 THE DEDICATION AND ARGUMENT OF THE RAPE OF LUCRIECE the rape of Lucris by William Shakespeare THE DEDICATION TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY RIDELY EARL OF SOUTH HAMPTON AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD THE LOVE I DEDICATE TO YOUR LORD CHIP IS WITHOUT END, WHERE OF THIS PAMFLET WITHOUT BEGINNING IS BUT A SUPERFLUENCE MOYETY. 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. Where my worth greater, my duty would show greater. Meantime as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your lordships in all duty. William Shakespeare. 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 suffragies, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Artea, 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, everyone commended the virtues of his own wife, among whom Colotinus 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 Colotinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids. The other ladies were all found dancing and reveling, or in several disports, whereupon the noblemen yielded Colotinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius, being inflamed with Lucretia's beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp. From whence he shortly after, privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by Lucrice at Colatium. The same night he treacherously steeleth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrice, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatched messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Colotinus. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius, and finding Lucrice, attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and with all 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 acquainted 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 general acclamation, the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls. End of the argument. Recording by Martin Geeson, in Hazelmaire Surrey. Section 1 of The Rape of Lucrice. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Rape of Lucrice. By William Shakespeare. Section 1. From the besieged Ardea, all in post, born by the trustless wings of false desire, lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, and two Colatium bears the lightless fire, which in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire and girdle with embracing flames the waste of Colotine's fair love. Lucrice the Chaste. Happily that name of chaste unhappily set this baitless edge on his keen appetite, when Colotine unwisely did not let to praise the clear unmatched red and white, which triumphed 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, unlocked the treasure of his happy state. What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent in the possession of his beautious 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. Oh, happiness enjoyed but of a few, and if possessed, as soon decayed and done, as is the morning silver-melting dew against the golden splendour of the sun. An expired date cancelled ere well begun. Honor and beauty in the owner's arms are weakly fortressed from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator. What needy then apologies be made to set forth that which is so singular? Or why is Colotine, the publisher of that rich jewel, he should keep unknown from thievish ears, because it is his own? Perchance his boast of lucre 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 his high-pitched thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt that 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. Oh, rash false heat wrapped in repentant cold, thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old. When at Colatium this false lord arrived, well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, within whose face beauty and virtue strived which of them both should under-prop her fame. When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame. When beauty boasted blushes, in despite virtue would stain that all with silver-white. But beauty in that white, in type-tooled, from Venus doves does challenge that fair field. Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red, which virtue gave the golden age to gild their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield, teaching them thus to use it in the fight. When shame assailed, the red should fence the white. This heraldry in Lucre's 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. Their silent war of lilies and of roses, which Tarquin viewed in her fair-faces field, in their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses, where, lest between them both it should be killed, 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 niggered prodigal that praised her so, in that high task hath done her beauty wrong, which far exceeds his balance skill to show. Therefore that praise which colotined doth owe enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, in silent wonder of still gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, little suspect is the false worshipper. For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil. Birds never limed, no secret bushes fear. So guiltless she securely gives good cheer and reverent welcome to her princely guest, whose inward ill no outward harm expressed. For that he coloured with his high estate, hiding base sin in plaits of majesty, that nothing in him seemed inordinate, save some time too much wonder of his eye, which, having all, all could not satisfy. But poorly rich so wanteth in his store that cloyed with much, he pineth still for more. But she that never coped with stranger eyes could pick no meaning from their parling looks, nor read the subtle shining secreties writ in the glassy margins of such books. She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no hooks, nor could she moralize his wanton sight more than his eyes were opened to the light. He stories to her ears her husband's fame, one in the fields of fruitful Italy, and decks with praises Colotine's high name, made glorious by his manly chivalry with bruised arms and wreaths of victory. Her joy with heaved up hand she doth express, and wordless so greets heaven for his success. Far from the purpose of his coming hither, 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 Tarkwin brought unto his bed, intending weariness with heavy sprite. For after supper, long he questioned with modest lucris, and wore out the night. Now led and slumber, with life's strength doth fight, and everyone to rest themselves we take, save thieves and cares, and troubled minds that wake. As one of which doth Tarkwin lie revolving the sundry dangers of his wills 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 mead proposed, though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed. Those that much covet are with gain so fond, for 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 surf it, and such grief 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 waning age. And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, that one for all, or all for one we gauge, 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 venturing ill, we leave to be the things we are, the that which we expect. And this ambitious foul infirmity, in having much, torment us with defect of that we have. So then do we 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 he think to find a stranger just, when he himself, himself confounds, betrays to slanderous tongues, and wretched, hateful days. End of Section 1. