And then she reprehends her mangling eye, That makes more gashes where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled,

For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

My tongue cannot express my grief for one; And yet,' quoth she, behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead: Heavy hearts lead melt at mine eyes as fire, So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world! what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? What canst thou boast

Of things long since, or any thing ensning?

The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trito,

But true sweet beauty lived and died in him. Bonnet, or veil, henceforth no creature wear; Nor sun, nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;

The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss

you.

But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.

And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gandy sun would peep; The wind would blow it off, and being gone, Play with his locks, then would Adonis weep: And straight, in pity of his tender years,

They both would strive who first should dry his

tears.

To see his face, the lion walks along

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;

To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him: If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the silly lamb that day.

When he beheld his shadow in a brook, There fishes spread on it their golden gills:

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries, and ripe red cher. ries;

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave.

If he did see his face, why then I know, He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so. 'Tis true, 'tis true, thus was Adonis slain, He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, Who would not whet his teeth at him again, But by a kiss thought to persuade him there: And nousling in his flank, the loving swine Sheath'd unaware his tusk in his soft groin.

Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him, I should have kill'd him first. But he is dead, and never did he bless My mouth with his; the more am I accursed.' With this she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ear a heavy tale, As if he heard the woeful words she told :

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.

Wonder of time! quoth she, this is my spight, That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.

Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend; It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, Ne'er settled equally to high or low; That all love's pleasures shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, And shall be blasted in a breathing while, The bottom poison, and the top o'er-straw'd With sweets, that shall the sharpest sight beguile. The strong body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with trea

sures;

It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 'It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be, when it seems most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and tire; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustions matter is to sire. Sith, in his prime, death doth my love destroy, They that love best their love shall not enjoy.' By this the boy that by her side lay kill'd, Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood, that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up chequer'd with white, Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood, Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. She bows her head the new-sprung flower to Comparing it to her Adonis' breath: smell,

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death: She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears, 'Poor flower!' quoth she, this was thy father's guise,

(Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire)
For every little grief to wet his eyes,
To grow unto himself was his desire,

And so 'tis thine; but know it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.
'Here was thy father's bed, here is my breast,
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right;
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute of an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid,
Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their

TARQUIN AND LUCRECE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY WRIOTHESLY, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end: whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored 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 Lordship's in all duty,

WILL. SHAKSPEARE.

THE ARGUMENT.

Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus) after he had caused his father-in-law, Servius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, and contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people's suprages, had possessed himself of the kingdom; went, accompanied with his sons, and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege, the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after supper, every one commended the virtues of his own wife; among whom Colatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucrece. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and, intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before arouched: anly Colatinus finds his wife (though it were late in the night) spinning amongst her maids, the other ladies were found all dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Colatinus the victory, and his wife the fume. At that time, Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece's beauty, yet smothering his passion for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was (according to his state) royally entertained, and lodged by Lucrece at Colatium. The same night, he treacherously stealing into her chamber, violently ravished her ; and early in the morning speeded 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 a mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole matter of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent, they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins: and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer, and manner of the vile deed; with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one con sent, and a general acclamation, the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state-government changed, from kings to consuls.

FROM the besieged Ardea all in post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathing 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 waste Of Colatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of chaste, unhaply set This baitless edge on his keen appetite: When Colatine unwisely did not let, To praise the clear unmatched red and white, Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight; Where mortal star, as bright as heaven's 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 prizeless 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 possess'd, as soon decay'd and done! As is the morning's silver melting dew, Against the golden splendour of the sun; A date expired and cancel'd ere begun. Honour and beauty in the owner's arms, Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator; What needed 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 thievish cares, because it is his own? Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sov'reignty 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 lugh-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should

vaunt

The golden-hap, which their superiors want. But sonie untimely thought did instigate His all too timeless speed, if none of those. His honours, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal, which in his liver glows. O'rash false heat wrapt in repentant cold! Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old. When at Colatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Koman dame, Within whose face beauty and virtue strived, Which of them both should underprop her fame. When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shume; When beauty boasted blushes, in despight, Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.

But beauty, in that white intituled, From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field; Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Her silver cheeks, and call'd it then her shield; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.

This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen, Argued by beauty's red and virtue's white; Of either's colour was the other queen, Proving from world's minority their right; Yet their ambition makes them still to fight: The sov'reignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other's seat. This silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses, Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies, that would let him go, Rather than triumph o'er so false a foe. Now thinks he, that her husband's shallow tongue, The muggard prodigal, that praised her so,

In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to shew. Therefore that praise, winch Colatine doth owe, Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspected the faise worshipper.

