To the Right Honourable Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
HE Love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this Pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous Moity. The warrant I have of your Honourable Disposition, not the Worth of my untutor'd Lines makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty should shew greater: 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,
WILL. SHAKESPEARE.
The Argument.
LUcius Tarquinius (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 Peoples suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom; went accompanied with his sons, and other noble men of Rome to besiege Ardea: during which, the principal men of the Army meeting one evening at the Tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the kings son, in their discourses after supper, every one commended the vertues of his own wife; among whom Colatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his Wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humor they all posted 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 revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noble men yielded Colatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucreces beauty; yet smothering his Passion for the present, departed with the rest back to the Camp; from whence he shortly after privily with-drew himself, and was (according to his state) royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Colatium. The same night, he trecherously stealeth into her Chamber, violently ravisht 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 Colatine. 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 acter, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed her self. Which done, with 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.
LUcrece praises for chaste, vertuous, and beautiful, enamoreth Tarquin.
Tarquin welcomed by Lucrece.
Tarquin overthrows all disputing with wilfulness.
He puts bis resolution in practice.
Lucrece awakes, and is amazed to he so surprized.
She pleads in defence of Chastity.
Tarquin all impatient, interrupteth her, and ravisheth her by force.
Lucrece complains on her abuse.
She disputeth whether she should kill her self or no.
She is resolved on her self-murther, yet sendeth first for her Husband.
Colatinus with his friends return home.
Lucrece relateth the mischief; they swear revenge, and she to exasperate the matter, killeth her self.
THE
RAPE
OF
LUCRECE.
1.The praising of Lucrece as chast, vertuous, and beautiful, maketh Tarquin enamor'd.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 lightless fire, Which in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire And girdle with embracing flames the wast, Of Colatines fair love, Lucrece the chast.
Haply that name of chast, unhaply set This bateless edge on his keen appetite: When Colatine unwisely did not let To praise the clear unmatched red and white, Which triumpht in that skie 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, Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state: What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate, Reckoning his fortune at so high-a rate, That Kings might be espoused to more fame: But King nor Prince to such a peerless dame.
O happiness enjoy'd but of a few, And if possest, as soon decay'd and done: As if the mornings silver melting dew, Against the golden splendor of the sun, An date expir'd, cancel'd ere begun: Honor and beauty in the owners arms, Are weakly fortrest from a world of harms.
Beauty it self doth of it self perswade The eyes of men without an orator, What needeth then apologies be made To set forth that which is so singular? Or why is Colatine the publisher Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown, From theevish ears because it is his own?
Perchance his boast of Lucrece Sov'rainty, 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 pitcht 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 honor, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes, To quench the coal which in his liver grows. O rash false heat, wrapt in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts and ne're grows old.
2.Tarquin welcomed by Lucrece.When at Colatia this false Lord arrived, Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame, Within whose face beauty and vertue strived, Which of them both should underprop her fame, When vertue brag'd, beauty would blush for shame, When beauty boasted blushes, in despight Vertue would stain that o're with silver white.
But beauty in that white intituled, From Venus doves doth challenge that fair field, Then vertue claims from beauty beauties red, Which vertue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield, Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.
This Herauldry in Lucrece Face was seen, Argued by beauties red and vertues white, Of eithers colour was the other Queen; Proving from worlds minority their right, Yet their ambition makes them still to fight: The sov'reignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other's seat.
Their silent war of Lillies and of Roses, Which Tarquin view'd in her fair faces field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Where least between them both it should be kill'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him goe, Rather than triumph in so false a foe.
Now thinks he that her husband shallow tongue, The niggard Prodigal that prais'd her so, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show: Therefore that praise which Colatine doth owe, Inchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.
This earthly Saint adored by this Devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper; "For thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream on evil, "Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear; So guiltless she securely gives good chear, And reverend welcome to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm exprest.
For that he coloured with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of Majesty; That nothing in him seem'd inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which having all, all could not satisfie; But poorly rich so wanteth in his store, That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.
But she, that never cop't with stranger eyes, Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books, She toucht no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks, Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were open'd to the light.
He stories to her ears her husbands fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; And decks with praises Colatines 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 blustring weather Doth yet in his fair Welkin once appear, Till sable night sad source of dread and fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison shuts the day.
For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness with heavy spright: 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 cares, and troubled minds that wake.
As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining; Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, Tho weak-built hopes perswade him to abstaining, Despair to gain doth traffique 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 the bond, And so, by hoping more they have but less, Or gaining more the profit of excess, Is but to surfet, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrout in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth and ease, in wayning age: And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, That one for all, or all for one we gage: As life for honor, in fell battles rage, Honor for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost.
So that in ventring all, we leave to be The things we are, for that which we expect; And this ambitious foul infirmity, In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have: so then we do neglect The thing we have; and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing, by augmenting it.
Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, Pawning his honor to obtain his lust; And for himself, himself he must forsake; Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust? When shall he think to find a stranger just, When he himself, himself confounds, betrays To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful lays?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had clos'd up mortal eyes, No comfortable starre did lend his light, No noise but Owles and Wolves death-boding cries: Now serves the season that they may surprize The silly Lambs, pure thoughts are dead and still, While Lust and Murder wake to stain and kill. 3.Tarquin disputing the matter, at last resolves to satisfie his lust. And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely ore his arm, Is madly tost between desire and dread; Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm: But honest fear, bewicht with lusts foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.
His Fauchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do flie, Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be load-star to his lustful eye, And to the flame thus speaks advisedly; As from this cold flint I enforst this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his lothsome enterprize, And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise: Then looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armor 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 love's modest snow-white weed.
O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms, O foul dishonour to my housholds grave: O impious Act including all foul harmes, 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.
Yes though I die, the scandal will survive, And be an eye-sore in my golden Coat: Some loathsome dash the Herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote: That my Posterity sham'd with the note Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin, To wish that I their father had not been.
What win I if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy, Who buys a minutes mirth to waile 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 crowne? Would with the scepter straight be strucken down.
