TARQUIN BANISHED: OR, THE REWARD Of LUST. Written by J. Q. Quicquid boni cum discretione feceris, virtus est; quicquid sine discretione gesseris, vitium est: virtus enim indiscreta pro vitio deputatur. LONDON. Printed by J. G. for John Stafford at Fleet-bridge, and Will: Gilbertson in Giltspur-street. 1655. To the READER. Kind Reader, I Am confident when thou dost seriously consider the unworthiness of the Action, thou wilt not approve of the Actor; for, after he had received those many civilities which the house of chaste Lucretia could afford, he with an unheardof violence, requited her with a most barbarous rape, which cause not only his banishment, but likewise cost the lives of many of the Nobility; nay, and the King himself in defence of his son, the Ravisher, lost his life; and that which wa● more than all, was the loss of Lucretia's life: for the sense of the fact, made her stab herself; so died poor Lucretia, in nothing but that she was the Author of her own death: So Reader, as thou hast before read Tarqiun ●s offence, thou mayst now read his punishment. And so farewell. TARQUIN Banished: OR, The reward of Lust. 'tIs seldom known that good effects attend Upon bad causes; Tarquin, to befriend His own desires, contaminates his will, And blasts that virtue, which before did fill The ears of Rome, and made it to proclaim The future hopes of his increasing name. May we not judge him wise that loves to spend Ere he gins, some thoughts upon the end Of his design, had Pha'ton done the same He had not turned the world into a flame. The acts of Catiline, were noble deeds Compared to this, this horrid act exceeds Horror itself; Oh what obdurate breast Can read this story, and not be oppressed, If ever mischief practised to excel It was in this, this Masterpiece of Hell. Had chaste Lucretia followed the advice Of lustful Tarquin, what a lavish price Had she laid out for sin, and yet the shame Had been far greater, and her death the same If not much worse, for had she not revealed it, IT had proved her death to think she had concealed it. Ah poor Lucretia! what a fatal guest Didst thou receive, how was thy roof unblessed And thou mistook, how sadly did it prove Thy table fed a Serpent, not a Dove: It was thy face, Lucretia, that was spread With lavish beauty, and there Tarquin fed. 'Twas not to take repose, he made such speed, Nor was't the arrant of his mind to feed Upon such Cates, his eye had chose a dish Which pleased him, and awhile he fed by wish: And then by force, Lucretia, thou didst find The raging stomach of his lustful mind. But ah! the sad effect records the crime, Unparallelled in any Age, or time; For weeping Lucrece had no other shield Than virtue, which denied her heart to yield: And this all can be deduced from hence That virtue was oppressed by violence. But at the last, when violence had gained The upperhand, vile Tarquin was constrained To fly, and leave Lucretia to lament, Though not conceal her woeful banishment: Judge Ladies her distress, poor heart, her grief Inclined her more to death, than to relief. She wished to see her Lord, yet knew not how To look upon him with a steadfast brow; But when she thought on his abused bed, Ah then! ah then! her much dejected head: Out streamed a fountain, nothing could prevent The nimble current of her discontent. At last he comes, and with a fearful haste In his expatiated arms embraced His Lucrece, who being tutored by here fears, ●ke all in sighs, and answered him in tears: Whilst gazing Collatine with raging speed, Stamped out these words, I will revenge the deed. So out he runs, but hark, a groan recalls His hasty feet, for his Lucretia's fall, Wounded by her own hand, whilst he in vain, Lifts up her corpse, and lays it down again: At last poor soul, she moved her dying head And cried revenge, for thy Lucretia's dead. Ah! who can grieve with Collatine, whose grief Admits no equal, but transcends belief, He now is fled, and ransacks all about, Contrives and plots to find young Tarquin out; At last arriving where the Army stayed, The colours of his grief he thus displayed. Dear friends, the liberality of my speech Is humbly free, and fluent to beseech Your joint assistance, to revenge a wrong Whose intricacy neither pen, nor tongue Is able to express: Alas! and I Can only shadow forth my misery. My dear Lucretia, In whose breast did lie My life, is