THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.  
By Mr. William Shakespeare.  
Newly Revised.  
LONDON: Printed by T. S. for Roger jackson, and are to be sold at his shop near the Conduit in Fleetstreet. 1616.   

TO THE RIGHT Honourable, HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.  
THE Love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end: whereof this Pamphlet without beginning is but a superfluous Moiety. The warrant I have of your Honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutord 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 show greater, mean time, 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, William Shakespeare.   

The Argument.  
LVcius Tarqvinius (for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus) after he had caused his own father in law Servius Tullius to be cruelly murdered, and contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom: went accompanied with his sons and other noble men of Rome to besiege Ardea; during which siege, the principal men of the Army meeting one evening at the Tent of Sextus Tarqvinius, the King's son, in their discourses after supper, every one commended the virtues of his own wife: among whom Colatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they alposted to Rome, and intending by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Colatinus finds his wife (though it were late in the night) spinning amongst her maids, the other Ladies were all found dancing and reveling, or in several disports. Whereupon the Noble men yielded Colatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarqvinius being inflamed with Lucreces beauty, yet smothering his passions 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 entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Colatium. The same night, he treacherously stealeth into her Chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the Camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius: and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done with one consent, they all vowed 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 moved with one consent, and a general acclamation, that the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from Kings to Consuls.   

The Contents.  

1 LUCRECE praises for chaste, virtuous, and beautiful, enamoreth Tarquin.  
2 Tarquin welcomed by Lucrece.  
3 Tarquin overthrows all disputing with wilfulness.  
4 He puts his resolution in practice.  
5 Lucrece awakes and is amazed to be so surprised.  
6 She pleads in defence of Chastity.  
7 Tarquin all impatient interrupteth her, and ravisheth her by force.  
8 Lucrece complains on her abuse.  
9 She disputeth whether she should kill herself or no.  
10 She is resolved on her self-murder, yet sendeth first for her Husband.  
11 Colatinus with his friends return home.  
12 Lucrece relateth the mischief: they swear revenge, and she to exasperate the matter killeth herself.    

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.  


1 The praising of Lucretia as chaste, virtuous and beautiful, maketh Tarquin enamoured.  FRom the besieged Ardea all in post,  
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,  
Lust-breathed TARQUIN leaves the Roman host,  
And to Colatium bears the sightless fire,  
Which in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire  
And girdle with embracing flames the waist,  
Of Collatine's fair loan, Lucrece the chaste.   

Haply that name of chaste, unhaply set  
This batelesse edge on his keen appetite:  
When Collatine unwisely did not let  
To praise the clear unmatched red and white,  
Which triumphed in that sky of his delight,  
Where mortal star as bright as heavens beauties,  
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.   

For he the night before in Tarquin's tent,  
Unlocked the treasure of his happy state:  
What priselesse wealth the heavens had himlent,  
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 enjoyed but of a few,  
And if possessed as soon decayed and done:  
As if the morning's silver melting dew,  
Against the golden splendour of the Sun,  
A date expired: and canceled ere begun.  
Honour and beauty in the owner's arms,  
Are weakly fortressed from a world of harms.   

Beauty itself, doth of itself persuade  
The eyes of men without an Orator,  
What needeth then Apologies be made  
To set forth that which is so singular?  
Or why is Collatine the publisher  
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown,  
From thievish ears because it is his own?   

Perchance his boast of LUCRECE Sovereignty,  
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  
His high pitched thoughts that meaner men should vaunt  
That 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, wrapped in repentant cold,  
Thy hasty spring still blasts and ne'er grows old.   


2 Tarquin welcomed by Lucrece.  When at Colatia this false Lord arrived,  
Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame,  
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived,  
Which of them both should underprop her fame,  
When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame,  
When beauty boasted blushes, in despite  
Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.   

But beauty in that white entitled,  
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field,  
Then virtue claims from beauty, beauties red,  
Which virtue gave the golden age to gild  
Their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield  
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,  
When shame assailed, the red should fence the white.   

This Heraldry in LUCRECE face was seen,  
Argued by beauties red and virtues 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 others seat.   

This silent war of Lilies and of Roses,  
Which Tarquin viewed in her fair faces field,  
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses,  
Where least between them both it should be killed,  
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 praised 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,  
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 unstained do seldom dream on evil.  
" Birds never limbed, no secret bushes fear:  
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer,  
And reverend welcome to her princely guest,  
Whose inward i'll no outward harm expressed.   

For that he coloured with his high estate,  
Hiding base sin in pleats of Majesty:  
That nothing in him seemed 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 cloyed with much, he pineth still for more.   

But she that never copte with stranger eyes,  
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,  
Nor read the subtle shining secrecies  
Writ in the glassy margins of such books,  
She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no books;  
Nor could she moralise his wanton sight,  
More than his eyes were opened to the light.   

He stories to her ears her husband's fame,  
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy:  
And decks with praises Collatine's high name,  
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,  
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory;  
Her joy with heaved-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 wether  
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 than is Tarquin brought unto his bed,  
Intending weariness with heavy spirit:  
For after supper long he questioned  
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:  
Now leaden slumber with lives strength doth fight,  
And every one to rest themselves betake,  
Save thieves, and ears, and troubled minds that wake.   

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving  
The sundry dangers of his wills obtaining:  
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving.  
Though weake-built hopes persuade him to abstaining;  
Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining,  
And when great treasure is the meed proposed,  
Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.   

Those that much covet are with 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 waning age:  
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,  
That one for all, or all for one we gauge:  
As life for honour, in fell battles rage,  
Honour for wealth, and oft that wealth doth cost  
The death of all, and altogether lost.   

