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O from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn!
O time! cease thou thy course, and last no longer,
By this starts Colatine as from a dream,
The deep vexation of his inward soul,
Yet sometimes Tarquin was pronounced plain,
Then son and father weep with equal strife,
The one doth call her his, the other his ;
O! quoth Lucretius, I did give that life,
The disperst air, who holding Lucrece's life,
Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side,
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
For sportive words, and uttering foolish things
But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Why, Colatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
For his foul act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
That they will suffer these abominations
(Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac❜d) By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd.
Now by the Capitol that we adore!
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd!
By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's store ! By all our country rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late complain'd Her wrongs to us! and by this bloody knife! We will revenge the death of this true wife.
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
When they had sworn to this advised doom,