My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife,
That wounds my body so dishonoured:
'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life;
The one will live, the other being dead.
So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred,
For in my death I murder shameful scorn,
My shame so dead, my honour 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 may'st be.
How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me:
Myself thy friend, will kill myself 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 you take;

My honour be the knife's that makes my wound;
My shame be his, that did my fame confound;
And all my fame that lives disturbed be
To those that live, and think no shame of me.

When 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 that shall conquer thee;
Thou dead, that dies, and both shall victors be.

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 the maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies,
For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies.
Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so,
As winter meads, when sun does melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow
With soft slow tongue, true marks of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
For why, her face wore sorrow's livery,

But durst not ask of her audaciously,

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
Nor why her fair cheeks overwash'd with wo.

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye,
E'en 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 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;

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 they are form'd as marble will;

The weak oppress'd, 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 should be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like an even champaign plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils, that obscurely sleep;
Thro' crystal walls each little mote will peep.
Tho' men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks,
Poor women's faces are their own faults" books.

No man inveighs against the wither'd flower,
But chides rough winter, that the flower has kill'd
Not that's devour'd, but that which doth devour
Is worthy blame; O let it not be held

Poor women's faults that they are so fulfill'd

With men's abuses; those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak made women tenants to their shame

The precedent 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 thro' all her body spread,
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this mild patience did fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining;
My girl, (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, girl, when went (and there she staid,
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence?
Madam, ere I was up, reply'd 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,
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;

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 husband's 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 haste, and it will soon be writ.

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 still with will;

This is too curious good, this blunt and ill;
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,
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 grief's true quality;
She dares not therefore make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere she with blood had stain'd her strain'd excuse.

Besides the life and feeling of her passion,

She hoards to spend, when he is by to hear her;
When sighs, and groans, and tears may grace the fashion
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

From that suspicion which the world 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 behold;

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 ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal'd and on it writ,

At Ardea to my lord with more than haste;

The post attends, and she delivers it,

Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast,

As lagging souls before the northern blast.

Speed, more than speed, but dull and slow she deems, Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain curtsies to her low,
And blushing on her with a stedfast eye,
Receives the scroll without or yea or no:
For outward bashful innocence doth fly.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame,

For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame.

When silly groom, God wot, it was defect,
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity ;

Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd,
She thought he blush'd as knowing Tarquin's lust,
And blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd;
Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd;

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spy'd 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 weep, and groan.
So wo hath wearied wo, moan tired moan,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn 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 Helen's rape the city to destroy,

Threatening 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 scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life;
Many a dire drop seem'd a weeping tear,
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife..