For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law.

'In vain I rail at Opportunity,

1025

1028

At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night;
In vain I cavil with my infamy,
In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite;
This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.
The remedy indeed to do me good,
Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood.
'Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree?
Honour thyself to rid me of this shame;
For if I die, my honour lives in thee,
But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame;
Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame,
And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.' 1036
This said, from her be-tumbled couch she
starteth,

1032

To find some desperate instrument of death;
But this no slaughter-house no tool imparteth
To make more vent for passage of her breath;
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
As smoke from Etna, that in air consumes,
Orthat which from discharged cannon fumes.
'In vain,' quoth she, 'I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life:
I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain,
Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife:
But when I fear'd I was a loyal wife:

1045

1048

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. 1052 To clear this spot by death, at least I give A badge of fame to slander's livery; A dying life to living infamy.

Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away, To burn the guiltless casket where it lay? 1057

1060

'Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know The stained taste of violated troth; To flatter thee with an infringed oath; I will not wrong thy true affection so, This bastard graff shall never come to growth; He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute That thou art doting father of his fruit. 1064 '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 stol'n from forth thy gate.

1068

1072

For me, I am the mistress of my fate, And with my trespass never will dispense, Till life to death acquit my forc'd offence. 'I will not poison thee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses; My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false night's abuses; My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices, 1076 As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.

1229

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.

1232

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling;
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause but company of her drops spilling;
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing, 1237
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 oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds

Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill: Then call them not the authors of their ill, 1244 No more than wax shall be accounted evil Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,

Lays open all the little worms that creep; 1248 In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep: Through crystal walls each little mote will peep:

Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,

1252 Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.

'But tell me, girl, when went'-and there she stay'd Till after a deep groan-Tarquin from hence?'1276 'Madam, ere I was up,' replied the maid, 'The more to blame my sluggard negligence: Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense; Myself was stirring ere the break of day, 1280 And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

'But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.'
'O! peace,' quoth Lucrece; if it should be
told,

The repetition cannot make it less;
For more it is than I can well express:

1284

And that deep torture may be call'd a hell, When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

1288

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill:
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;
What wit sets down is blotted straight with
will;

This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill: 1300
Much like a press of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins: 'Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, 1304
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, though my words are brief.'

1309

The homely villein curtsies to her low;
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie:
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
Imagine every eye beholds their blame;
For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her
shame:

1344