If Colatinus dream of my Intent, Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent? This siege that hath ingirt his marriage, This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, This dying vertue, this surviving shame, Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame.
O what excuse can my invention make When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed: Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake? Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed? The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed, And extreme feare can neither fight nor flie, But cowardlike, with trembling terror die.
Had Colatinus kill'd my Son or Sire, Or lain in ambush to betray my life; Or were he not my dear friend, this desire Might have excuse to work upon his wife; As in revenge or quital of such strife: But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.
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 mans sawe, Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.
Thus (graceless) holds he disputation, Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will, And with good thoughts makes dispensation, Urging the worser sense for vantage still. Which in a moment doth confound and kill All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, That what is vile shews like a vertuous deed.
Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand, And gaz'd for tydings 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 how her hand in my hand being lockt, Forst it to tremble with her loyal fear: Which strooke her sad, and then it faster rockt, Until her Husbands welfare she did hear, Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheare, That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.
Why hunt I then for colour or excuses? All Orators are dumb when beauty pleads, Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses, Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreads, Affection is my Captain and he leads: And when his gaudy banner is displaid, The Coward fights, and will not be dismaid.
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 prise, Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies.
As corn ore-grown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choakt by unresisted lust, Away he steals with open listning care, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust: Both which as servitors to the unjust, So cross him with their opposite Perswasion, That now he vows a league, and now invasion.
Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the self same seat sits Colatine, That eye which looks on her, confounds his wits, That eye which him beholds, as more divine Unto a view so false will not encline: But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which once corrupted, takes the worser part.
And therein heartens up his servile powers, Who flattered by their leaders jocund show, Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up howers: And as their Captain, so their pride doth grow; Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led The Romane Lord doth march to Lucrece bed.
The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforst, recites his ward, But as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping theefe to some regard. The threshold grates the dore to have him heard: Night-wandring Weezels shreeke 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 Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks; He takes it from the rushes where it lies, And griping it, the needle his finger pricks; As who should say, this glove to wanton tricks Is not inur'd, return again in hast, Thou seest our Mistress ornaments are chast.
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him, He in the worst sense construes their denial; The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him, He takes for accidental things of tryal; 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; Paine pays the income of each precious thing. Huge rocks, high winds, strong pyrats, shelves and sands, The merchant fears, e're 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 bar'd him from the blessed thing he sought, So from himself impiety hath wrought, That for his Prey to pray he doth begin, As if the heavens should countenance his sin.
But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, Having sollicited th' eternal power, That his foul thoughts might compass his fair Fair, And they would stand auspicious to the hour, Even there he starts, quoth he, I must 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 backt with resolution; Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried, Black sin is clear'd 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 pluckt up the latch, And with his knee the door he opens wide, The dove sleeps fast that this night-owle will catch, Thus treason works e're 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, Rouling his greedy eye-bals in his head, By their high treason is his heart misled: Which gives the watch-word to his hand too soon, To draw the cloud that hides the silver Moon.
Looke as the fair and fiery-pointed Sun, Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight: Even so the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being blinded, with a greater light. Whether it is that she reflects so bright That dazleth them, or else some shame supposed, But blind they are, and keep themselves inclosed.
O had they in that darksome prison died, Then had they seen the period of their ill; Then Colatine again by Lucrece side, In his cleere bed might have reposed still: But they must ope this blessed league to kill; And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight Must sell her joy, her life, her worlds delight.
Her lilly hand her rosie cheekes lies under, Coozening the pillow of a lawful kisse; Who therefore angry seems to part in sunder, Swelling on either side to want his blisse, Between whose hils her head entombed is. Where like a vertuous monument she lies, To be admir'd of lewd unhallow'd eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet, whose perfect white Show'd like an April dazie on the grasse, With pearly swet, resembling dew of night. Her eyes like Marigolds had sheath'd their light, And canopied in darknesse sweetly lay, Till they might open to adorne the day.
Her hair like golden threds plaid with her breath, O modest wantons, wanton modesty! Showring lifes triumph in the map of death, And deaths dim looke in lives mortality. Each in her sleepe themselves so beautifie, As if betweene them twaine there were no strife, But that life liv'd in death, and death in life.
Her brests like ivory globes circled with blew, A pair of maiden worlds unconquered: Save of their Lord no bearing yoke they knew, And him by oath they truly honoured. These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred; Who like a foul usurper went about From this fair throne to have the owner out.
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 tyred. 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 ore his prey, Sharpe hunger by the conquest satisfied: So ore this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, His rage of lust by grazing qualified; Slackt, not supprest, for standing by her side, His eye which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.
And they like stragling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting; In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor childrens tears, nor mothers groans respecting, Swell in their pride the onset still expecting, Anon his beating heart alarum striking, Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, His eye commends the leading to his hand: His hand as proud of such a dignity, Smoaking with pride, marcht on to make his stand On her bare breasts, the heart of all her land, Whose ranks of blew veins as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They mustering to the quiet cabinet, Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries: She much amaz'd breaks ope her lockt up eyes, Who peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dim'd and control'd.
Imagine her as one in dead of night, From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, That thinks she hath beheld some gastly sprite, Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking, What terrour 'tis: but she in worser taking, From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposed terror rue.
5.Lucretia wakes amazed and confounded to be so surprized.Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand feares, Like to a new-kild bird she trembling lies: She dares not looke, yet winking, there appears Quicke shifting Antiques ugly in her eyes, Such shadows are the weak braines forgeries; Who angry that the eyes flie from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.
His hand that yet remaines upon her brest, (Rude Ram to batter such an Ivory wall:) May feele her heart (poor citizen) distrest, Wounding it self to death, rise up and fall: Beating her bulke, 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 ore the white sheet peeres her whiter chin, The reason of this rash alarme to know, Which he by dumbe demeanor seekes to show: But she with vehement prayers urgeth still, Under what colour he commits this ill.
Thus he replies, the colour in this 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 conquer'd Fort, the fault is thine, For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.
