

:
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
  And reverend welcome to her princely guest,
  Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:

For that he colour'd with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty^{4 note}
;
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^{5 note}

,
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books^{6 note}

  Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,
  And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there.
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,
  Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
  And in her vaulty prison stows the day^{9 note}

With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:
Now leaden slumber^{3 note}
with life's strength doth fight;
  And every one to rest himself betakes,
  Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that wakes^{4 note}

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 battles' rage;
  Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
  The death of all, and all together lost.
So that in vent'ring ill^{7 note}

  The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,
  While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.
And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
The 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^{2 note},
  Beaten away by brain-sick rude Desire.
His falchion 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 lode-star to his lustful eye^{3 note}
;
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^{4 note}


.
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
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^{5 note},
  And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust.

Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine^{6 note}


!
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^{7 note}.
O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my houshold's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave* ^note
!
True valour still a true respect should have;
  Then my digression^{8 note}

To cipher me, how fondly I did dote;
That my posterity, sham'd 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^{1 note}

?
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 straight be strucken down?
If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
  This dying virtue, 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 forego their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
  And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
  But coward-like with trembling terror die.
Had Collatinus 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 quittal of such strife:
  But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend^{2 note}

,
  The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.
Shameful it is;—ay, if the fact be known^{3 note}

  All pure effects^{5 note}

, and doth so far proceed,
  That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.
Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard news* ^note from the warlike band
Where her beloved Collatinus 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^{6 note}.
And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd^{7 note}
,
Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,
  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 pleadeth;
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;
  And when his gawdy banner is display'd^{8 note},
  The coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.

Then childish fear avaunt! debating die!
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand mine eye:
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage^{9 note}
;
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage^{1 note}

  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 leader's jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours^{3 note}

;
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 marcheth to Lucrece' bed^{4 note}.
The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforc'd, retires his ward^{5 note}

He takes for accidental things of trial;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
  Who with a ling'ring stay his course doth let^{3 note}
,
  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^{4 note}

  But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
  Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks^{3 note}

  That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;
  But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.
O, had they in that darksome prison died,
Then had they seen the period of their ill!
Then Collatine again by Lucrece' side,
In his clear bed^{6 note}

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 lily hand her rosy cheek lies under^{7 note},
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss^{8 note}

^note,
“And shew'd like unmelt snow unto the sight:
  “There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep
  “The rest o' the body that lay fast asleep.

III.
“Her eyes (and therefore it was night) close laid,
“Strove to imprison beauty till the morn;
“But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made,
“That it broke through and shew'd itself in scorn;
  “Throwing a kind of light about the place,
  “Which turn'd to smiles, still as't came near her face.

IV.
“Her beams, which some dull men call'd hair, divided
“Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport;
“But these, as rude, her breath put by still: some† ^note
“Wiselier downward sought; but falling short,
  “Curl'd back in rings, and seem'd to turn again
  “To bite the part so unkindly held them in.” Malone.;
Who 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^{9 note}

,
  To be admir'd of lewd unhallow'd eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet; whose perfect white
Show'd like an April daisy on the grass,

With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night^{1 note}
.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath'd their light^{2 note}




,
  And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay,
  Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her breath;
O modest wantons! wanton modesty!
Showing life's triumph^{3 note} in the map of death^{4 note}
,
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^{5 note}


,
  But that life liv'd in death, and death in life.
Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered^{6 note},
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew^{7 note}

,

And him by oath they truly honoured^{8 note}

  His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
  Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins:
And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting^{2 note}

  Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
  Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They mustering to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,
And fright her with confusion of their cries:
She, much amaz'd, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes,
  Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
  Are by his flaming torch dimm'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,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking;
What terrour 'tis! but she, in worser taking,
  From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
  The sight which makes supposed terrour true^{6 note}
.
Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies^{7 note}



;
She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting anticks, ugly in her eyes:
Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries^{8 note}
;
  Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights* ^note
,
  In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand that yet remains upon her breast,
(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall!)
May feel her heart (poor citizen!) distress'd,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal^{9 note}

And the red rose blush at her own disgrace^{3 note}


,)
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 forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide,
My will that marks thee for my earth's delight^{4 note}
,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might;
  But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
  By thy bright beauty was it newly bred^{5 note}
.
I see what crosses my attempt will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rose defends;
I think the honey guarded with a sting^{6 note};
All this, beforehand, 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^{7 note}






, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;

But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
  Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;
  Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which like a faulcon towering in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade^{8 note}

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 embrace him.
So thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye^{1 note}
;
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy^{2 note}:
And thou, the author of their obloquy,
  Shall have thy trespass cited up in rhimes^{3 note}

Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hindering their present fall by this dividing;
  So his unhallow'd haste her words delays,
  And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.
Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth:
Her sad behaviour feeds his vultur folly* ^note
,
A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth:
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
  No penetrable entrance to her plaining:
  Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face^{4 note};
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed,
Which 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 ere once she speaks^{5 note}




.

She cònjures 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^{6 note}


With such black payment as thou hast pretended^{7 note}

;
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^{8 note}

  He is no wood-man that doth bend his bow
  To strike a poor unseasonable doe.
My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me;
Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me;
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me.
Thou look'st not like deceit; do not deceive me:
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee.
  If ever man were 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-threatening 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^{9 note}.
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 seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring^{1 note}





?