For thoughts unstain'd do seldom dream of evil, Birds never limed, no secret bushes fear :' So guiltless she securely gives good cheer And reverend welconie to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm exprest. For that he colour'd with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty,

That nothing in him seem'd inordinate, Save sometimes too much wonder of his eye; Which having all, all could not satisfy; But poorly rich so wanteth in his store, That cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she that never coped with stranger-eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle shining secresies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books,
She touch'd 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 husband's fame,
Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

And decks with praises Colatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory.

Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express,
And wordless, so greets heaven for his success.
Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there;

No cloudy show of stormy blust'ring 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 sprite;

For after supper long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.
Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth tight,
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, Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining; Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining:

And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed.

Those that much covet are of gain so fond,
That oft they have not that which they possess ;
They scatter and unloose it from their bond,
And so by hoping more, they have but less;
Or gaining more, the profit of excess

Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all, is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth and ease in waining age:
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,
That one for all, or all for one we gage:
As life for honour, in fell battle's rage,

Honour for wealth, and oft that wealth doth cost
The death of all, and altogether lost.

So that in vent'ring 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 doating Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour 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 sland'rous tongues the wretched hateful lays? Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes; No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries: Now serves the season, that they may surprize The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still, Whilst lust and murder wakes to stain and kill.' And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm,

Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;
The one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm:
But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,
Doth too, too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brainsick rude desire.
His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fiv,
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 enforced this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.'

Here pale with fear, he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprize; And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow inay on this arise: Then looking scornfully he doth despise

His naked armour of still slanghter'd 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 unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot With your uncleanness, that which is divine. Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:

Let fair humanity abhor the deed,

That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.

'O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's 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 cypher me how fondly I did dote:
That my posterity, shamed with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin,
To wish that I their father had not been.
"What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy,
Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or sells eternity, to get a toy?

For one sweet grape, who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre 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 virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame.

O what excuse can my invention make, When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed! Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake! Mine eyes forego their light, my faise heart

bleed?

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.
'Had 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 reason's weak removing, Who fears a sentence, or an old man's saw, Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.' Thus (graceless) holds he disputation, 'Tween trozen 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 virtuous deed. Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand, And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,

Fearing some bad news from the wariike band, Where her beloved Colatinus lies.

O how her fear did make her colonr rise!
First, red as roses, that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.
And now her hand in my hand being lock'd
Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear:
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,

That bad Narcissus seen her as she stood,
Self-love had never drown'd hun 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 display'd, The coward tights, and will not be dismay'd. Then childish fear avaunt! Debating die! Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age!

My heart shall never countermand mine eye, Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize;

Then who fears sinking, where such treasure lies?' As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choak'd by unresisted lust.

Away he steals with open list'ning ear, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust: Both which, as servitors to the unjust,

So cross him with their opposite persuasion, That now he vows a league, and now invasion. Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the self-same seat sits 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 incline:

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which, once corrupted, takes the worser part. And therein heartens up his servile powers, Who flatter'd by their leaders jocund show,

Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours; And as their captain so their pride doth grow, Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led,

The Roman lord doth march to Lucrece' bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforced, recites his ward; But as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping thief to some regard: The threshold grates the door to have him heard ; Night-wand'ring weazels shriek to see him there, They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place, The wind wars with his torch to make him stay, And blows the smoke of it into his face, Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch.
And being lighted by the light, he spies
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 inured; return again in haste,
Thou seest our mistress' ornaments are chaste.
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him,
He in the worst sense construes their denial:
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay
him,

He takes for accidental things of trial,
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial;
Which with a ling'ring 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 sometimes threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing;
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves
and sands,

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.' Now is he come unto the chamber-door, That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, Hath barr'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 solicited th' eternal power,

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair, And they would stand auspicious to the hour; Even there he starts; quoth he, I must deflour! 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 back'd with resolution :
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be
tried,

The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution;
Against love's fire, fear's frost hath dissolution.
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
Covers the shame, that follows sweet delight.'
This said, the guilty hand pluck'd up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide;
The dove sleeps fast, that this night owl will
catch:

Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent, steps aside;
But she sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed:
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head,
By their high treason in his heart misled;
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full

soon,

To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight;

Even so the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being blinded with a greater light: Whether it is, that she reflects so bright,

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;

But blind they are, and keep themselves 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 clear 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 world's delight.
Her lily hand her rosy cheeks lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Which therefore angry, seems to part in sun-

der,

Swelling on either side to want his bliss:
Between whose hills, her head intombed is

Where like a virtuous monument she lies,
To be admired of lewd unhallow'd eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet, whose perfect white
Shew'd like an April daizy on the grass,
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her eyes like marigolds had sheath'd their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair like golden threads play'd with her breath;

O modest wantons! wanton modesty!