Thus I forestall thee: if thou meane to chide, Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night, Where thou with patience must my will abide; My will that markes thee for my earths delight, Which I to conquer sought with all my might. But as reproof and reason beat it dead, By thy bright beauty was it newly bred.
I see what crosses my attempt will bring, I know what thornes the growing rose defends, I think the hony guarded with a sting, All this beforehand counsel comprehends; But will is deafe, and heares no heedful friends. Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, And dotes on what he lookes, 'gainst law or duty.
I have debated even in my soule, What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed, But nothing can affections course controle, Or stop the headlong fury of his speed, I know repentant tears ensue the deed, Reproch, disdaine, and deadly enmity, Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.
This said, he shakes aloft his Romane blade, Which like a Faulcon towring in the skies, Couchet the fowle below with his wings shade, Whose crook beake threats, if he mount he dies. So under his insulting Fauchion lies Harmlesse Lucretia, marking what he tels, With trembling feare, as fowle hear Faulcons bels.
Lucrece, quoth he, this night I must enjoy thee; If thou deny, then force must worke my way: For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee. That done, some worthlesse slave of thine ile slay, To kill thine honor with thy lives decay: And in thy dead armes do I meane 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 blurd with nameless bastardy: And thou the Author of their obloquy, Shall have thy trespasse cited up in rhimes, And sung by children in succeeding times.
But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend, The fault unknown is as a thought unacted, A little harme done to a great good end, For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted In purest compounds; being so applied, His venome in effect is purified.
Then for thy husband and thy children 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-hours blot: For markes descried in mens nativity, Are Natures faults, not their owne infamy.
Here with a Cockatrice dead killing eye, He rowseth up himself, and makes a pause, While she the picture of pure piety, Like a white Hinde under the gripes sharp claws, Pleads in a wilderness where are no lawes, To the rough beast, that knowes no gentle right, Nor ought obeyes but his foul appetite.
But when a black-fac'd cloud the world doth threat, In his dim mist the aspiring mountaine hiding, From earths dark womb some gentle gust doth get, Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, Hindring their present fall by this dividing. So his unhallowed haste her words delaies, And moody Pluto winkes while Orpheus plays.
Yet foule night waking Cat he doth but dally, While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth; Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly; A swallowing gulfe that even in plenty wanteth: His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining, Tears harden lust, tho marble wears with raining.
Her pitty pleading eyes are sadly fixed In the remorselesse 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.Lucretia 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 Husbands love, By holy humane 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 honor, 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, Marre not the thing that cannot be amended: End thy ill ayme, before thy shoot be ended. He is no Wood-man that doth bend his bow To strike a poor unseasonable Doe.
My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me, Thy self art mighty, for thine own sake leave me: My self a weakeling, do not then insnare me: Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me. My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee, If ever man was mov'd with woman's mones, Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my grones.
All which together like a troubled Ocean, Beat at thy rocky, and wrack-threatning heart, To soften it with their continual motion: For stones dissolv'd, to Water doe convert. Or if no harder than a stone thou art, Melt at my teares and be compassionate, Soft pity enters at an iron gate.
In Tarquins 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 wrongst his honor, woundst his princely name, Thou art not what thou seem'st; and if the same, Thou seem'st not what thou art, a God, a King? For Kings like Gods should govern every thing.
How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, When thus thy vices bud before thy spring? If in thy hope thou dar'st do such outrage, What dar'd thou not when once thou art a King? O be remembred, no outragious thing From vassal Actors can he wipt away Then Kings misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.
This deed shall make thee only lov'd for feare, But happy Monarchs still are fear'd for love: With foul offenders thou perforce must beare, When they in thee the like offences prove: If but for fear of this, thy will remove. For Princes are the glasse, the school, the booke, Where Subjects eyes do learn, do read, do looke.
And wilt thou be the school where lust shall learn? Must he in thee read Lectures of such shame? Wilt thou be glasse wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame? To privilege dishonour in thy name. Thou back'st reproch against long living laud, And mak'st fair Reputation but a baud.
Hast thou commanded? by him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will: Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. Thy princely office how can'st thou fulfill When patternd by thy fault, foul sin may say, He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way?
Think but how vile a spectacle it were, To view thy present trespasse in another: Mens faults do seldom to themselves appear, Their own transgressions partially they smother; This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. O how are they wrapt in with infamies, That from their own misdeeds askaunce their eyes.
To thee, to thee, my heav'd-up hands appeal, Not to seducing lust, thy rash reply: I sue for exil'd majesties repeal, Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire. His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne, That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.
7.Tarquin all impatient interrupts her, and denied of consent, breaketh the enclosure of her chastity by force.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 winde in greater fury fret: The pretty streams that pay a dayly debt To their salt sovereign with their fresh falls hast, Add to this flow, but alter not his taste.
Thou art, (quoth she) a sea, a sovereign King, And loe, there falls into thy boundless flood Black Lust, Dishonour, Shame, Misgoverning, Who seek to staine the Ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good, Thy sea within a puddle wombe 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 faire life, and they thy fouler grave: Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride, The lesser thing should not the greater hide. The Cedar stoopes not to the base shrubs foot, But low shrubs wither at the Cedars root.
So let thy thoughts low vassals to thy state. No more, quoth he, by heaven I will not hear thee: Yield to my love, if not, enforced hate Instead of loves coy touch shall rudely teare thee: That done, despightfully I mean to bear thee Unto the base bed of some rascal groome, To be thy partner in this shameful doome.
This said, he sets his foot upon the light, For light and lust are deadly enemies: Shame folded up in blind concealing night, When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. The Wolf hath seiz'd his prey, the poor Lamb cries, Till with her own white fleece her voice controld, Intombs her outcry in her lips sweet fold:
For with the nightly linnen that she wears, He pens her piteous clamors in her head, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears, That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. O that foule lust should staine so pure a bed: The spots whereof could weeping purifie; Her teares 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 moneths 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 Hawke, Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether bauke The prey wherein by Nature they delight: So surfet-taking Tarquin fares this night. His taste delicious, in digestion sowring, Devoures his will, that liv'd by foule devouring.
O deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend in still imagination! Drunken desire must vomit his receit, Ere he can see his own abomination. While lust is in his pride, no exclamation Can curbe his heat, or rein his rash desire, Till like a jade, self-will himself doth tire.
And then with lank and lean discolour'd cheeke, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace, Feeble desire all recreant, poor and meek, Like to a bankrout begger wailes his case: The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with grace, For there it revels, and when that decays, The guilty rebel for remission prays.
So fares it with this fault-full Lord of Rome, Who this accomplishment so hotly chased: For now against himself he sounds this doome, That thro' the length of time he stands disgraced, Besides, his Souls fair temple is defaced: To whose weak ruines muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted Princesse how she fares.
She says, her subjects with foule insurrection Have battred downe her consecrated wall, And by their mortal fault brought in subjection Her immortality, and made her thrall To living death and paine perpetual. Which in her prescience she controled still, But her foresight could not forestal their will.
Even in this thought thro the dark night he stealeth A captive victor that hath lost in gain; Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, The scar that will despight of Cure remain, Leaving his spoil perplext in greater pain. She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burthen of a guilty mind.
He like a theevish dog creepes 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, sweating with guilty fear; She staies exclaiming on the direful night; He runs and chides his vanisht loth'd delight.
He thence departs a heavy convertite, She there remains a hopeless cast-away: He in his speed looks for the morning light, She prays she never may behold the day, For day, quoth she, night-scapes doth open lay: And my true eyes have never 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 darknesse lie, To have their unseen sin remain untold: For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, And grave, like water that doth eate in steel, Upon my cheeks what helplesse shame I feel.
8.Lucrece thus abused, complains of her misery.Here she exclaims against repose and rest, And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind: She wakes her heart by beating on her brest, And bids it leap from thence where it may finde Some purer chest, to close so pure a minde. Frantick with grief thus breaths she forth her spight, Against the unseen secrecy of night.
O comfort-killing night, image of Hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murthers fell, Vast sinne-concealing Chaos, nurse of blame, Blind muffled bawde, dark harbor of defame! Grim cave of death, whispring 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 Easterne light, Make war against proportion'd course of time: Or if thou wilt permit the Sunne to climb His wonted height, yet ere he goe to bed, Knit poysonous clouds about his golden head.
With rotten damps ravish the morning ayre, Let their exhal'd unwholesome breaths make sicke The life of purity, the supreme faire, Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide pricke, And let thy misty vapors march so thicke, That in their smoaky rankes his smother'd light May set at noone and make perpetual night.
Were Tarquin night as he is but nights child, The silver shining Queene he would distain, Her twinckling handmaids too (by him defil'd) Through Nights black bosom should not peep again, So should I have copartners in my paine. And fellowship in woe doth woe asswage, As Palmers that makes short their Pilgrimage.
Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To maske their browes 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 grones, Poore wasting monuments of lasting mones.
O night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, Let not the jealous day behold that face Which underneath thy black all hiding cloake Immodestly lies martyred with disgrace. Keep still possession of thy gloomy place, That all the faults which in thy raign are made, May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.
Make me not object to the tel-tale day, The light shall shew charactred in my brow, The story of sweet chastities decay, The impious breach of holy wedlockes vow. Yea, the illiterate that know not how To cipher what is writ in learned books, Will quote my lothsome trespass in my looks.
The nurse to still her child will tell my story, And fright her crying babe with Tarquins name: The Orator to deck his oratory, Will couple my reproch to Tarquins shame, Feast finding minstrels tuning my defame Will tie the hearers to attend each line, How Tarquin wronged me, I Colatine.
Let my good name, that senseless reputation, For Colatines dear love be kept unspotted: If that be made a theame for disputation, The branches of another root are rotted, And undeserv'd reproach to him allotted, That is as clear from this attaint of mine, As I, ere this, was pure to Colatine.
O unseen shame! invisible disgrace! O unfelt sore, crest-wounding private scar! Reproach is stampt in Colatinus face, And Tarquin's eye may read the mote afar, How he in peace is wounded, not in war. Alas how many bear such shameful blows, Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows?
If, Colatine, thine honor lay in me, From me by strong assault it is bereft: My hony lost, and I a Drone-like Bee, Have no Perfection of my sommer left, But rob'd and ransackt by injurious theft. In thy weak hive a wandring waspe hath crept, And suckt the hony which thy chast Bee kept.
Yet am I guilty of thy honor's wrack, Yet for thy honor did I entertain him; Coming from thee, I could not put him back, For it had been dishonor to disdaine him; Besides of wearinesse he did complain him: And talkt of vertue, (O unlookt for evil, When vertue is prophan'd in such a Devil!)
Why should the worme intrude the maiden bud? Or hateful Cuckows hatch in Sparrows nests? Or Todes infect faire founts with venome mud? Or Tyrant folly lurke in gentle brests? Or Kings be breakers of their own behests? But no perfection is so absolute, That some iniquity doth not pollute.
The aged man that coffers up his gold, Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits, And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, But like still pining Tantalus he sits, And useless bans the harvest of his wits; Having no other pleasure of his gain, But torment that it cannot cure his pain.
So then he hath it when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be master'd by his yong; Who in their pride doe presently abuse it: Their Father was too weak, and they too strong, To hold their cursed blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring, Unwholsome weeds take root with precious flowers, The Adder hisseth where the sweet birds sing, What vertue breeds iniquity devours: We have no good that we can say is ours; But ill annexed Opportunity, Or kills his life, or else his quality.
O Opportunity, thy guilt is great; 'Tis thou that execut'st the traitors treason; Thou sets the Wolfe where he the Lamb may get: Who ever plots the sin, thou points the season; Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason. And in thy shady cell where none may spy her, Sits sin to seaze the souls that wander by her.
Thou mak'st the Vestal violate her oath: Thou blowst the fire when Temperance is thaw'd. Thou smotherst honesty, thou murtherst troth; Thou foul abettor, thou notorious baud; Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud. Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, Thy hony turns to gall, thy joy to grief.
Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, Thy private feasting to a publick fast: Thy smothering titles to a ragged name; Thy sugred 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 supplicants 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 physick to the sick, ease to the pained? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; But they nere 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 grant'st no time for charitable deeds: Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murther rages, Thy hainous hours wait on them as their pages.
When Truth and Vertue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid; They buy thy help, but Sin nere gives a fee He gratis comes, and thou art well apaid, As well to hear, as grant what he hath said. My Colatine would else have come to me: When Tarquin did, but he was staid by thee.
Guilty thou art of murther and of theft, Guilty of perjury and subordination, Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift, Guilty of incest, that abomination, An accessary by thine inclination To all sins past, and all that are to come, From the creation to the general doom.
Mishapen time, copesmate of ugly night, Swift subtile post, carrier of grisly care, Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Base watch of woes, sins pack-horse, vertues snare, Thou nursest all, and murtherest all that are: O hear me then, injurious shifting time, Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.
Why hath thy servant Opportunity Betray'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose? Cancel'd my fortunes and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes? Times office is to fine the hate of foes, To eat up error by opinion bred, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.
Times glory is to calme contending Kings, To unmask falshood, and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time in aged things, To wake the morne, and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right, To ruinate proud buildings with thy houres And smear with dust their glittering golden towrs.
To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, To feed oblivion with decay of things, To blot old books, and alter their contents, To pluck the quils from ancient Ravens wings. To dry the old oakes sap, and cherish springs, To spoil antiquities of hammered steel, And turn the giddy round of fortunes wheel.
To show the beldame daughters of her daughter, To make the child a man, the man a child, To slay the Tyger that doth live by slaughter, To tame the Unicorne and Lion wilde, To mock the subtile in themselves beguil'd; To chear the Plowman with increaseful crops, And waste huge stones with little water drops.
Why workst 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 debtors lends. O this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come backe, I could prevent this storm, and shun thy wracke.
Thou ceaselesse lacky to Eternity, With some mischance crosse Tarquin in his flight, Devise extreams 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.
Disturbe his howres of rest with restless trances, Afflict him in his bed with bedrid grones; Let there bechance him pitiful mischances; To make him mone, but pity not his mones: Stone him with hardened hearts harder than stones, And let mild women to him loose their mildness, Wilder to him than 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 waile 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 theef run mad, Himself, himself seek every hour to kill, Such wretched hands such wretched bloud should spill. For who so base would such an Office have, As slanderous deaths-man to so base a Slave?
The baser is he, coming from a King, To shame his hope with deeds degenerate, The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. The moon being clouded presently is mist, But little Stars may hide them when they list.
The Crow may bathe his cole-black wings in mire, And unperceiv'd flie with the filth away, But if the like the snow-white Swan desire, The stain upon his silver Downe will stay. Poor groomes are sightless night, Kings glorious day, Gnats are unnoted wheresoere they flye, But Eagles gazed upon with every eye.
Our idle words, servants to shallow fooles Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators, Busie our selves in skil-contending schooles, Debate where leasure serves with dull debators: To trembling Clients be you mediators: For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my Case is past the help of law.
In vain I raile at Opportunity, At Time, at Tarquin, and unsearchful night: In vain I cavil with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despight: This helpless smoak 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? Honor thy self to rid me of this shame, For if I die, my Honor lives in thee, But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame; Since thou could'st not defend thy loyal dame, And wast affeard to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thy self and her for yielding so.
This said, from her betumbled couch she starts, To find some desperate instrument of Death, But this no slaughter-house, no tool imparts, To make more vent for passage of her breath, Which thronging through her lips so vanisheth As smoke from Ætna, that in air consumes, Or that which from discharged Canon fumes.
In vain (quoth she) I live, and seek in vain Some happy meane to end a hapless life: I feard by Tarquins fauchion to be slain, Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife, But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife; So am I now; 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 slaunders livery, A dying life to living infamy, Poor helpless help the treasure stoln away, To burn the guiltless Casket where it lay.
Well, well, dear Colatine, thou shalt not know The stained tast of violated troth: I will not wrong thy true affection so, To flatter thee with an infringed oath: This bastard graffe 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 stolne from forth thy gate: For me I am the mistress of my fate, And with my trespasse never will dispence, Till life to death acquit my forst offence.
I will not poison thee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in cleanly coyn'd excuses, My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false nights abuses: My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes like sluces, As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.
By this lamenting Philomele had ended The well-tun'd warble of her nightly sorrow, 9.Lucrece continuing her laments, disputeth whether she should kill her self or no.A solemn night with slow sad gate descended To ugly Hell, when loe the blushing morrow Lends light to al faire eyes that light would borrow, But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, And therefore still in night would cloistred be.
Revealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping, To whom she sobbing speakes, O eye of eyes, Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy peeping, Mock with thy tickling beames, eyes that are sleeping, Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath nought to do whats done by night.
Thus cavils she with every thing she sees, True grief is fond and testie as a child, Who way-ward once, his mood with nought agrees, Old woes, not infant sorrows bear them milde; Continuance tames the one, the other wilde, Like an unpractiz'd swimmer plunging still, With too much labour drowns for want of skill.
So she deep drenched in a Sea of care, Holds disputation with each thing she viewes, And to her self all sorrow doth compare, No object but her passions strength renews, And as one shifts, another straight ensues, Sometime her grief is dumbe and hath no words, Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.
The little birds that tune their mornings joy, Make her mones mad with their sweet melody, For mirth doth search the bottome of annoy, Sad Souls are slaine in merry company, Grief best is pleased with griefs society: True sorrow then is feelingly suffiz'd When with like semblance it is simpathiz'd.
'Tis double death to drowne in ken of shore, He ten times pines, that pines beholding food, To see the salve doth make the wound ake more, Great grief grieves most at that would do it good; Deep woes roul forward like a gentle floud, Who being stopt, the bounding banks oreflows, Grief dallied with, nor law nor limit knows.
You mocking birds (quoth she) your tunes intomb Within your hollow swelling feathered breasts, And in my hearing be you ever dumb, My restlesse discord loves no stops nor rests; A woful hostesse brooks not merry guests: Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears, Distresse likes dumps when time is kept with tears.
Come Philomele, that singst of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my disheveld hair: As the danke earth weeps at thy languishment; So I at each sad strain will straine a tear, And with deep grones the Diapason bear: For burthen-wise I'le hum on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus descants better skill.
And whiles against a thorne thou bearst thy part, To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I To imitate thee well, against my heart Will fix a sharpe knife, to affright mine eye; Who, if it winke, shall thereon fall and die. These means as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.
And for poor bird, thou singst not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold, Some dark deep desart seated from the way, That knows not 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 incompast with a winding maze, That cannot tread the way out readily: So with her self is she in mutiny, To live or die which of the twain were better, When life is sham'd, and Death reproaches debter.
To kill my self, quoth she, alacke what were it, But with my body my poore souls pollution? They that lose halfe with greater patience bear it, Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion. That mother tries a mercilesse conclusion, Who having two sweet babes, when death takes one, Will slay the other, and be nurse to none.
My Body or Soul, which was the dearer? When the one pure, the other made divine; Whose love of either to my self was nearer? When both were kept for Heaven and Colatine: Ay me, the barke peel'd from the lofty Pine, His leaves will wither, and his sap decay, So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away.
Her house is sakt, her quiet interrupted, Her mansion battered by the enemy, Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted, Grosly ingirt with daring infamy. Then let it not be call'd impiety If in this blemisht part I make some Hole, Thro which I may convey this troubled Soul.
Yet die I will not till my Colatine Have heard the cause of my untimely death, That he may vow in that sad hour of mine, Revenge on him that made me stop my breath; My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath, Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent And as his due, writ in my Testament.
My honor I'll bequeath unto the knife, That wounds my body so dishonoured: 'Tis Honor to deprive dishonored life, The one will live, the other being dead; So of shames ashes shall my fame be bred: For in my death I murther shameful scorn, My shame so dead, my honor is new-born.
Dear Lord of that dear jewel I have lost, What legacy shall I bequeath to thee? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, By whose example thou reveng'd mayst be: How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me: My self thy friend will kill my self thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
This brief abridgement of my will I make, My Soul and Body to the skies and ground, My resolution (husband) do thou take, Mine honor be the knife's that makes my wound, My shame be his that did my fame confound: And all my fame that lives bisbursed be To those that live and think no shame of me.
Then Colatine shall oversee this will, How was I overseen that thou shalt see it? My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill; My life's foul deed my life's fair end shall free it, Faint not faint heart, but stoutly say, so be it. Yield to my hand, and it shall conquer thee; Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.'
10.Lucrece resolved to kill her self, determines first to send her Husband word.This plot of death when sadly she had laid, And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untun'd tongue she hoarsely call'd her maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies; For fleet-wing'd 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 mark of modesty, And soars a sad look to her Ladies 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-washt with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye; Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy Of those fair Suns set in her mistress sky, Who in a salt-wav'd Ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.
A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cesterns filling: One justly weeps; the other takes in hand; No cause, but company of her drops spilling, Their gentle sex to weepe are often willing, Grieving themselves to guess at others smarts, And then they drown their eyes, or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen minds, And therefore are they form'd as marble will: The weak opprest, th'impression of strange kinds, Is form'd in them by force, by fraud or skill. Then call them not the Authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stampt the semblance of a devil.
Their smoothnesse like a champaine 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 chrystal walls each little mote will peep: Tho men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor womens faces are their own faults books.
No man inveighs against the withered flower, But chides rough winter that the flower hath kill'd. Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour, Is worthy blame; O let it not be held Poor womens faults, that they are so fulfill'd With mens abuses, those proud Lords to blame, Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.
The president whereof in Lucrece view, Assail'd by night with circumstances strong Of present death and shame that might ensue, By that her death to do her husband wrong: Such danger to resistance did belong. The dying fear 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 girle, 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 girle, when went (and there she staid Till after a deep grone) 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, My self 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 lesse: For more it is than I can well expresse, And that deep torture may be call'd a Hell, When more is felt than one hath power to tell.
Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen, Yet save that labour for I have them here, (What should I say) one of my husbands 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 hast, and it will soon be writ.
Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, First hovering ore 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 dore, Throng her inventions which shall goe before.
At last she thus begins: Thou worthy Lord Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, Health to thy person, next vouchsafe t' afford (If ever, Love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see) Some present speed to come and visit me: So I commend me from our house in grief, My woes are tedious, tho my words are brief.
Here folds she up the tenor of her woe, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule Colatine may know Her grief, but not her griefes true quality, She dares not thereof make discovery, Lest he should hold it her own grosse abuse, Ere she with bloud had stain'd her stain'd excuse.
Besides, the life and feeling of her passion She hoords to spend, when he is by to hear her, When sighs and grones, and teares may grace the fashion Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her From that suspicion which the world my 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 be hold: When every part a part of woe doth bear, 'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear. Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, And sorrow ebs 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 sowre-fac'd groom to hie as fast As lagging foules before the Northern blast. Speed, more than speed, but dull and slow she deems, Extremity full urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain cursies to her low, And blushing on her with a stedfast eye Receives the scroll without or yea or no, And forth with bashful innocence doth flie: But they whose guilt within their bosomes lie, Imagine every eye beholds their blame; For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame:
When silly Groome (God wot) it was defect Of spirit, life, and bold audacity, Such harmlesse creatures have a true respect To talk in deeds, while others sawcily Promise more speed, but do it leasurely. Even so this pattern of the worne out age, Pawn'd honest lookes, but layd no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both their faces blazed, She thought he blusht, as knowing Tarquins lust, And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed, Her earnest eye did make him more amazed: The more 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 weepe, to grone, So woe hath wearied woe, mone tyred mone, That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Pawsing for meanes to mourne 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 Helens rape the City to destroy, Threatning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; Which the conceited Painter drew so proud, As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.
A thousand lamentable objects there In scorne of Nature, Art gave livelesse life: Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping teare, Shed for the slaughtred husband by a wife. The red bloud reek'd, to shew the painters strife, And dying eyes gleem'd forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring Pioneer Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust; And from the towres of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loope-holes thrust; Gazing upon the Greekes with little lust: Such sweet observance in this work was had, That one might see those far off eyes look sad.
In great Commanders, Grace and Majesty You might behold triumphing in their faces, In youth quick-bearing and dexterity; And here and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces, Which heartlesse peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what Art Of physiognomy might one behold! The face of either cipher'd eithers heart, Their face their manners most expresly told, In Ajax eyes blunt rage and rigor rold. But the mild glance that she Ulysses lent, Shew'd deep regard and smiling government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 'twere encouraging the Greekes to fight, Making such sober Actions with his hand, That it beguil'd attention, charm'd the sight: In speech it seem'd his beard, all silver white, Wag'd up and down, and from his lips did flie Thin winding breath which purld up to the skie.
About him were a press of gaping faces, Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advise: All jointly listning, but with several graces, As if some Mermaid did their eares intice; Some high, some low, the painter was so nice. The scalpes of many almost hid behind, To jump up higher seem'd to mock the mind.
Here one mans hand lean'd on anothers head, His nose being shadowed by his neighbors eare, Here one being throng'd 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 losse of Nestors golden words, It seem'd 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 Gript 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 wals of strong besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield, And to their hope they such odd action yield, That thro' their light joy seemed to appear (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strond of Dardan where they fought, To Simois reedy banks the red bloud ran, Whose waves to imitate the battel sought With swelling ridges, and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and then Retire again, till meeting greater ranks They join, and shoote their fome 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 distresse and dolor dweld, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priams wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus proud foot lies.
In her the Painter had anatomiz'd Times ruine, Beauties wrack, and grim cares reign, Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd, Of what she was no semblance did remain, Her blew bloud chang'd to black in every vein. Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the 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 he) without a sound, I'l tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue: And drop sweet balme in Priams painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong, And with my teares 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 stirre, That with my nailes her beauty I may teare: Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This lode of wrath that burning Troy doth bear; Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here. And here in Troy, for trespasse of thine eye, The Sire, the Son, the Dame and Daughter die.
Why should the private pleasure of some one Become the publick plague of many moe? Let sin alone committed, light alone Upon his head that hath transgressed so. Let guiltless soules be freed from guilty woe: For ones offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general.
Loe 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 mans lust these many lives confounds. Had doting Priam checkt his sons desire, Troy had bin bright with fame, and not with fire.
Here feelingly she weeps Troyes 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 awork, sad tales doth tell, To pencil'd pensiveness, and colour'd sorrow, She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow.
She throws her eyes about the painting round, And whom she finds forlorne she doth lament: At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepheards lent, His face, though full of cares, yet shew'd content. Onward to Troy with these blunt swains he goes, So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes.
In him the painter labour'd with his skill To hide deceit, and give the harmless show, An humble gate, calm lookes, eyes wayling still, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome wo, Cheeks, neyther 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 entertain'd a show so seeming just, And therein so insconst this secret evil, That jealousie it self could not mistrust, False creeping craft and perjury should thrust Into so bright a day, such black-fac'd stormes, Or blot with hel-borne sin such Saint-like formes.
The well-skill'd workman this mild Image drew For perjur'd Sinon, whose inchanting story The credulous Old Priam after slew; Whose words like wild-fire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glasse fell wherein they view'd their faces.
This picture she advisedly perus'd, And chid the Painter for his wondrous skill; Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd; So fair a forme lodg'd not a mind so ill; And still she on him she gaz'd, and gazing still, Such signs of truth in his plaine face she spied, That she concludes the picture was belied.
It cannot be (quoth she) that so much guile (She would have said) can lurke in such a look; But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue can lurke, from cannot, took It cannot be, she in that sense forsook, And turn'd it thus, it cannot be I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind.
For 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 beguild With outward honesty, but yet defil'd With inward vice; as Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin, so my Troy did perish.
Looke, looke 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 drop fire, no water thence proceeds. Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity, Are balls of quenchlesse fire to burn thy City.
Such Devils steale effects from lightlesse Hell, For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, And in that cold hot burning fire doth dwell, These contraries such unity do hold, Only to flatter fools, and make them bold: So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.
Here all enrag'd, such passion her assails, That patience is quite beaten from her breast; She tears the senselesse Sinon with her nails, Comparing him to that unhappy guest, Whose deed hath made her self her self detest; At last she smilingly with this gives o're, Fool, fool, quoth she, his wounds will not be sore.
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining. She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining. Short time seems long in 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 overslipt 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 shews of discontent: It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured.
Upon Lucrece sending for Colatine in such haste, he with divers of his Allies and Friends returns home.But now the mindful Messenger come back, Brings home his Lord and other company; Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black, And round about her tear-distained eye Blew circles stream'd like Rain-bows in the sky. These water-gals in her dim element, Foretell new storms to those already spent.
Which when her sad beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares; Her eyes though sod in tears, lookt red and raw, Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares, He hath no power to ask her how she fares, Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from home, wondring each others chance.
At last he takes her by the bloudlesse hand, And thus begins: What uncouth ill event Hath thee befallen, that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent? Unmask, dear Dear, this moody heavinesse, And tell thy griefe, that we may give redresse.
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrows fire, E're once she can discharge one word of woe: At length addrest to answer his desire, She modestly prepares to let them know Her Honor is ta'n prisoner by the Foe; While Colatine and his consorted Lords With sad attention long to hear her Words.
And now this pale Swan in her watry nest, Begins the Dirge of her certain ending; Few words (quoth she) shall fit the trespasse best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending, In me more woes than words are now depending, And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
Then be this all the task it hath to say. Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay, Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head, And what wrong else may be imagined By foule inforcement might be done to me, From that (alas) thy Lucrece is not free.
For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining Fauchion in my chamber came A creeping creature with a flaming light, And softly cry'd, awake thou Roman Dame, And entertain my love, else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict, If thou my loves desire doe contradict.
For some hard favour'd groom of thine, quoth he, Unlesse thou yoke thy liking to my will, I'le murther straight, and then I'le slaughter thee, And sweare 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, unlesse I tooke 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 farre the weaker with so strong a fear) My bloody Judge forbad my tongue to speak, No rightful plea might plead for Justice there: His scarlet lust came evidence to swear, That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes, And when the Judge is rob'd, the prisoner dies.
O teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or (at the least) this refuge let me find; Tho my grosse blood be stain'd with this abuse, Immaculate and spotlesse is my mind, That was not forc'd; that never was inclin'd To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.
Loe here the hopelesse Merchant of this losse, With head inclin'd, and voice dam'd up with woe, With sad set eyes, and wretched arms acrosse, 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 breaths 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 Eddy boundeth in his pride, Backe to the strait that forc'd him on so fast; In rage sent out, recall'd in rage being past; Even so his sighs his sorrows make a saw, To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.
Which speechlesse woe of his poor she attendeth, And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh; Dear Lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power, no floud 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 Traytor die: For sparing Justice feeds Iniquity.
But ere I name him, you fair Lords, quoth she, (Speaking to those that came with Colatine) Upon the relation of Lucrece her rape, Colatine and the rest swear to revenge, but this seems not full satisfaction to her losses.Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine: For 'tis a meritorious fair design, To chase injustice with revengeful arms, Knights by their oaths should right poor Ladies harms.
At this request, with noble disposition, Each present Lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewraid. But she that yet her sad task hath not said, The protestation stops. O speak, quoth she, How may this forced stain be wipt from me?
What is the quality of mine offence, Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstances May my pure mind with the foul act dispence, My low declined honour to advance? May any termes acquit me from this chance? The poisoned fountaine clears it self again, And why not I from this compelled stain.
With this they all at once began to say, Her bodies stain the mind untainted clears, While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune carv'd in it with teares. No, no, quoth she, no dame hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuses giving.
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would breake, She throwes forth Tarquins name, he, he, she says; She killeth her self, to exasperate them the more to punish the Delinquent.But more than, he, her poor Tongue could not speak, Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, She utters this, he, he, fair Lord, 'tis he That guides this hand to give this wound to me.
Even here she sheath'd in her harmlesse brest A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed, That blow did bayle it from the deep unrest Of that polluted Prison where it breathed, Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged spright, and through her Wounds doth flie Lifes lasting date from canceld destiny.
Stone-still, astonisht with this deadly deed, Stood Colatine 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 brest, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson bloud Circles her body in on every side, Who like a late sackt Island vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her bloud, still pure and red remaind, And some lookt black, and that false Tarquin staind.
About the mourning and congealed face Of that black bloud, a watry rigol goes, Which seemes to weep upon the tainted place: And ever since as pitying Lucrece woes, Corrupted bloud some watry token showes, And bloud untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrify'd.
Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries, That life was mine, which thou hast here deprived; If in the child the fathers image lies, Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unlived? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. If children predecease Progenitours, We are their off-spring, and they none of ours.
Poor broken glasse, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance, my old age new born, But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Shews me a barebon'd Death by time out-worn, O from my cheeks my image thou hast torn, And shiver'd all the beauty of my glasse, That I no more can see what once I was.
O time, cease thou thy course, and hast no longer, If thou surcease to be, that should survive: Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And leave the foultring feeble soules alive? The old Bees die, the young possess their hive, Then live sweet Lucrece, live again, and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee.
By this starts Colatine as from a dreame, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place, And then in key-cold Lucrece bleeding streame He fals, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And counterfeits to die with her a space. Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, And live, to be revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward soule Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue, Who made that sorrow should his use controle, Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Begins to talk, but through his lips do throng Weak words, so thick come in his poor hearts aid, That no man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if the name he tore, This windy tempest till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrows tide, to make it more. At last it raines, and busy winds give ore: 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 possesse the claim they lay: The father says, she's mine; O mine she is, Replies her husband: Do not take away My sorrowes interest, let no mourner say He weepes for her, for she was only mine, And only must be waild by Colatine.
O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life Which she too early and too late hath spild. Woe, woe, quoth Colatine, she was my wife, I own'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kild. My daughter and my wife with clamors fild The disperst aire, who holding Lucrece life, Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.
Brutus, who pluckt the knife from Lucrece side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to cloth his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece wound his follies show: He with the Romanes was esteemed so, As silly leering ideots are with kings, For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.
But now he throwes that shallow habit by, Wherein the Policy did him disguise, And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the teares in Colatinus eyes, Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quoth he, arise. Let my unsounded self suppos'd a fool Now set thy long experienst wit to school.
Why Colatine, is woe the cure for woe; Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thy self a blow For his foul act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds? Such childish humor from weak minds proceeds. Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay her self, that should have slain her foe.
Couragious Romane do not steep thy heart In such lamenting dew of lamentations, But kneele with me, and help to bear thy part, To rouse our Romane Gods with invocations, That they will suffer these abominations, (Since Rome her self 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 bloud so unjustly stained, By heavens fair sun, that breeds the fat earths store, By all our country rites in Rome maintained, And by chast Lucreces soul that late complained Her wrongs to us, and by this bloudy knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife.
This said, he strook his hand upon his breast, And kist the fatal knife to end his vow: And to his protestation urg'd the rest, Who wondring 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 sworne to this advised doome, They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence, To shew her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquins foul offence; Which being done, with speedy diligence, The Romans plausibly did give consent, To Tarquins everlasting banishment.
HE Love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this Pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous Moity. The warrant I have of your Honourable Disposition, not the Worth of my untutor'd Lines makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty should shew greater: mean time, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship; To whom I wish long life still, lengthened with all happiness.