So that in venturing ill, 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 than 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 selfe-trust?  
When shall he think to find a stranger just,  
When he himself, himself confounds, betrays  
To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days?   

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,  
When heavy sleep had closed 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 surprise  

3 Tarquin disputing the matter at last resolves to satisfy his lust.  The silly Lambs, pure thoughts are dead and still:  
While lust and Murder wakes to stain and kill.   

And now this lustful Lord leapt from his bed,  
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arms,  
Is madly tossed between desire and dread;  
Th'one sweetly flatters, th'other fearing harm,  
But honest fear, bewitched with lusts foul charm,  
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,  
Beaten away by brainsick rude desire.   

His Fanchion on a flint he softly smiteth,  
That from the cold stone sparks of fire doth fly,  
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,  
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye,  
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly;  
As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,  
So LUCRECE must I force to my desire.   

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 slaughtered lust,  
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust.   

Fair torch burn out thy light, and lend it not  
To darken her whose light excelleth thine:  
And die unhallowed 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 loves modest snowwhite weed.   

O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms,  
O foul dishonour to my households grave:  
O impious act including all foul harms,  
A martial man to be soft fancies slave,  
True valour still a true respect should have:  
Then my digression is so vile, so base,  
That it will live engraven in my face.   

Yea though I die the scandal will survive,  
And be an eyesore in my golden coat:  
Some loathsome dash the Herald will contrive,  
To cipher me how fond 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 sceptre strait be strooken 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 engird 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 ioyuts shake?  
Mine eyes for go their light, my false heart bleed?  
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,  
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,  
But cowardlike with trembling terror die.   

Had Collatinus killed 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 quittall of such strife:  
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,  
The shame and fault finds no excuse not end.   

Shameful 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 saw,  
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 worse sense for vantage still.  
Which in a moment doth confound and kill  
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,  
That what is vile, shows like a virtuous deed.   

Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand,  
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,  
Fearing some hard 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 locked,  
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear:  
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked,  
Until her husband's welfare she did hear,  
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer  
That had Narsissus seen her as fly stood,  
Self-love had never drowned 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 this gaudy banner is displayed,  
The coward fights and will not be dismayed.   

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,  
Than who fears sinking where such treasure lies.   

As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear  
Is almost cloaked by unresisted lust,  
Away he steals with open listening 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 Collatine,  
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 worse part,   

And therein heartens up his servile powers,  
Who flattered 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 bed.   

The locks between her chamber and his will,  
Each one by him enforced, 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-wandering Weezles shriek to see him there,  
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.   

As each unwilling portal yields him way,  
Through 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 her needle sticks,  
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,  
And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks:  
As who should say this glove to wanton tricks  
Is nor enured, 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 taketh for accedentall things of trial,  
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,  
Who with a lingering stay his course doth let,  
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.   

So, so, quoth he, these lets attend the time,  
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,  
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,  
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing,  
Pain pays the income of each precious thing,  
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands,  
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.   

Now is he come unto the chamber door,  
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,  
Which with a yielding latch and with no more,  
Hath bard 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 solicited 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 deflower:  
The powers to whom I pray, abhor this fact  
How can they then assist me in the act?   

Then love and fortune be my Gods, my guide,  
My will is backed with resolution:  
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried,  
Black sin is cleared with absolution,  
Against loves fire, fears frost hath dissolution.  
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night  
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.   

This said his guilty hand plucked 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 ere traitors be espied:  
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside;  
But she sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,  
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.   

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,  
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed:  
The curtains being close, about he walks,  
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head,  
By their high treason is his heart misled.  
Which gives the watchword 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 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 might have reposed still:  
But they must open 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 cheeks lies under,  
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss.  
Who therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,  
Swelling on either side to want his bliss,  
Between whose hills her head entombed is.  
Where like a virtuous monument she lies.  
To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.   

Without the bed her other fair hand was,  
On the green coverlet, whose perfect white  
Showed like an April daisy on the grass,  
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.  
Her eyes like Marigolds had sheathed their light,  
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,  
Till they might open to adorn the day.   

Her hair like golden threads played with her breath,  
O modest wantoness, wanton modesty!  
Showering lives triumph in the map of death,  
And deaths 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 lived in death, and death in life.   

Her breasts like ivory globes cirdled with blue,  
A pair of maiden world's 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 heave the owner out.   

What could he see but mightily he noted?  
What did he note, but strongly he desired?  
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,  
And in his will his wilful eye he tired.  
With more than admiration he admired  
Her azure veins her alabaster skin,  
Her coral lips her snow white dimpled chin.   

As the grim Lion fawneth over his prey,  
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied:  
So o'er this sleeping soul doth TARQUIN stay,  
His rage of lust by gazing qualified.  
Slacked, not suppressed, for standing by her side,  
His eye which late this mutiny restrains,  
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.   

And they like straggling slaves for pillage fight,  
Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting:  
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,  
Nor children's tears nor mother's groans respecting,  
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.  
Anon his beating heart alarm striking,  
Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking.   

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,  
His eye commends the leading to his hand:  
His hand as proud of such a dignity,  
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand  
On her bare breasts, the heart of all her land,  
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 amazed breaks open her locked up eyes.  
Who peeping forth this tumult to behold,  
Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.   

Imagine her as one in dead of night,  
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,  
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly spirit,  

5 Lucretia wakes amazed and confounded to be so surprised  Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking,  
What terror 'tis: but she in worse taking,  
From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view,  
The sight which makes supposed terror rue.   

Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,  
Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies:  
She dares not look, yet winking there appears  
Quick shifting Antiques ugly in her eyes,  
Such shadows are the weak brains 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 wall:)  
May feel her heart (poor Citizen) distressed,  
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall:  
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.  
This moves in him more rage and lesser pity,  
To make the breach, and enter this sweet City.   