Shewing life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's mortality.
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,

As if hetween them twain there were no strife,
But that life lived in death, and death in life.
Her breasts like ivory globes circled with
blue,

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 doated,
And in his will his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied:

So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified,
Slack'd, not suppress'd; for standing by her side,
His eye which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fight

ing, Obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting,

In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children's tears, nor mother's groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart 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 land;

His hand, as proud of such a dignity, Smoaking with pride, march'd on to make his stand

On her bare breasts, the heart of all her land; Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did

scale,

Left their round turrets destitute and pale. They must'ring to the quiet cabinet, Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries. She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock'd-up

eyes;

Who peeping forth, this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and control'd. Imagine her as one in dead of night, Forth from dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, Whose grim aspéct sets every joint a shaking, What terror 'tis: but she in worser taking,

From sleep disturb'd, heedfully doth view The sight, which makes supposed terror rue. Wrapt and confounded in a thousand fears, Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies: She dares not look, yet winking there appears Quick shifting antics ugly in her eyes, Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries; Who angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, (Rude ram! to batter such an ivory wall)

May feel her heart (poor citizen!) distrest, Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.

This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity, To make the breach, and enter this sweet city. First like a trumpet doth his tongue begin To sound a parley to his heartless foe,

Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,

The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanor seeks to shew;
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,
Under what colour he commits this ill.
Thus he replies: "The colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,

And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale.
Under that colour am I come to scale

Thy never-conquer'd fort, the fault is thine, For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. "Thus I forestal thee, if thou mean to chide: Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,

Where thou with patience must my will abide;
My will, that marks thee for my earth's delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might.
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty it was newly bred.

'I see what crosses my attempts will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rose defends;
I think the honey guarded with a sting.
All this before-hand counsel comprehends;
But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends.
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,

And doats on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty.

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

But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity;
Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy?
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which like a falcon tow'ring in the skies,

Concheth the fowl below with his wings' shade Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount, he dies; So under his insulting falchion lies

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowls hear falcons' bells. Lucrece,' quoth he, this night I must enjoy thee, If thou deny, then force must work my way; For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee: That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll stay, To kill thine honour with thy life's decay;

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him The scornful mark of every open eye; So thy surviving husband shall remain

Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy; And thou the author of their obloquy,

Shalt have thy tresspass cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times.
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted;
But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend,

A little harm done to a great good end,
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted
In purest compounds; being so applied,
His venom in effect is purified.

Then for thy husband, and thy children's sake, Tender my suit, bequeath not to their lot

The shame, that from them no device can take, The blemish that will never he forgot, Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour's blot: For marks described in men's nativity, Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.' Here with a cockatrice, dead-killing eye, He rouseth np himself, and makes a pause; While she, the picture of true piety, Like a white hind beneath the gripe's sharp claws, Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws,

To the rough beast, that knows no gentle right, Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

As when a black-faced cloud the world dues threat,

In his dim mist the aspiring mountain hiding
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust does

get,
Which blow these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hind'ring their present fall by this dividing:
So his unhallow'd haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks, while Orpheus plays
Like foul night-waking cat he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth;
Her sad behaviour feeds her vulture folly,
A swallowing gulf, that e'en in plenty wanteth;
His ear her prayer admits, but his heart granteth
No penetrable entrance to her plaining;
Tears harden lust, though marble wears with

raining.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd In the remorseless wrinkles of his face : Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd, 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.

She conjures him by high Almighty Jove,

By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath; By her untimely tears, her husband's love; holy human law, and common troth;

By

By heaven and earth, and all the power of both:
That to his borrow'd bed he make retire,
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, Reward not hospitality

With such black payment as thou hast pretended;
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee,
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended:
End thy ill aim before thy suit 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;
Thyself art mighty, for thy own sake leave me;
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me;
Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me
My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to het
thee.

If ever man was moved with woman's moans,
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans.