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As through an arch the violent, roaring tide
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste.
Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride

Back to the strait that forced 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 speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh :—
· Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Another power: no flood by raining slaketh.
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh

More feeling-painful: let it then suffice

To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes:

And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she that was thy Lucrece,-now attend me: Be suddenly revenged on my foe,

Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend

me

From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend

me

Comes all too late; yet let the traitor die:
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.

'But ere I name him, you, fair lords,' quoth slie.
Speaking to those that came with Collatine,
Shall plight your honorable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mue;
For 'tis a meritorious, fair design,

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To chase injustice with revengeful arms: Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms.'

At this request, with noble disposition
Each present lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd: '
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,

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The protestation stops. O, speak,' quoth she; 'How may this forced stain be wiped from me?

'What is the quality of mine offence,

Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
My low-declined honor to advance ?
May any terms acquit me from this chance?
The poison'd fountain clears itself again;
And why not I from this compelled stain ?'

With this, they all at once began to say,
Her body's stain her mind untainted clears;
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map, which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.

'No, no,' quoth she; no dame, hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.'

1 Discovered.

Here, with a sigh, as if her heart would break.
She throws forth Tarquin's name: He, he,' the

says;

But more than he,' her poor tongue could not

speak;

Till, after many accents and delays,

Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,

She utters this:- He, he, fair lords, 'tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me.'

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed :
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest

Of that polluted prison where it breathed:
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her winged sprite; and through her wounds
doth fly

Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.

Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw;
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew

The murderous knife; and as it left the place,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,

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