First like a trumpet doth his tongue begin,  
To sound a parley to his heartless foe,  
Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,  
The reason of this rash alarm to know,  
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show:  
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,  
Under what colour he commits this ill?   

Thus he replies the colour in thy face,  
That even for anger makes the Lily pale,  
And the red Rose blush at her own disgrace,  
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale.  
Under that colour am I come to scale  
Thy never conquered Fort, the fault is thine,  
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.   

Thus I forestall thee: if thou mean to chide,  
Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,  
Where thou with patience must my will abide,  
My will that marks thee for my earth's delight,  
Which I to conquer sought with all my might.  
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,  
By thy bright beauty 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 affections 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 Falcon towering in the skies,  
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings shade,  
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies.  
So under his insulting Falchion lies  
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells,  
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcons bells.   

Lucrece, quoth he, this night I must enjoy thee;  
If thou deny, than 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 lives 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,  
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,  
Thy issue blurred with nameless bastardy:  
And thou the Author of their obloquy.  
Shall have thy trespass cited up in rhymes,  
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 sometime is compacted  
In purest compounds; being so applied,  
His venom in effect is purified.   

Then for thy husband and thy children's sake,  
Tender my suit, bequeath not to their lot  
The shame that from them no device can take,  
The blemish that will never be forgot:  
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-houres blot:  
For marks descried in men's nativity,  
Are Nature's faults, not their own infamy.   

Here with a Cocka-trice dead kill eye,  
He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause,  
While she the picture of pure piety,  
Like a white Hind beneath the gripes sharp claws,  
Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws.  
To the rough beast, that knows no gentle right,  
Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.   

But when a blacke-faced cloud the world doth threat,  
In his dim mist the aspiring mountain hiding,  
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get,  
Which blow these pitchy vapours from their biding,  
Hindering their present fall by this dividing.  
So his unhallowed haste her words delays,  
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.   

Yet foul night waking Cat he doth but dally,  
While in his holdfast foot the weak mouse panteth.  
Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly.  
A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth.  
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth  
No penetrable entrance to her plaining,  
Tears harden lust, though marble wears with raining.   

Her pitty-pleading eyes are sadly fixed  
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face:  
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed,  
Which to her Oratory adds more grace.  
She puts the period often from his place,  
And midst the sentence so her accent breaks,  
That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.   


6 Lucrece pleadeth in defence of chastity and exprobateth his uncivil lust.  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 borrowed bed, he make retire,  
And stoop to Honour, not to foul desire.   

Quoth she, reward not Hospitality  
With 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 Woodman that doth bend his bow  
To strike a poor unseasonable do.   

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 insnate me.  
Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me.  
My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee:  
If ever man were moved 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 wrack-threatning heart,  
To soften it with their continual motion:  
For stones dissolved, to water do convert.  
O if no harder than a stone thou art,  
Melt at 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, woundst his princely name,  
Thou art not what thou seemest, 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 darest do such outrage.  
What dar'st thou not when once thou art a King?  
O be remembered, no outrageous thing  
From vassal actors can be wiped away  
Then Kings misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.   

This deed shall make thee only loved for fear,  
But happy Monarches still are feared 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 school where lust shall learn?  
Must he in thee read lectures of such shame?  
Will't thou be glass wherein it shall discern  
Authority for sin, warrant for blame?  
To privilege dishonour in thy name.  
Thou back'st reproach against long living laud,  
And mak'st fair Reputation but a bawd.   

Hast thou command? 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 caused thou fulfil  
When patterned by thy fault, foul sin may say,  
He learned 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 wrapped in with infamies,  
That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes.   

To thee, to thee, my heaved up hands appeal,  
Not to seducing lust thy rash reply:  
Isue for exiled majesties repeal,  
Let him return and flattering thoughts retire.  
His true respect will prison false desire,  

7 Tarquin all impatient interrupts her and denied of consent breaketh the enclosure of her chastity by force.  And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyes,  
That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine.   

Have done, quoth he, my uncontrolled 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 pretty streams that pay a daily debt  
To their salt sovereign with their fresh false haste,  
Add to this flow but alter not his taste.   

Thou art (quoth she) a sea, a sovereign King,  
And lo, therefals into thy boundless flood,  
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning.  
Who seek to stain the Ocean of thy blood.  
If all these petty ills shall change thy good,  
Thy sea within a puddle womb is bersed,  
And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.   

So shall these slaves be King, and thou their slave:  
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified:  
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler graise:  
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride,  
The lesser thing should not the greater hide.  
The Cedar stoops not to the base shrubs foot,  
But low shrubs whither 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,  
In stead of loves 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, than most doth tyrannize.  
The Wolf hath seized his Prey, the poor Lamb cries  
Till with her own white fleece her voice controlled,  
Entombs her outcry in her lips sweet fold.   

For with the mighty linen that she wears,  
He pens her piteous clamours in her head,  
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears,  
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.  
O that fowl lust should stain so pure a bed:  
The spots whereof could weeping purify,  
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.   

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,  
And he hath won what he would lose again:  
This forced league doth force a further strife,  
This momentary joy breeds months of pain,  
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 ful-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 surfet-taking TARQUIN fares this night.  
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,  
Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring.   

O deeper sin then bottomless conceit  
Can comprehend in still imagination!  
Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt,  
Ere he can see his own abomination.  
While lust is in his pride no exclamation  
Can curb his heat, of rain his rash desire,  
Till like a jade, self-will himself doth tyre.   

And then with lank and lean discoloured 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 decay,  
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 souls 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 battered 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 foresight could not forestall their will.   