fled unto eternity; She's dead my Lords, and ah! if that were all In time I might endeavour to recall My grief, she is (my Lords) I speak what's true, Ravished by death, nay, and by Tarquin too. And if a worse fate than this can be, I'll swear there is no grief, no misery; But to be short dear friends, I cannot now Dispose of so much time, as to utter how: But the last sound of my Lucretia's breath Was this, Revenge my rape, condole my death. The frighted air had hardly cooled his words, Before the Nobles with their soon-drawn swords Vowed a complete revenge, and to effect Their vowed designs, they suffered no neglect To harbour in their breasts, but with a speed Winged with affection they performed the deed. If I should lavish time, and here relate Their several battles, and their several fate, I might perplex my Reader with a story Of this man's ruin, and of that man's glory: But at my period, I should only say, Tarquin's bad cause, not valour lost the day. But let me say that in this fatal cloud Of ruin, Tarquin's father that did crowd Into the arms of danger to maintain His sons vile cause, deservedly was slain: And when young Tarquin heard his father's fall, He grew more desperate, lost himself and all. Thus captive to his foes, his sullen breast Swelled more with malice, than it seemed oppressed; For like a base Usurper, having thrust Himself in power, his actions must be just: Nay, though the sword decline him, yet would he Make all Authentic by obduracy. A brazen conscience finds a brazen face, Tarquin, because he knew his foul disgrace Can not receive addition, grew so bold, So peremptory, that what others told To him in grief, he in disdain, replied, Lucretia's rape, is Tarquin's only pride. Since she is dead, the thing that grieves me most Is this, to think my spirits cannot boast Of more enjoyments; but I'll cease to crave, For I am well content with what I have; And if I die, I charge thee grief, forbear, I am a Roman, and I scorn to fear. Oh how I'll vex my foes! for when as I Am brought to death, they shall not know I die; He steal into a slumber, none shall say They saw me die, although perhaps they may Report they saw me dead; and Rome shall cry, Tarquin hath taught us how to scorn, and die. Well then, where's their revenge? for I am sure A Roman spirit never can endure To triumph o'er a corpse; when smiling death Shall put a period to my yielding breath; What then? Alas! they only can concur In this one sense, he died a Ravisher. Thus, thus insentiate Tarquin seems to show More raging courage, than repentant woe; His inconsiderate thoughts think all things good, And slightly wade through poor Lucretia's blood: Go forward Reader, and thou'lt quickly find An altered Tarquin, and a changed mind. The Consuls after serious debate Concerning Tarquin, did agree, his fate Should not be speedy death, but should be sent Into a sad and lasting banishment, That so his more deliberate thoughts might find A way to call his villainy to mind. This news arriving unto Tarquin's ears, He soon gins to argue with his fears: Must I be sent, cries he, into a place Of no society, and there embrace Perpetual woe? Oh! how could Hell contrive So great a plague to keep me still alive? What shall I do in this extreme abyss Of woe and torments? Death had been a bliss Beyond expression; Ah! must wretched I Be so accursed t' offend, and yet not die? Oh most prodigious fate! vile Ixion's wheel Had been a paradise to what I feel. Methinks I feel a sudden fire that burns My very soul, my former comfort turns To present woe; methinks I grow, and swell Into a larger Continent, sure Hell Hath changed his mansion, and intends to make My troubled Tenement his fiery lake. Since so it is, I'll labour to prevent Their swelling laughter with a forced content. I'll hid my sorrows from their gazing eyes, I'll seem to slight their malice, and despise Their scornful mocks, but yet my heart will tell My heart, that all within me, is not well. But stay, shall I forget myself, was I not born A noble Roman, and shall I not scorn Their impositions; shall I now relent And prove a willing slave to discontent? Fie Tarquin, fie; but hark, I hear the sum Of my destruction, now my foes are come. Courage my heart, be bold, and let them find, Thou hast an Army in thy strengthened mind, And if a pressing sigh should chance to fly Our of the prison of