My body or my soul, which was the dearer ? But as the carth doth weep, the sun being set,
When the one pure, the other made divine Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye;
Whose love of either to myself was nearer ? Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet
When both were kept for heaven and Collatine Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy
Ah me! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine, Of those fair suns, set in her mistress sky,
His leaves will wither, and his sap decay;

Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light,
So must my soul, her bark being peeld away. Which makes the maid weep like the dewy nignt.
Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Her mansion batter'd by the enemy;

Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling: Her sacred table spotted, spoil'd, corrupted, One justly weeps; the other takes in hand Grossly engirt with daring infamy :

No cause, but company, of her drops spilling: Then let it not be call'd impiety,

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing; If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole,

Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts; Through which I may convey this troubled soul. And then they drown their eyes, or break their

hearts Yet die I will not, till my Collatine Have heard the cause of 'my untimely death; For men nave marb.e, women waxen, minds, That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, And therefore are they form’d as marble will; Revenge on him that made me stop my breath. The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kings My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath, Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill : Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent, Then call them not the authors of their ill, And as his due, writ in my testament.

No more than wax shall be accounted evil

Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.
My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonoured.

Their smoothness, like a goodly charpaign plain, 'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life;

Lays open all the little worms that creep; The one will live, the other being dead :

In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred; Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep: For in my death I murder shameful scorn : Through chrystal walls each little inote will

peep : My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,

Poor women's faces are their own faults' books, Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?

No man

eigh against the wither'd lower, My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,

But chide rough winter that the flower bath kill'd' By whose example thou reveng'd may'st be. Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour, How Tarquin must be us’d, read it in me :

Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd And, for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin so. With men's abuses : those proud lords, to blame,

Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. This brief abridgment of my will I make : My soul and body to the skies and ground;

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, My resolution, husband, do thou take;

Assail'd by night, with circumstances strong Mine bonour be the knife's, that makes my wound; of present death, and shame that might ensue My shame be his that did my fame confound;

By that her death, to do her husband wrong ; And all my fame that lives, disbursed be

Such danger to resistance did belong, To those that live, and think no shame of me.

That dying fear through all her body spread;

And who cannot abuse a body dead ?
Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this Will;
How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;

To the poor counterfeit of her complaining; My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it.

My girl, quoth she, on what occasion break Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, so be it.

Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are rain Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee;

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, (ing' Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.

Kaow, gentle wench, it small avails my mood :

If tears could help, mine own would do me good. This plot of death when sadly she had laid,

But tell me, girl, when went-(and there she stay'd And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence; With untun'd tongue she hoarsely call’d her maid,

Madam, ere I was up, reply'd the maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;

The more to blame my sluggard negligence : For feet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies. Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense; Poor Lucrece cheeks unto her maid seem so

Myself was stirring ere the break of day, As winter meads, when sun doth melt their snow.

And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, But lady, if your maid may be so bold, With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty; She would request to know your heaviness. And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow,

O peace! quoth Lucrece; if it should be told, (For why? her face wore sorrow's livery :) The repetition cannot make it less; But durst not ask of her audaciously

For more it is than I can well express : Why aer two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,

And that deep torture may be cali'd a hell, Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woa. When more is felt than one hath power to tell

1

Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen,

His kindled duty kindled ber mistrust, Yet save that labour, for I have them here, That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd; What should I say?-One of my husband's en She thought be blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust, Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd: Bid him with speed prepare to carry it:

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ. The more she thought he spy'd in her some blemish Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,

But long she thinks till he return again, First hovering o'er the paper with her quill : And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone. Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;

The weary time she cannot entertain, What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will; For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan: This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, Much like a press of people at a door,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Throng her inventions, which shall go before. Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. At last she thus begins: “Thou worthy lord At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy; Health to thy person! next vouchsafe t'afford Before the which is drawn the power of Greece (If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see,

For Helen's rape the city to destroy,
Some present speed, to come and visit me: Threatening cloud-kissing Nion with annoy;
So I commend me from our house in grief;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief” As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.
Here folds she up the tenour of her.woe,

A thousand lamentable objects there, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

In scorn of nature, art gave lifelese life: By this short schedule Collatine may know Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear, Her grief, but not her grief's true quality: Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife : She dares not thereof make discovery,

The red blood reek'd, to shew the painter's strife ; Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights, Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse. Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. Besides, the life and feeling of her passion There migbt you see the labouring pioneer She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her; Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust; When sighs, and groans, and tears, may grace the And from the towers of Troy there would appear fashion

The very eyes of men through loop-boles thrust, Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust: From that suspicion which the world might bear her. Such sweet observance in this work was had, ro shun this blot, she would not blot the letter That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. With words, till action might become them better.

In great commanders grace and majesty To see sad sights moves more than hear them told; You might behold, triumphing in their faces ; For then the eye interprets to the ear

In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; The heavy motion that it doth behold,

And here and there the painter interlaces When every part a part of woe doth bear,

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces; 'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear :

Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, That one would swear he saw them quake and And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

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

In Ajax and Ulysses, 0, what art At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste :

Of physiognomy might one behold! The post attends, and she delivers it,

The face of either 'cipher'd either's heart; Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast Their face their manners most expressly told: As lagging fowls before the northern blast. In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour rolld; Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems : But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

Shew'd deep regard and smiling government. The homely villein courtsies to her low; There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, Aud blushing on her, with a stedfast eye,

As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight; Receives the scroll, without or yea or no,

Making such sober action with his band, And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.

That it beguild attention, charm'd the sight: But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie, In speech, it seein'd, his beard, all silver white, Imagine every eye beholds their blame;

Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame. Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky. When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect About him were a press of gaping faces, of spirit, life, and bold audacity.

Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice; Such harmless creatures have a true respect All jointly list’ning, but with several graces, To talk in deeds, while others saucily

As if some merinaid did their ears entice; Promise more speed, but do it leisurely :

Some high, some low; the painter was so nice, Even so, this pattern of the worn-out age

The scalps of many almost hid behind, Pawn'd bo esi looks, bri• lay'd no words to gage. To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the mind

Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head, Why should the private pleasure of some one
Her nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear; Become the pubiic plague of many mo?
Here one, being throng'd, bears back, all boll'n and Let sin, alone committed, light alone
red;

Upon his head that hath trangressed so :
Another, smother'd, seems to pelt and swear ; Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe :
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, For one's offence why should so many fall,
As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words,

To plague a private sin in general ? It seem'd they would debate with angry swords.

Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, Por much imaginary work was there;

Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds, Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,

Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, That for Achilles' image stood his spear,

And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds, Grip'd in an armed band; himself, behind, And one man's lust these many lives confounds , Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.

Had doting Priam check'd his son's desire, A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,

Troy had been bright with fame, and not with Stood for the whole to be imagined.

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes : And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell, When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to field, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ; Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy

Then little strength rings out the doleful kne To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell And to their hope they such odd action yield, To pencil'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow That, throngh their light joy, seemed to appear She lends them words, and she their looks (Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear.

borrow. And, from the strond of Dardan where they fonght, She throws her eyes about the painting, round, To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran,

And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

At last she sees a wretched image bound, With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; To break upon the galled shore, and then

His face, though full of cares, yet shew'd content. Retire again, till meeting greater ranks

Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, They join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, In him the painter labour'd with his skill To find a face where all distress is stel'd.

To hide deceit, and give the harmless shew, Many she sees, where cares have carved some, An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, But none where all distress and dolour dwellid, A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

Cheeks, neither red nor pale, but mingled so Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes, That blushing red no‘guilty instance gave, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies. Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have In her the painter had anatomiz'd

But, like a constant and confirmed deyil, Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign; He entertained a shew so seeming just, Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd: And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil, Of what she was, no semblance did remain : That jealousy itself could not mistrust, Her blue blood chang'd to black in every vein, False-creeping craft and perjury should thrus. Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Into so bright a day such black'd-fac'd storms Shew'd life imprison'd in a body dead.

Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew And shapes her sorrow to the beldame's woes, For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, The credulous old Priam after slew; And bitter words, to ban her cruel foes :

Whose words, like wild-fire, burnt the shining glory The painter was no God to lend her those ; Of rich built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, And little stars shot from their fixed places, To give her so much grief, and not a tongue. When their glass fell, wherein they view'd their faces Poor instrument, quoth she, without a sound, This picture she advisedly perus’d, I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue : And chid the painter for his wond'rous skill; And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd, And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong, So fair a form lodg'd not a mind so ill; And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long; And still on him she gaz'd; and gazing stik. And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes

Such signs of truth in his plain face she spy'a, Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

That she concludes the picture was bely'd. Shew me the strumpet that began this stir,

It cannot be, quoth she, that so much guile, That with my nails her beauty I may tear.

(She would have said) can lurk in such a loan Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur

But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the whine, This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear; And from her tongue, can lurk from cannot took; Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here.

It cannot be she in that sense forsook, And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,

And turn'd it thus : It cannot be, I find, Tho sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die But such a face should bear a ricked mind "

Por even as subtle Sinon here is painted,

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow are, So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,

Ere once she can discharge one word of war : (As if with grief or travail he had fainted,) At length address'd to answer bis desire, To me came Tarquin armed; so beguil'd

She modestly prepares to let them know With outward honesty, but yet defild

Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe; With inward vice: as Priam him did cherish, While Collatine and his consorted lords So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish. With sad attention long to hear her words. Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, And now this pale swan in her watery nest To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds. Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending: Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise ? Few words, quoth she, shall fit the trespass best, For every tear he falls, a Trojan bleeds;

Where no excuse can give the fault amending: His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds : In me more woes than words are now depending : Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, And my laments would be drawn out too long Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. Such devils steal effects from ightless hell;

Then be this all the task it hath to say: For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,

Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed And in that cold, hot-burning fire doth dwell; A stranger came, and on that pillox lay Tnese contraries such unity do hold,

Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head Only to flatter fools, and make them bold : And what wrong else may be imagined So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter, By foul enforcement might be done *o me, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water. From that, alas ! thy Lucrece is not free. Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails, For in the dreadful dead of dark mir!:zht, Tnat patience is quite beaten from her breast. With shining falcbion in my chamber came She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, A creeping creature, with a flaming light, Comparing him to that unhappy guest,

And softly cry'd, Awake, thou Roman dame, Whose deed hath made herself, herself detest: And entertain my love; else lasting shame At last she smilingly with this gives o'er;

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
Fool! fool! quoth she, his wounds will not be sore. If thou my love's desire do contradict.
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, For some hard-favour'd groom of thine, quoth he,
And time doth weary time with her complaining. Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And both she thinks too long with her remaining: And swear I found you where you did fulfi
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining. The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; The lechers in their deed: this act will be
And they that watch, see time how slow it creeps. My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.
Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought, With this I did begin to start and cry,
That she with painted images hath spent;

And then against my heart he set his sword;
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
By deep surmise of others detriment;

I should not live to speak another word:
Losing her woes in shews of discontent.

So should my shame still rest upon record; It easeth some, though none it ever cur'd,

And never be forgot in mighty Rome To think their dolour others have endur'd.

The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom

But now the mindful messenger, come back,
Brings home his lord and other company;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black:
And round about her tear-distained eye
Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky;
These water-galls in her dim element
Foretel new storms to those already spent.

Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
And far the weaker with so strong a fear :
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak,
No rightful plea might plead for justice there
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes,
And when the judge is rob’d, the prisoner dies.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, 0, teach me how to make mine own excuse !
Amazedly in her sad face he stares :

Or, at the least, this refuge let me find;
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw, Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse,
Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. Immaculate and spotless is my mind;
He hath no power to ask her how she fares; That was not forc'd ; that never was inclin'd
But stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, To accessary yieldings, but still pure
Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.
At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, Lo here, the hopeless merchant of this loss,
And thus begins: What uncouth ill event

With head declin'd, and voice damn'd up with woo, Hath thee Lefal'n, that thou dost trembling stand ? With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across, Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent?

The grief away, that stops his answers so . Uomask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,

But wretched as he is, he strives in vain. And tell say grief, that we may give redress What he breathes out, bis breath drinks up again

hs through an arch the violent roaring tido Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed, Out-runs the eye that doth behold his haste, Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew; Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride

Till Lucrece' father that beholds her bleed, Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast; Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw; In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past : And from the purple fountain Brutus drew Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, The murderous knife, and as it left the place, To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase; Which speechless woe of his, poor she attendeth, And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh:

In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Circles her body in on every side, Another power, no flood by raining slaketh. Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood, My woe too sensible thy passion maketh

Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood. More feeling-painful: let it then suffice

Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin

stain’d.
And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece,-now attend me; About the mourning and congealed face
Be suddenly revenged on my foe,

or that black blood, a wat’ry rigol goes, Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me which seems to weep upon the tainted place : From what is past; the help that thou shalt lend me And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die:

Corrupted blood some watery token shews; For sparing justice feels iniquity.

And blood untainted still doth red abide,

Blushing at that which is so putrify'a But ere I name him, you fair lords, quoth she, (Speaking to those, that caine with Collatine,) Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries, Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv d. With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine; If in the child the father's image lies, For us a meritorious fair design,

Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd? To chose injustice with revengeful arms :

Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd. Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' If children pre-decease progenitors, harms.

We are their offspring, and they none of ours. At this request, with noble disposition

Poor broken glass, I often did behold Each present lord began to promise aid,

(In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; As bound in knighthood to her imposition,

But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd.

Shews me a bare-bon'd death by time out-worn, But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, 0, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn! The protestation stops. O speak, quoth she, And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass, How may this forced stain be wip'd from me ? That I no more can see what once I was. What is the quality of mine offence,

O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer Being constrain’d with dreadful circumstance ? If they surcease to be, that should survive, May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, My low-declined honour to advance ?

And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? May any terms acquit me from this chance ? The old bees die, the young possess their hive: The poison'd fountain clears itself again;

Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see And why not I from this compelled stain ? Thy father die, and not thy father thee! With this they all at once began to say,

By this starts Collatine as from a dream, Her body's stain her mind untainted clears; And bids Lucretius give his scrlow place; While with a joyless smile she turns away And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream The face, that map which deep impression bears He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears.

And counterfeits to die with her a space; No, no, quoth she, no dame, hereafter living, Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving. And live to be revenged on her death. Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, The deep vexation of his inward soul She throws forth Tarquin's name: He, he, she says, Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue; But more than he her poor tongue could not speak; Who mad that sorrow should his use control, Till after many accents and delays,

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Untimely breathings sick and short assays, Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng She utters this: He, he, fair lords, 'tis he,

Weak words, so thick come, in his poor heart's aid That guides this hand to give this wound to me. That no man could distinguish what he said. Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain, A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheath'd: But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. That blow did bail it from the deep unrest This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Of that polluted prison where it breath'd :

Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more; Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath'd At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er: Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth Ay Then son and father weep with equal strife, Life's lasting date from cancel'd destiny,

Who should weep most for daughter or for wife