Even in this thought through the dark night he stealeth  
A captive victor that hath lost in gain:  
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,  
The scar that will despite of Cure remain;  
Leaving his spoil perplexed in greater pain.  
She bears the load of lust he left behind,  
And he the burden of a guilty mind.   

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence,  
She like a wearied Lamb lies panting there:  
He scowles and hates himself for his offence,  
She desperate, with her nails, her flesh doth tear,  
He faintly flies, sweeting with guilty fear;  
She stays exclaiming on the direful night;  
He runs and chides his vanished loathed delight.   

He thence departs a heavy convertite,  
She there remains a hopeless castaway:  
He in his speed looks for the morning light:  
She prays she never may behold the day,  
For day, quoth she, night escapes doth open lay:  
And my true eyes have never practised how,  
To cloak offences with a cunning brow.   

They think not but that every eye can see,  
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 my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.   

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,  

8 Lucrece thus abused complains on her misery.  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.  
Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite,  
Against the unseen secrecy of night.   

O comfort-killing night, image of Hell,  
Dim register, and notary of shame,  
Black stage for tragedies 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 proportioned course of time:  
Or if thou wilt permit the Sun to climb  
His wont height, yet ere he go to bed,  
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.   

With rotten damps ravish the morning air,  
Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick  
The life of purity, the supreme fair,  
Ere he arrive his weary noon tide prick.  
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,  
That in their smoky ranks his smothered 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 to (by him defiled)  
Through night's black bosom should not peep again.  
So should I have copartners in my pain.  
And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,  
As Palmers that makers short their Pilgrimage.   

Where now I have no one to blush with me,  
To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine,  
To mask their brows and hide their infamy,  
But I alone, 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 martyred 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 show charactered in my brow,  
The story of sweet chastities decay,  
The impious breach of holy wedlocks vow.  
Yea, the illiterate that know not how  
To cipher what is writ in learned books,  
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.   

The nurse to still her child will tell my story,  
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name:  
The Orator to deck his oratory,  
Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame,  
Feast finding minstrels tuning my defame  
Will tie the hearers to attend each line,  
How Tarquin wronged me, I COLLATINE.   

Let my good name, that senseless reputation,  
For COLLATINE'S dear love be kept unspotted:  
If that be made a theme for disputation,  
The branches of another root are rotten,  
And undeserved reproach to him allotted,  
That is as clear from this attaint of mine,  
As I ere this, was pure to COLLATINE.   

O unseen shame, invisible disgrace!  
O unfelt sore, crest-wounding private scar:  
Reproach is stamped in COLLATINUS face,  
And Tarquin's eye may read the mot a far,  
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.  
Alas how many bear such shameful blows,  
Which not themselves but he that gives them knows?   

If Collatine thine honour lay in me,  
From me by strong assault it is bereft:  
My honey lost, and I a Drone like be,  
Have no perfection of my summer left,  
But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft.  
In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,  
And sucked the honey which thy chaste be kept.   

Yet am I guilty of thy honours wrack;  
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him;  
Coming from thee I could not put him back:  
For it had been dishonour to disdairie him,  
Besides of weariness he did complain him,  
And talk of virtue (O unlooked for evil)  
When virtue is profaned in such a Devil.   

Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?  
Or hateful Cuckoos hatch in Sparrows nests?  
Or Toads infect fair founts with venom mud?  
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 plagued with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits,  
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,  
But like still pining Tantalus he sits,  
And useless bannes the harvest 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 mastered 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 fortunelong.  
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sowers,  
Even in the moment that we call them ours.   

Unruly blast wait on the tender spring,  
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers:  
The Adder hisseth where the sweet birds sing:  
What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:  
We have no good that we can say is ours:  
But ill-annexed Opportunity,  
Or kills his life, or else his quality.   

O Opportunity thy guilt is great;  
'tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason:  
Thou sets the Wolf where he the Lamb may get:  
Who ever plots the sin thou points the season.  
'tis thou that spurnest 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 blowest the fire when Temperance is thawd;  
Thou smotherst honesty, thou murtherst troth:  
Thou fowl abettor, thou notorions bawd:  
Thou plantest scandal, and displacest land.  
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,  
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief.   

Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame;  
Thy private feasting to a public fast:  
Thy smothering titles to a ragged name:  
Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood 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 obtained?  
When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?  
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained?  
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained?  
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;  
But they near met with opportunity.   

The Patient dies while the Physician sleeps;  
The Orphan pines while the Oppressor feeds:  
justice is feasting while the widow weeps:  
advise is sporting while infection breeds,  
Thou grantest no time for charitable deeds,  
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder 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 near gives a fee,  
He gratis comes, and thou art well paid  
As well to hear, as grant what he hath said.  
My Collatine would else have come to me:  
When Tarquin did, but he was stayed 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.   

misshapen time, copesmate of ugly night,  
Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,  
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,  
Base watch of woes, sins packhorse, virtues 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  
Betrayed the hours thou gav'st me to repose?  
canceled my fortunes and enchained me  
To endless date of never-ending woes?  
Time's office is to fine 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 falsehood, and bring truth to light,  
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,  
To wake the morn and sentinel 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 worme-holes stately monuments,  
To feed oblivion with decay of things,  
To blot old books, and alter their contents,  
To pluck the quills from ancient Ravens wings.  
To dry the old oaks sap, and cherish springs.  
To spoil antiquities of hammered steel,  
And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel.   

To show the beldame daughters of her daughter,  
To make the child a man, the man a child,  
To slay the Tiger that doth live by slaughter.  
To tame the Unicorn and Lion wild,  
To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled.  
To cheer the Ploughman with increasefull crops,  
And waste huge stones with little water drops.   

