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This dismal ery rings sadly in her ear,

Through which it enters to surprise her heart, Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,

With cold pale weakness numbs each feeling part: Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses sore-dismay'd,
She tells them, 't is a causeless fantasy,

And childish errour that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more ;—
And with that word she spy'd the hunted boar;

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither;
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murder.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; She treads the paths that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays,

Like the proceedings of a drunken brain; Full of respect, yet nought at all respecting, In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master;
And there another licking of his wound,

'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster; And here she meets another, sadly scowling, To whom she speaks; and he replies with howling.

When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin vollies out his voice;

Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears bleeding as they go.

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"Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping?

What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping

Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour."

Here overcome, as one full of despair,

She veil'd her eye-lids, who, like sluices, stopp'd The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd; But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again.

O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,

As striving which should best become her grief; All entertain'd, each passion labours so,

That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best; then join they all together, Like many clouds cousulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla;
A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow

This sound of hope doth labour to expell;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,

Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,

Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.

O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes,
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
With likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him all to naught;

Now she adds honour to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
Imperial supreme of all mortal things.

"No, no," quoth she, "sweet Death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear, When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,

Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow, (truth I must confess) I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.

"Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander; 'T is he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he 's author of thy slander; Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both, without ten women's wit."

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With Death she humbly doth insinuate; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs; and stories His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

"O Jove," quoth she, "how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind,

To wail his death, who lives, and must not die,
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

"Fie, fie, fond Love, thou art so full of fear, As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves; Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,

Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves." Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.

As faulcon to the lure, away she flies;

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; And in her haste unfortunately spies

The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, ber eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew.

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head,

Where they resign'd their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,

And never wound the heart with looks agains
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan.

Whereat each tributary subject quakes;

As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, Earth's foundation shakes, Which with cold terrours doth men's mind conThis mutiny each part doth so surprise, [found: That from their dark beds, once more, leap her eyes;

And, being open'd, threw unwilling sight

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, But stole his blood, and seem'd with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;

Over one shoulder doth she hang her head; Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;

She thinks he could not die, he is not dead. Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow; Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so stedfastly, [three; That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem And then she reprehends her mangling eye, [be: That makes more gashes where no breach should His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

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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 heart's 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 ensuing ?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
But true-sweet beauty liv'd and dy'd 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 liv'd, 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 gawdy 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 walk'd 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 the brook,
The 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 cherries; 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.

" "T is true, 't is trae; 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 nuzzling 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 youth with his; the more I am accurs'd."
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 :

Thus, weary of the world, away she hies,

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 spite, 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, too high or low;
That all love's pleasure 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'erstraw'd
With sweets, that shall the sharpest sight beguile:
The strongest 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, [sures. Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treaIt 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 dissention 'twixt the son and fire; Subject and servile to all discontents,

As dry combustious matter is to fire;
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 smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;

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 't is thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.

"Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 't is 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."

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 queen Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

THE

RAPE OF LUCRECE.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

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 would show 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,

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

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 people's suffrages, 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, Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. 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 avouched, only Collatinus 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 noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece's beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after pri

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Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
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 [vaunt
His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should
The golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate
His all too-timeless speed, if none of those:
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.

vily withdrew himself, and was (according to
his estate) royally entertained and lodged by
Lucrece at Collatium. The same night, he
treacherously stealeth into her chamber, vio-
lently ravished 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
Collatine. They came, the one accompanied
with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Va-
lerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning
habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She,
first taking an oath of them for her revenge, re-
vealed the actor, and whole manner of his deal-O rash-false heat, wrapt in repentant cold,
ing, 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 ac-
quainted 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 consent and a ge-
neral acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled,
and the state government changed from kings
to consuls.

THE

RAPE OF LUCRECE.

FROM the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,
And girdle with embracing flames the waist
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp❜ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
Where mortal stars, 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 priceless wealth the Heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer 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!
An expir'd date, cancel'd ere well 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 needeth then apology be made
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher

Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!

When at Collatium this false lord arriv'd,
Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue striv'd
Which of them both should underprop her fame:
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;
When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
Virtue would stain that or 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
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 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 sovereignty 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 in so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband's 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 Collatine doth owe,
Enchanted 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 limb'd no secret bushes fear:
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer
And reverend welcome to her princely guest,
Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:

For that he colour'd with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;
That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,
Save sometime 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 cop'd 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 Collatine's high name,
Made glorious by his manly chivalry,
With bruised arms and wreaths of victory :
Her joy with heav'd-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 blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows 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 life's strength doth fight;
And every one to rest himself betakes, [wakes.
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that

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 with gain so foud,
That what 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 battles' rage;
Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost
The death of all, and all together lost.

So that in vent'ring ill, we leave to be
The things we are, for that which we expect ;
And this ambitious foul infirmity,
In baving 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 honour to obtain his lust;
And for himself, himself he must forsake:
Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?
When shall be think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays
To slanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had clos'd 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 surprise
The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,
While lust and murder wake 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 brain-sick rude desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:
"As from this cold flint I enforc'd this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire."
Here, pale with fear, he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise:
Then looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still-slaughter'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.

"Yea, 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 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 Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt 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?

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