thy mind, deny It to be thine, so shall thy prying eyes See thou disown'st their lavish tyrannies. Even as the boisterous Ocean, if denied A present passage for her swelling tide Swells and looks big, and with insulting waves Assaults th' immoving shore which stoutly staves Its fury off; but if it proudly swell Above the banks, 'tis time to bid farewell. Even so our Tarquin's passion, for a time Found opposition, but at last did climb Above his strength, and when it was too late, He soon deplored his miserable state, And being cast into a remote place, He thus bewails his lamentable case. Ah! what a sad Companion is a heart, Burdened with guilt; Alas! I can impart No comfort to myself, all things declare My ruin, that's attended with despair: Methinks I have a still continued flood Before my eyes, of chaste Lucretia's blood. Nor is my eye disturbed, but my ear Is grown of late accustomed to hear Strange dialects, methinks Lucretia cries, Revenge, revenge my woeful injuries: And thus my eyes, my ears sadly portend A present woe, a miserable end. Thus in a sad discourse vile Tarquin goes He knows not where, being ushered by his woes; At last arriving at a shady grove, Close by a wanton stream he sadly strove To mitigate his sorrow, but his fire Increased above the reach of his desire. I am inflamed, he cries, could I devise A way to quench my sorrows with my eyes; My eye inflamed my heart, my heart combined With my affections to corrupt my mind; Thus mind, thus heart, obeyed a lustful call; Thus lust procured my hate, and hate my fall. Ah! how these silent fishes seem to sport, And revel in their cool aquarian Court! Ah! how they bathe themselves in their own flood, Whilst I am parboiled in a sea of blood! Lucretia, ah Lucretia! thou didst find A raped body, I a raped mind. At last the Sylvane Choristers begun Their warbling notes to the departing Sun, Which Tarquin hearing with a deep-fetched groan He cried, How more than happy's every one Of these care-wanting creatures! they are free From the rude hand of griping tyranny. And now deploring Philomela gins Her sad, and melancholy notes, and spins Her tedious notes unto the smallest thread As if she meant to strike poor Tarquin dead; For he no sooner heard her, but he cries, Sweet Philomela forbear thy tyrannies. Tell me thou woeful wretch, do not deny Who was most villain * The Poets fain, that Philomela was a Lady of an incomparable beauty, and being ravished by one Tereus, she importuned the Gods that she might be turned into a Bird; since which time she sadly deplored her misfortune, and is vulgarly called a Nightingale. Tereus, or I; Was it not he did perpetrate thy rape, And made thee wish thyself into this shape? Since which sad time having banished all delight, Thy sham'd-faced sorrow shroud themselves in night. Let me conjure thee Philomela to cease Thy high strained notes, for they do much increase My raging grief; and now, ah now! I find Horror in sweetness, why art thou unkind, And wilt not cease? thou shalt not ring my knell, For I'll be gone, so Philomela, farewell. Away goes Tarquin, Philomela pursues; The more he flies, she more and more renews Her echoing notes, he swears, she chants and rears Her shriller accents to his tortured ears, Enraged he cries, the Gods did do thee wrong To take thy woman's shape, yet leave her tongue. Will not entreaties move thee? wilt thou still Send arrows to my soul, and be thus shrill? Peace witch thou temptest my patience, every note Derived from the Magic of thy throat Strikes me to death, but ah, I will not hear; For if thou findest a tongue, I'll want an ear. With that he stops his ears, but all in vain, His fancy turns all Philomel's, and strain Far higher notes; so he, at length let fly The portals of his ears, and by and by More than a flock of Nightingalls, being met, They thus contrived to pay Lucretia's debt. First, they encamp about his ears, and send A party out of notes, which recommend Themselves unto him, whilst affrightned he Decays, and reels into an ecstasy. Then they assault him with full bodied notes Discharged from the Engines of their throats. But Tarquin, not encouraged to abide So hot a Charge, falls down, and falling died. Which they perceiving presently arise And flocked about him, and picked out his eyes; From which sad story we may well infer, That Philomela abhors a Ravisher. FINIS.