Why workest thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,  
Unless thou couldst return to make amends?  
One poor retiring minute in an age,  
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,  
Lending him wit that to bad dettors lends,  
O this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back  
I could prevent this storm and shun this wrack.   

Thou ceaseless lackey to Eternity,  
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight  
devise extremes beyond extremity,  
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night:  
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 moon, but pity not his moans:  
Stone him with hardened hearts harder than stone,  
And let mild women to him lose their mildness,  
Wilder to him then Tigers 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 times help to despair,  
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,  
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave:  
And time to see one that by alms doth live,  
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.   

Let him have time to see his friends his foes,  
And merry fools to mock at him resort:  
Let him have time to mark how slow time goes  
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short  
His time of folly, and his time of sport.  
And ever let his unrecalling 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 taughts 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 deathsman to so base a slave?   

The base is he, coming from a King,  
To shame his hope with deeds degenerate,  
The mightier man, the mightier is the thing  
That makes him honoured, or begets him hato:  
For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.  
The Moon being clouded presently is missed,  
But little Stars may hide them when they list.   

The Crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,  
And unperceived fly with the filth away,  
But if the like the snowwhite Swan desire,  
The stain upon his silver Down will stay.  
Poor grooms are sightless night, King's glorious day;  
Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,  
But Eagles gazed upon with every eye.   

Our idle words, servants to shallow fools,  
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators,  
Busy yourselves in skil-contending schools,  
Debate where leisure serves with dull debators:  
To trembling Clients be you mediators,  
For me, I force not argument a straw,  
Since that my case is passed the help of law.   

In vain I rail at Opportunity,  
At Time, at Tarquin, and unsearchfull night:  
In vain I cavil with mine infamy,  
In vain I spurn at my confirmed despite:  
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right;  
The remedy indeed to do me good  
Is to let forth my foul defiled blood.   

Poor hand, why quiverest 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 couldst not defend thy loyal Dame:  
And wast afeard to scratch her wicked Foe,  
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.   

This said from her betumbled couch she starts,  
To find some desperate instrument of death,  
But this no slaughter-house no tool imparts,  
To make more vent for passage of her breath,  
Which thrunging through her lips so vanisheth  
As smoke from Aetna, that in air consumes,  
Or that which from discharged Canon fumes.   

In vain (quoth she) I live, and seek in vain  
Some happy mean to end a hapless life:  
I feared by Tarquin's Falchion to be slain,  
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:  
But when I feared, 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 slanders livery,  
A dying life to living infamy.  
Poor helpless help the treasure stolen away,  
To burn the guiltless casket where it lay.   

Well well dear Collatine thou shalt not know  
The stained taste of violated troth:  
I will not wrong thy true affection so,  
To flatter thee with an infringed oath:  
This bastard 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 stolen from forth thy gate,  
For me I am the mistress of my fate  
And with my trespass neverwill dispense,  
Till life to death acquit my forced offence.   

I will not poison thee with my attaint,  
Nor fold my fault in cleanly coined excuses,  
My sable ground of sin I will not paint,  
To hide the truth of this false night's abules:  
My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like sluices  
As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale,  
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.   

By this lamenting Philomele had ended,  
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,  

9 Lucrece continuing herlaments, disputeth whether she should kill herself or no.  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 herself to see,  
And therefore still in night would cloistered 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,  
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 unpractised 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 passions strength renews,  
And as one shifts another strait insewes,  
Sometimes her grief is dumb and hath no words,  
Sometime 'tis mad and too much talk affords.   

The little birds that tune their morning's joy,  
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody,  
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy,  
Sad souls are slain in merry company,  
Grief best is pleased with griefs society?  
True sorrow than is feelingly sufficed  
When with like semblance it is sympathized.   

'tis double death to drown in ken of shore,  
He ten times pines, that pines beholding food,  
To see the salve doth make the wound ache more,  
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good,  
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood.  
Who being stopped, the bounding banks oreflowes,  
Grief dallied with, nor law, nor limit knows.   

You mocking Birds (quoth she) your tunes entomb  
Within your hollow swelling feathered breasts,  
And in my hearing be you ever dumb,  
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests;  
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests.  
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears,  
Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.   

Come Philomele that singest of ravishment,  
Make thy sad grove in my disheveled hear,  
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,  
So I at each sad strain, will strain a tear,  
And with deep groans the Diapason bear:  
For burthenwise I'll hum on Tarquin still,  
While thou on Tereus descants better skill.   

And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,  
To keep thy sharp woes waking wretched I  
To imitate thee well, against my heart  
Will six 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 singest not in the day,  
As shaming any eye should thee behold:  
Some dark deep desert seated from the way,  
That knows nor parching heat, nor freezing cold  
Will we 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 encompassed with a winding maze,  
That cannot tread the way out readily:  
So with herself is she in mutiny,  
To live or die which of the twain were better  
When life is shamed and death reproaches debtor.   

To kill myself quoth she, alack what were it,  
But with my body my poor soul's pollution?  
They that lose half with greater patience bear it,  
Then 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 myself was nearer?  
When both were kept for Heaven and Collatine  
Ay me, the bark piled from the lofty Pine  
His leaves will wither and his sap decay,  
So must my soul, her bark being piled away.   

Her house is sacked, her quiet interrupted,  
Her mansion battered by the enemy,  
Her sacred Temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted,  
Grossly engird with daring infamy,  
Then let it not be called impiety  
If in this blemished for't I make some hole,  
Through which I may convey this troubled soul.   

Yet die I will not till my Collatine  
Have heard the cause of my untimely death,  
That he may vow in that sad hour of mine,  
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 shames ashes shall my Fame be bred:  
For in my death I murder shameful scorn,  
My shame so dead, my honour is new borne.   

Dear Lord of that dear jewel I have lost,  
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?  
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,  
By whose example thou revenged mayst be.  
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me.  
Myself thy friend will kill myself thy foe,  
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.   

This brief abridgement of my will I make,  
My soul and body to the skies and ground,  
My resolution (Husband) do you take,  
Mine honour be the knives that make 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 Collatine 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, my hand shall conquer thee,  
Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.   

This plot of death when sadly she had laid,  
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,  

10 Lucrece resolved to kill herself determines first to send her Husband word.  With untuned tongue she hoarsely called her maid,  
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies,  
For fleet-wingd duty with thoughts feathers flies  
Poor Lucrece cheeks unto her maid seem so,  
As winter meads when Sun doth melt their snow.   

Her mistress she doth give demure good morrow,  
With soft slow tongue, true marks of modesty,  
And sorts a sad look to her Lady's sorrow,  
(For why her face wore sorrows livery.)  
But durst not ask of her audaciously  
Why her two suns were clowd-eclipsed so,  
Nor why her fair cheeks over washed with woe.   

But as the earth doth weep the Sun being set,  
Each flower moistened like a melting eye:  
Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet  
Her circkled eyen enforced, by sympathy  
Of those fair Suns set in her mistress sky,  
Who in a salt-waued Ocean quench their light.  
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.   

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,  
Like ivory conduits coral cesierues filling:  
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand  
No cause, but company of her drops spilling.  
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,  
Grieving themselves to guess at other smarts,  
And then they drown their eyes, or break their hearts.   

For men have marble, women waxen minds,  
And therefore are they formed as marble will,  
The weak oppressed, th' impression of strange kinds,  
Is formed 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 stamped the semblance of a devil.   

Their smoothness like a champain plain,  
Lays open all the little worms that creep,  
In men as in a rough grown grove remain  
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep.  
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep,  
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks  
Poor woman's faces are their own faults books.   

No man inveighs against the withered flower,  
But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed,  
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour  
Is worthy blame, o let it not be held  
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfilled  
With men's abuses, those proud Lords to blame,  
Make weake-made women tenants to their shame.   

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,  
Assailed by night with circumstances strong  
Of present death and shame that mightinsue,  
By that her death to do her husband wrong:  
Such danger to resistance did belong.  
The dying fear through all her body spread,  
And who cannot abuse a body dead?   

By this mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak  
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:  
My girl, quoth she on what occasion break  
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining  
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,  
Know gentle wench, it small avails my mood,  
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.   

But tell me girl, when went (and there she stayed,  
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?  
Madam ere I was up (replied the maid,)  
The more to blame my sluggard negligence:  
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense,  
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,  
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 then I can well express,  
And that deep torture may be called a Hell,  
When more is felt then one hath power to tell.   

Go get me hither, paper, ink, and pen,  
Yet save that labour for I have them hear,  
(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 vouchsafet ' afford  
(If ever love thy LUCRECE thou wilt see)  
Some present speed to come and visit me.  
So I commend me from our house in grief,  
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.   

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,  
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly,  
By this short schedule Collatine may know  
Her grief, but not her griefs true quality  
She dares not thereof make discovery,  
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,  
Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse.   

Besides the life and feeling of her passien,  
She hoards to spend, when he is by to hear her,  
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion  
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her  
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.  
To shun this blot she would not blot the letter,  
With words, till action might become them better.   

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told:  
For then the eye interprets to the ear  
The heavy motion that it doth behold  
When every part a part of woe doth bear:  
'tis but a part of sorrow that we hear.  
Deep sounds make lesser noise then shallow fords,  
And sorrow ebbs being blown with wind of words.   

Her letter now is sealed, and on it writ,  
At Ardea to my Lord with more than haste,  
The Post attends and she delivers it,  
Charging the sour faced groom to high as fast  
As lagging fowls before the Northern blast.  
Speed, more than speed, but dull and slow she deems,  
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.   

The homely villain curtsies to her low,  
And blushing on her with a steadfast eye  
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,  
And forthwith bashful innocence doth lie,  
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,  
Imagine every eye beholds their blame,  
For Lucrece thought he blushed 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,  
Pawned honest looks but laid no words to gauge.   

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,  
That two red fires in both their faces blazed,  
She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin's lust,  
And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed,  
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed:  
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,  
The more she thought he spied 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,  
Threatening cloud-kissing Illium with annoy;  
Which the conceited Painter drew so proud,  
As heaven (it seemed) to kiss the turrets bowed.   

A thousand lamentable objects there  
In scorn of Nature. Art gave lifeless life:  
Many a dire drop seemed a weeping tear.  
Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.  
The red blood reekd to show the painter's strife,  
And dying eyes gleemd forth their ashy lights,  
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights,   

There might you see the labouring Pyoner  
Begrimed with sweat, and smeared all with dust,  
And from the towers of Troy there would appear  
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,  
Gazing upon the greeks with little lust,  
Such sweet observance in this work was had,  
That one might see those far off eyes look sad.   

In great commanders, Grace and Majesty  
You might behold triumphing in their faces,  
In youth quick-bearing and dexterity,  
And here and there the Painter interlaces  
Pale covards marching on with trembling paces,  
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,  
That one would swear he saw them quake & tremble.   

In Ajax and Ulysses, O what Art  
Of Physiognomy might one behold!  
The face of either ciphered either's heart,  
Their face, their manners most expressly told.  
In Ajax eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled.  
But the mild glance that she Ulysses lent,  
show'd deep regard and smiling government.   