If in thy hope thou dar'st do such outrage,
What dar'st thou not when once thou art a king^{2 note}


?
O be remember'd^{3 note}

, no outrageous thing
  From vassal actors can be wip'd away;
  Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay* ^note

Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride:
The lesser thing should not the greater hide;
  The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
  But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.
So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state—
No more, quoth he, by heaven, I will not hear thee:
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,
Instead of love's coy touch^{2 note}, 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, them most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seiz'd his prey, the poor lamb cries^{3 note}

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.
O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed^{5 note}

Ere he can see his own abomination.
While lust is in his pride, no exclamation
  Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,
  Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire^{8 note}


.
And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheek,
With 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 doth fight with grace,
  For there it revels; and when that decays,
  The guilty rebel for remission prays.
So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chased;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of times he stands disgraced:
Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced;
  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 wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death, and pain perpetual:
  Which in her prescience she controlled still,
  But her fore-sight could not fore-stall their will.

Even in this thought, through the dark night he stealeth,
A captive victor, that hath lost in gain^{9 note}
;
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will, despite of cure, remain,
Leaving his spoil^{1 note}


perplex'd in greater pain.
  She bears the load of lust he left behind,
  And he the burthen of a guilty mind.
He, like a theevish dog, creeps sadly thence,
She like a wearied lamb lies panting there;
He scouls, 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^{2 note}

,
She there remains a hopeless cast-away^{3 note}
:
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^{4 note}
;

  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 be^{5 note}
,
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 my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.
Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind^{6 note}

.
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 breathes she forth her spite
  Against the unseen secrecy of night.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell^{7 note}
!
Dim register and notary of shame!
Black stage for tragedies^{8 note} and murders fell!

Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!
Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for 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 ere he go to bed,
  Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.
With rotten damps ravish the morning air;
Let their exhal'd unwholesome breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair^{9 note}


,
Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick^{1 note}

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-reeking 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 sepùlcher'd in thy shade^{9 note}

!
Make me not object to the tell-tale day!
The light will shew, charàcter'd^{1 note}

  But no perfection is so absolute^{8 note}

  Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages,
  Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.
When Truth and Virtue 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 appay'd^{8 note}
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
  My Collatine would else have come to me
  When Tarquin did, but he was stay'd by thee.
Guilty thou art of murder and of theft;
Guilty of perjury and subornation;
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift;
Guilty of incest, that abomination:
An accessary by thine inclination
  To all sins past, and all that are to come,
  From the creation to the general doom.
Mishapen Time, copesmate^{9 note}
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, virtue'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 enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes^{1 note}

Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
To make him moan, but pity not his moans:
Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones;
  And let mild women to him lose their mildness,
  Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.
Let him have time to tear his curled hair^{3 note}

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^{4 note}

  Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,
  But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.
Out idle words^{6 note}

  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 liv'st 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 be-tumbled couch she starteth,
To find some desperate instrument of death.
But this no-slaughter-house no tool imparteth,
To make more vent for passage of her breath,
Which thronging through her lips so vanisheth
  As smoke from Ætna, 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^{1 note};
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^{2 note}

  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 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^{3 note},
Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees.
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild;
Continuance tames the one; the other wild,
  Like an unpractiz'd swimmer plunging still,
  With too much labour drowns for want of skill.
So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare;
No object but her passion's strength renews;
And as one shifts, another straight ensues:
  Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words;
  Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords^{4 note}



.

The little birds that tune their morning's joy,
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody^{5 note}

(My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests^{7 note}
:)
  Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears^{8 note}

  And all my fame that lives, disbursed be
  To those that live, and think no shame of me.
Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this Will^{1 note}

And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow^{4 note}
,
(For why? her face wore sorrow's livery;)
But durst not ask of her audaciously
  Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
  Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set^{5 note}
,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye^{6 note}

;
Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy
Of those fair suns, set in her mistress sky,
  Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light,
  Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night^{7 note}
.
A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling* ^note
:
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 others' smarts,
  And then they drown their eyes, or break their hearts:
For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they form'd as marble will^{8 note};
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 shall be accounted evil,
  Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil^{9 note}





.
Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep;
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep:
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^{1 note}

.

No man inveigh against the wither'd flower^{2 note}
,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd!
Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O let it not be hild* ^note
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd
  With men's abuses^{3 note}

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 stay'd
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 hovering o'er the paper with her quill:
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;
What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:

  Much like a press of people at a door,
  Throng her inventions, which shall go before^{6 note}



.
At last she thus begins: “Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person! next vouchsafe to 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^{7 note}

  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^{8 note}

;
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold^{9 note}


,
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^{1 note}

For Helen's rape the city to destroy,
Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy^{7 note}

Another, smother'd, seems to pelt and swear^{7 note};
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,
  As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words,
  It seem'd they would debate with angry swords* ^note

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 strond 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^{1 note}

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,
  Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies^{3 note}.
In her the painter had anatomiz'd
Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign;
Her cheeks with chaps 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,
  Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes^{4 note},
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 drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long;
  And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
  Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

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 doth 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^{5 note}?
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 swounds^{6 note}

Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:
So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell
  To pencil'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow;
  She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.
She throws her eyes about the painting, round^{8 note}
,
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 the blunt swains he goes,
  So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes^{9 note}

That jealousy itself 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 workman this mild image drew
For perjur'd 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^{3 note}

  And turn'd it thus: “It cannot be, I find,
  But such a face should bear a wicked mind:
For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,
So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,
(As if with grief or travail he had fainted)
To me came Tarquin armed; so beguild^{5 note}

  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 enrag'd, 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;
  Fool! fool! quoth she, his wounds 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 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 overslipp'd her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent;
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
By deep surmise of others' detriment;
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, come 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 rain-bows in the sky.
  These water-galls in her dim element^{7 note}
  Foretell 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'd red and raw^{8 note}
,
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 home, wondering 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 attir'd in discontent^{9 note}

?
  Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,
  And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length address'd to answer his desire^{1 note}
,