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand  
As'twere encouraging the greeks to fight,  
Making such sober action with his hand,  
That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight,  
In speech it seemed his beard, all silver white,  
Waged up and down, and from his lips did fly  
Thin winding breath, which purled up to the sky.   

About him were a press of gaping faces  
Which seemed to swallow up his sound advise:  
All jointly listening, but with several graces,  
As if some Mermaid did their ears entice,  
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.  
The scalps of many almost hid behind,  
To jump up higher seemed to mock the mind.   

Here one man's hand leaned on another's head.  
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour's ear,  
Here one being thronged bears back all boln and red;  
Another smothered, 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 seemed 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  
Gripped in an armed hand, himself behind  
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind,  
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,  
Stood for the whole to be imagined.   

And from the walls of strong besieged Troy,  
When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field,  
Stood many Trojan mothers sharing joy,  
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield,  
And to their hope they such odd action yield,  
That through their light joy seemed to appear,  
(Like bright things stained) a kind of heavy fear.   

And from the strand of Dardan where they fought,  
To Simois reedy banks the red blood ran,  
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought  
With swelling ridges, and their ranks began  
To break upon the galled shore, and than  
Retire again, till meeting greater ranks  
They join, and shoot their some at Simois banks.   

To this well painted piece is Lucrece come,  
To find a face where all distress is steld,  
Many she sees, where cares have carved some,  
But none where all distress and dolour dwelled,  
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,  
Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,  
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.   

In her the Painter had annotimized  
Times ruin, Beauty's wrack, and grim Cares reign,  
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguised,  
Of what she was, no semblance did remain;  
Her blue blood changed to black in every vain,  
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed  
show'd life imprisoned in a body dead.   

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,  
And shapes her sorrow to the Beldames 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 public plague of many more?  
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 Troilus sounds,  
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies:  
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,  
And one man's lust these many lives confounds.  
Had doting Priam checked his sons desire,  
Troy had been bright with Fame, and not with fire.   

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes,  
For sorrow, like a heavy hanging bell,  
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes,  
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:  
So Lucrece set a work, sad tales doth tell  
To penciled pensiveness, and coloured sorrow,  
She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.   

She throws her eyes about the painted round,  
And who she finds forlorn she doth lament:  
At last she sees wretched image bound,  
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent,  
His face though full of cares, yet show'd content,  
Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes,  
So mild, that patience seemed to scorn his woes.   

In him the painter laboured with his skill  
To hide deceit and give the harmless show  
An humble gate, calm looks, eyes wailing still,  
A brow unbent that seemed to welcome woe,  
Cheeks, neither red, nor pale, but mingled so  
That blushing red, no guilty instance gave,  
Nor ashy pale, the fear that false hearts have.   

But like a constant and confirmed Devil,  
He entertained a show so seeming just,  
And therein so ensconced this secret evil,  
That jealousy itself could not mistrust,  
False creeping craft and Perjury should thrust  
Into so bright a day, such blackfaced storms,  
Or blot with hellborn sin such Saintlike forms.   

The well-skild workman this mild Image drew  
For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story  
The credulous old Priam after slew.  
Whose words like wild fire burnt the shining glory  
Of rich built Illium, that the skies were sorry,  
And little stars shot from their fixed places,  
When their glass fell wherein they viewed their faces.   

This picture she advisedly perusd,  
And chide the Painter for his wondrous skill:  
Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused,  
So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill,  
And still on him she gazed, and gazing still  
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,  
That she concludes, the picture was belied.   

It cannot be (quoth she) that so much guile,  
(She would have said) can lurk in such a Look:  
But Tarquin's shape, came in her mind the while.  
And from her tongue, can lurk, from cannot, took  
It cannot be, she in that sense forsook,  
And turned 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 to beguiled  
With outward honesty, but yet defiled  
With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish,  
So did I Tarquin, so my Troy did perish.   

Look, look how listening Priam wets his eyes  
To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds  
Priam why art thou old, and yet not wise?  
For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds:  
His eyes drops fire, no water thence proceeds,  
Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity  
Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy City.   

Such Devils steal effects from sightless hell,  
For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,  
And in that cold hot burning fire doth dwell,  
These contraries such unity do hold,  
Only to flatter fools and make them bold:  
So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter  
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.   

Here all enraged such passion her assails,  
That patience is quite beaten from her breast,  
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,  
Comparing him to that unhappy guest,  
Whose deed hath made herself, herself detest;  
At last she smilingly with this gives over,  
Fool, fool, quoth she his wounds will not be sore.   

Thus ebbs and flows the currant 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:  
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps,  
And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps.   

Which all this time hath overslipped 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 comes back,  

Upon Lucrece sending for Collatine i● such haste, he with divers of his allies and friends returns home.  Brings home his Lord and other company,  
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black,  
And round about her teare-distained - eye  
Blue circles streamed, like Rainbows in the sky.  
These watergals in her dim Element,  
Foretell new storms to those already spent.   

Which when her sad beholding husband saw,  
Amazedly in her sad face he stars:  
Her eyes though sod in tears looked red and raw,  
Her lively colour killed 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 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 attired in discontent?  
Vnmask dear dear, this moody heaviness,  
And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.   

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,  
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:  
At length addressed to answer his desire,  
She modestly prepares, to let them know  
Her Honour is ta'en prisoner by the Foe,  
While Collatine and his consorted Lords  
With sad attention long to hear her words.   

And now this pale Swan in her watery nest,  
Begins the sad Dirge of her certain ending,  
Fow 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 was wont to rest thy weary head,  
And what wrong else may be imagined,  
By foul enforcement might be done to me,  
From that (alas) thy Lucrece is not free.   

For in the dreadful dead of dark mid night,  
With shining Falchion in my chamber came  
A creeping creature with a flaming light,  
And softly cried, awake thou Roman Dame,  
And entertain my love, else lasting shame  
On thee and thine this night I will inflict,  
If thou my loves desire do contradict.   

For some hard-favoured groom of thine, quoth he,  
Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,  
I'll murder strait, 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 Lechers in their deed, this act will be  
My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.   

With this I did begin to start and cry,  
And then against my heart he 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' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.   

Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,  
(And far the weaker with so strong a fear)  
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak,  
No rightful plea might plead for justice there.  
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear,  
That my poor beauty had purloined his eyes;  
And when the judge is robbed the prisoner dies.   

O teach me how to make mine own excuse,  
Or (at the least) this refuge let me find,  
Though my gross blood be stained with this abuse,  
Immaculate, and spotless is my mind,  
That was not forced, that never was inclined  
To accessary yielding, but still pure  
Doth in her poisoned closet yet endure.   

Lo here the hopeless Merchant of this loss,  
With head inclined and voice damned up with woe,  
With sad set eyes and wretched arms a cross,  
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,  
What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again.   

As through an Arch, the violent roaring Tide,  
Out runs the eye that doth behold his haste:  
Yet in the Edie boundeth in his pride,  
Back to the strait that forced him on so fast:  
In rage sent out, recalled in rage being past;  
Even so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw,  
To push grief on and back the same grief draw.   

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,  
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh,  
Dear Lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow dareth  
Another power, no flood by raining slaketh,  
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh  
More feeling painful, let it then suffice  
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes,   

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 too late, yet let the Traitor die:  
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.   

But ere I name him, you fair Lords, quoth she  
(Speaking to those that came with Collatine)  
Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,  
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 Lady's harms.   


Upon the relation of Lucrece her rape, Collatine and the rest swear to revenge: but this seems not full satisfaction to her losses. She killeth herself to exasperate them the more to punish the delinquent.  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 bewrard,  
But the that yet her sad task hath not said,  
The protestation stops, O speak quoth she,  
How may this forced stain be wiped from me?   

What is the quality of mine offence  
Being constrained 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 poisoned fountain clears itself 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 bears  
Of hard misfortune, carved 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 breathe, 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 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 sprite, and through her wounds doth fly  
Life's lasting date from canceled destiny.   

Stone still, astonished with this deadly deed,  
Stood Collatine and all his Lordly crew,  
Till Lucrece father that beholds her bleed.  
Himself, on her self-slaughtered body threw,  
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew  
The murderous knife, and as it left the place,  
Her blood in poor revenge, held it in chase.   

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide  
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood  
Circles her body in on every side,  
Who like a late sacked Island vastly stood  
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.  
Some of her blood still pure and red remained  
And some looked black, and that false Tarquin stained.   

About the mourning and congealed face  
Of that black blood, a watery rigoll goes,  
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place;  
And ever since as pitying Lucrece woes,  
Corrupted blood some watery token shows,  
And blood untainted still doth red abide,  
Blushing at that which is so putrefied.   

Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries.  
That life was mine which thou hast here deprived,  
If in the child the father's image lies,  
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?  
Thou wast not to this end from me derived.  
If children praedecease progenitors,  
We are their offspring and they none of ours.   

Poor broken glass, I often did behold  
In thy sweet semblance, my old age new borne,  
But now that fair fresh mirror dim and old,  
Shows me a bareboned death by time out worn,  
O from my cheeks my image thou hast torn,  
And shiverd 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 faltering feeble souls a live?  
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 stars Collatine as from a dream.  
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place,  
And then in Key cold Lucrece bleeding stream  
He falls, and baths 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 served a dumb arrest upon his tongue,  
Who made that sorrow should his use control,  
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,  
Begins to talk, but through his lips do throng  
Weak words so thick comes in his poor heart's aid  
That no man could distinguish what he said.   

Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,  
But through his teeth as if his name he tore.  
This windy tempest till it blow up rain,  
Held back his sorrows tide to make it more.  
At last it rains, and busy winds give over:  
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 sorrows interest, let no mourner say  
He weeps for her, for she was only mine.  
And only must be wailed by Collatine.   

O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life  
Which she too early and too late hath spilled.  
Woe woe, quoth Collatine, she was my wife,  
I owed her, and 'tis mine that she hath killed.  
My daughter and my wife with clamours filled  
The dispersed air, who holding Lucrece life,  
Answered their cries, my daughter and my wife.   

Brutus who plucked the knife from Lucrece side  
Seeing such emulation in their woe,  
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride.  
Burying in Lucrece wound his follies show.  
He with the Romans was esteemed so  
As silly jeering idiots are with kings,  
For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.   

But now he throws that shallow habit by,  
Wherein the policy did him disguise,  
And armed his long hid wits advisedly  
To check the tears in Colatinus eyes,  
Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise,  
Let my unsounded self supposed a fool,  
Now set thy long experienced wit to school,   

Why Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?  
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds  
Is it revengie to give thyself a blow  
For his foul Act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds?  
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds,  
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,  
To slave herself that should have slain her Foe.   

Courageous 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 herself in them doth stand disgraced)  
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.   

Now by the Capitol that we adore,  
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,  
By heavens fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store  
By all our country rites in Rome maintained,  
And by chaste Lucrece soul that late complained  
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,  
We will revenge the death of this true wife.   

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,  
And kissed the fatal knife to end his vow:  
And to his protestation urged the rest,  
Who wondering at him did his words 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 show the bleeding body through out Rome,  
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence;  
Which being done, with speedy diligence  
The Romans plausibly did give consent,  
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.   
FINIS.