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 2 of the Rape of Lucris. This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Rape of Lucris by William Shakespeare. Section 2. Now stole upon the time the dead of night, when heavy sleep had closed 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 awake to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord leaped from his bed, throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm, is madly tossed between desire and dread. The one sweetly flatters, the other feareth harm. But honest fear bewitched with lust's foul charm, doth too, too oft be taken to retire, beaten away by brain-sick, rude desire. His fortune on a flint he softly smiteth, that from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly, where at a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, which must be lodestar to his lustful eye, and to the flame thus speaks advisedly. As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, so Lucris must I force to my desire. Here pale with fear he doth premeditate the dangers of his loathsome enterprise, and his inward mind he doth debate what following sorrow may on this arise. Then, looking scornfully, he doth despise his naked armour of still slaughtered 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 unhallowed 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, loves modest snow-white weed. Oh, shame to knighthood and to shining arms! Oh, foul dishonour to my household's grave! Oh, 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 eyesore in my golden coat. Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, to cipher me how fondly I did dote, that my posterity, shamed 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 scepter straight be struck and down? If Colotinus dream of my intent, will he not wake, and in a desperate rage post hither, this vile purpose to prevent? This siege that hath ingirt 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? Oh, what excuse can my invention make, when thou shalt charge me with so black a deed? Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, my eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed? The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed, and extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, but coward-like with trembling terror die. Had Colotinus killed my son or sire, or lain in ambush to betray my life, or where he not, my dear friend, this desire might have excuse to work upon his wife, as in revenge or quittle of such strife, but as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, the shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. Shameful it is! I, if the fact be known, hateful it is! There is no hate in loving. I'll beg her love, but she is not her own. The worst is but denial and reproving. My will is strong, past reasons weak removing. Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw, shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe. Thus graceless holds he disputation, between frozen conscience and hot burning will, and with good thoughts makes dispensation, urging the worse a sense for vantage still, which in a moment doth confound and kill all pure effects, and doth so far proceed, that what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand, and gazed for tidings in my eager eyes, fearing some hard news from the warlike band, where her beloved Colotina lies. Oh, how her fear did make her colour rise! First red as roses that on lawn we lay, then white as lawn the roses took away, and how her hand, in my hand being locked, forced it to tremble with her loyal fear, which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked, until her husband's welfare did she hear, whereat she smiled it with so sweet a cheer, that had no scissor seen her as she stood, self-love had never drowned him in the flood. Why hunt I then for colour or excuses? All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth. Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses. Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth. Affection is my captain, and he leadeth, and when his gaudy banner is displayed, the coward fights and will not be dismayed. Then childish fear, a vaunt, debating, die, respect and reason wait on wrinkled age. My heart shall never countermand mine eye. Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage. My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. Desire my pilot is. Beauty my prize. Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies? End of section two. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Section three of The Rape of Lucris. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Rape of Lucris by William Shakespeare. Section three. As corn or grown by weeds, so heedful fear is almost choked by unresisted lust. Away he steals, with opening listening ear, full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust, both which, as servitors to the unjust, so cross him with their opposite persuasion, that now he vows a leak, and now invasion. Within his thought her heavenly image sits, and in the self-same seat sits colotine. That eye which looks on her confounds his wits, that eye which him beholds as more divine, unto a view so false will not incline, but with a pure appeal seeks to the heart which once corrupted takes the worse apart, and therein heartens up his servile powers, who, flattered by their leaders' jock and show, stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up ours, and as their captain, so their pride doth grow, paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led, the Roman lord marcheth to Lucris' bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, each one by him enforced, retires his ward, but as they open they all rate his ill, which drives the creeping thief to some regard. The threshold grates the door to have him heard, night wandering weasels shriek to see him there. They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, through little vents and crannies of the place the wind wars with his torch to make him stay, and blows the smoke of it into his face, extinguishing his conduct in this case. But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch, puffs forth another wind that fires the torch, and being lighted by the light he spies Lucrisia's glove, where in her needle sticks he takes it from the rushes where it lies, and gripping it, the kneeled his finger pricks, as who should say this glove to wanton tricks is not inured? Return again in haste, thou seest our mistress ornaments are chaste. But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him. He in the worst sense construes their denial. The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him, he takes for accidental things of trial. Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, who with a lingering stay his course doth let till every minute pays the hour his debt. So, so, quoth he, these lets attend the time, like little frosts that sometimes threat the spring, do add a more rejoicing to the prime, and give the snippet birds more cause to sing. Pain pays the income of each precious thing. Huge rocks, high winds, strong pilots, shelves and sands, the merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands. Now he is come unto the chamber door that shuts him from the heaven of his thought, with a yielding latch, and with no more hath barred him from the blessed thing he sought. So from himself impiety hath wrought, that for his prey to prey he doth begin, as if the heavens should countenance his sin. But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, having solicited the eternal power that his foul thoughts might compass, is fair, fair, and they would stand auspicious to the hour. Even there he starts, quoth he, I must deflower, the powers to whom I pray appore this fact. How can they then assist me in the act? Then love and fortune be my gods, my guide, my will is backed with resolution. Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried. The blackest sin is cleared with absolution. Against love's fire fears frost hath dissolution. The eye of heaven is out, and misty night covers the shame that follows sweet delight. This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch, and with his knee the door he opens wide. The dove sleeps fast that this night-hour will catch, thus treason works ere traitors be aspired. Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside, but she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. Into the chamber wickedly he stalks, and gazeth on her yet unstainid bed. The curtains being close about he walks, rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head. By their high treason is his heart misled, which gives the watchword to his hand full soon to draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun rushing from forth the cloud bereaves our sight, even so the curtain drawn, his eyes begun to wink, being blinded with a greater light. Whether it is that she reflect so bright that dazzles them, or else some shame supposed, but blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. Oh, had they in that dark sun prison died, then had they seen the period of their ill, then Colotine, again by Lucre's side, in his clear bed might have repose it still. But they must hope this blessed league to kill, and wholly thwarted Lucre's to their sight must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight. Her lily hand, her rosy cheek lies under, cousining the pillow of a lawful kiss, who, therefore angry, seems to part in sander, swelling on either side to want his bliss, between whose hills her head in two meddys, where like a virtuous monument she lies, to be admired of lewd, unhallowed eyes. Without her bed her other fair hand was, on the green coverlet, whose perfect white showed like an April daisy on the grass, with pearly sweat resembling dew of night. Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, and canopied in darkness sweetly lay, till they might open to adorn the day. Her hair, like golden threads, played with her breath. O modest wantons, wanton modesty, showing life's triumph in the map of death, and death's dim look in life's mortality, each in her sleep themselves so beautify, as if between them twain they were no strife, but that life lived in death, and death in life. Her breasts, like ivory globes, circled with blue, a pair of maiden worlds unconquered, save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, and him by oath they truly honoured. These worlds in Tarquin knew ambition bred, who like a foul usurper went about from this fair throne to heave the owner out. What could he see but mightily he noted? What did he note but strongly he desired? What he beheld on that he firmly doted, and in his will, his willful eye he tired. With more than admiration he admired her azure veins, her alabaster skin, her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. As the grim lion, forneth or his prey, sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, so o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, his rage of lust by grazing qualified, slacked, not suppressed, for standing by her side is eye which late this mutiny restrains unto a greater uproar tempts his veins, and they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting, in bloody death and ravishment delighting, nor children's tears nor mother's groans respecting, swell in their pride, the onset still expecting, and on his beating heart a larrum striking gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye. His eye commenced the leading to his hand, his hand as proud of such a dignity, smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand on her bare breast, the heart of all her land, whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, left their round turrets destitute and pale, they mustering to the quiet cabinet where their dear governess and lady lies, do tell her she is dreadfully beset, and fright her with confusion of their cries. She, much amazed, breaks open her locked up eyes, who peeping forth this tumult to behold, are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled. Imagine her as one in dead of night from forth dull sleep, by dreadful fancy waking, that thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, whose grim aspect sets every jointer shaking, what terror it is, but she in worse a taking from sleep disturbed heedfully doth view the sight which makes supposed terror true. Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears, like to a new killed bird she trembling lies, she dares not look, yet winking there appears quick shifting antics, ugly in her eyes. Such shadows are the weak brains, forgeries, who angry that the eyes fly from their lights in darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. His hand that yet remains upon her breast, rude ram to batter such an ivory wall, may feel her heart poor citizen, distressed, wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, beating her bulk that his hand shakes with all. This moves in him more rage and lesser pity to make the breach and enter this sweet city. First like a trumpet doth his tongue begin to sound a parley to his heartless foe, who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin. The reason of this rash alarm to know, which he by dumb demeanor seeks to show, but she with vehement prayers urgeeth still, under what color he commits this ill. Thus he replies, the color in thy face, that even for anger makes the lily pale, and the red rose blush at her own disgrace, shall plead for me and tell my loving tale. Under that color am I come to scale thy never-conquered fort. The fort is thine, for those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide. Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night, where thou with patience must my will abide, my will that marks thee for my earth's delight, which I to conquer sort with all my might. But as reproof and reason beat it dead, by thy bright beauty was it newly bred. I see what crosses my attempt will bring. I know what thorns the growing rose defends. I think the honey guarded with a sting, all this beforehand counsel comprehends. But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends. Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, and dotes on what he looks, against law or duty. I have debated, even in my soul, what wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed. But nothing can affection's course control, or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, reproach disdain, and deadly enmity. Yet strike I to embrace mine infamy. This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, which like a falcon towering in the skies, couches the fowl below with his wing's shade, whose crooked beak threats if he mount he dies. So under his insulting falchion lies harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells with trembling fear, as foul hear falcons' bells. End of Section 3. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Section 4 of The Rape of Lucrease. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Rape of Lucrease by William Shakespeare. Section 4. Lucrease. Quote he, This night I must enjoy thee. If thou deny, then force must work my way. For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee. That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay, To kill thine honour with thy life's decay. And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. So thy surviving husband Shall remain the scornful mark of every open eye. Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, Thy issue blurred with nameless bastody. And thou, the author of their obliquy, Shall have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, And sung by children in succeeding times. But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend. The fault unknown is as a thought unacted. A little harm done to a great good end, For lawful policy remains enacted. The poison a simple sometimes is compacted In a pure compound. Being so applied, His venom in effect is purified. Then for thy husband and thy children's sake Tender my suit. Bequeath not to their lot the shame, That from them no device can take, The blemish that will never be forgot, Worse than a slavish wipe or birth-hour's blot, For marks described in men's nativity On nature's faults, not their own infamy. Here, with a cockatrice dead-killing eye, He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause, While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the gripe's sharp claws, Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, Nor ought obeys but his foul appetite. But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat, In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding, From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get, Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, Hindering their present fall by this dividing, So his unhallowed haste her words delays, And moody Pluto winks while aurethious plays. Yet foul night working cat he doth but dully, While in his whole fast foot the weak mouse panteth, Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth. His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining. Tears harden lust, though marble wear with reigning. Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed In the remorseless wrinkles of his face. Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place, And midst the sentence so her accent breaks, That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. She conjures him by high almighty jove, By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath, By her untimely tears, Her husband's love, by holy human law, And common truth, by heaven and earth, And all the power of both, that to his borrowed bed he may retire, And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. Quote she, reward not hospitality With such black payment as thou hast pretended, Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee, Mar not the thing that cannot be amended, And thy ill aim before the shoot be ended. He is no woodman that doth bend his bow to strike A poor unseasonable dough. My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me. Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me. Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me. Thou looks not like deceit, do not deceive me. My sighs like whirlwinds labour hence to heave thee. If ever man were moved with woman's moans, Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans. All which together like a troubled ocean Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart, To soften it with their continual motion, For stones dissolved to water do convert. Oh, if no harder than a stone thou art Melt at my tears and be compassionate, Soft pity enters at an iron gate. In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee. Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame? To all the host of heaven I complain me, Thou ronked his honour, wounds his princely name. Thou art not what thou seemst, And if the same thou seemst not with thou art a god, a king, For kings like God should govern everything. How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, When thus thy vices bud before thy spring? If in thy hope thou derest do such outrage, What derest thou not when once thou art a king? Oh, be remembered no outrageous thing From vassal actors can be wiped away, Then kings misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. This deed will make thee only loved for fear, But happy monarchs still are feared for love. With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, When they in thee the like offenses prove. If but for fear of this thy will remove, For princes are the glass, the school, The book where subjects' eyes do learn, Do read, do look. And wilt thou be the school where lust shall learn? Must he in thee read lectures of such shame? Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, To privilege dishonour in thy name? Thou backst reproach against long living Lord, And makest fair reputation but a bod? Hast thou command, by him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will? Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity? For it was lent thee all that brood to kill? Thy princely office how can't thou fulfil, When patterned by thy fault foul sin may say He learned to sin, and thou didst teach the way? Think but how vile a spectacle it were To view thy present trespass in another! Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear, Their own transgressions partially they smother. This guilt would seem death worthy in thy brother. Oh, how are they wrapped in with infamies That from their own misdeeds escance their eyes? To thee, to thee, my heaved uphand's appeal, Not to seducing lust thy rash relire, I sue for exiled majesty's repeal. Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire, His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eye, That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine. Have done, quoth he, My uncontrollered tide turns not, But swells the higher by this let. Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, And with the wind in greater fury fret, The petty streams that pay a daily debt To their salt sovereign with their fresh false haste Add to his flow, but alter not his taste. Thou art, quoth she, a sea, a sovereign king, And lo! their falls into thy boundless flood, Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good, Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hursed, And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave, Thou nobly base, they basely dignified, Thou their fair life, and they thy fowler grave, Thou lo! that in their shame they in thy pride, The lesser things should not the greater hide, The cedar stoop's not to the base shrub's foot, But lo! shrub's wither at the cedar's root. So let thy thoughts lo vassals to thy state, No more, quoth he, by heaven I will not hear thee. Yield to my love, if not enforced hate Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee. That done, despitefully, I mean to bear The unto the base bed of some rascal groom, To be thy partner in this shameful doom. This said, he sets his foot upon the light, For light and lust are deadly enemies, Shame folded up in blind concealing night, When most unseen than most doth tyrannize. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries, Till with her own white fleece Her voice controlled in tombs her outcry In her lips sweet fold. For with the nightly linen that she wears, He pens her piteous clamours in her head, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. Oh, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed. The spots whereof could weeping purify Her tears should drop on them perpetually. But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, And he hath won what he would lose again. This forced league doth force a further strife, This momentary joy breeds months of pain, This hot desire converts to cold disdain, Pure chastity is rifled of her store, And lust, the thief, far poorer than before. Look, as the full-fed hound, or gorget hawk, Unapped for tender smell or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk the prey were in by nature they delight. So surfeit taking tarquin fares this night. His taste, delicious, indigestion souring, Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. Oh, deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend and still imagination. Drunken desire must vomit his receipt, ere he can see his own abomination. While lust is in his pride no exclamation Can curb his heat or reign his rash desire, Till like a jade self-will himself doth tire. And then with lank and lean discoloured cheek, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace, Feebly desire all recreation poor and meek, Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case, The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with grace. For there it revels, and when that decays The guilty rebel for a mission praise. So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, Who this accomplishment so hotly chased. For now against himself he sound this doom That through the length of times he stands disgraced. Besides his soul's fair temple is defaced, To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares To ask the spotted princess how she fares. She says her subjects with foul insurrection Have battered down her consecrated wall, And by their mortal fault brought in subjection Her immortality, and made her Thrall to living death and pain perpetual, Which in her prescience she controlled still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. Even in this thought through the dark night he stealeth A captive victor that has lost and gain, Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth The scar that will, despite of cure, remain, Leaving his spoil perplexed in greater pain. She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burden of a guilty mind. Section five of The Rape of Lucrice This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clatt. The Rape of Lucrice By William Shakespeare Section five He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence She like a wearied lamb lies panting there. He scowls and hates himself for his offence. She desperate with her nails her flesh doth tear. He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear. She stays, exclaiming on the direful night. He runs and chides his vanished loath delight. He thence departs a heavy convertite. She there remains a hopeless castaway. He in his speed looks for the morning light. She prays she never may behold the day. For day, quotes she, nights scapes doth open lay, And my true eyes have never practised how to cloak offences with a cunning brow. They think not, but that every eye can see the same disgrace which they themselves behold. And therefore would they still in darkness be to have their unseen sin remain untold. For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, And grave like water that doth eat in steel, Upon my cheeks would helpless shame I feel. Here she exclaims against repose and rest, And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, And bids it leap from thence Where it may find some puro chest to close so pure a mind. Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite Against the unseen secrecy of night. Oh, comfort killing night! Image of hell! Dim register and notary of shame! Black stage for tragedies and murders fell! Vast sin concealing chaos! Nurse of blame! Blind muffled bod! Dark harbour for defame! Grim cave of death! Whispering conspirator with close-tongued treason and the ravisher! Oh, hateful, vaporous, and foggy night! Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Make war against proportioned course of time. Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb his won'ted height, Yet ere he go to bed, knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. With rotten damps ravish the morning air, Let their exhaled on wholesome breaths Make sick the life of purity, the supreme fair. ere he arrive his weary noontide prick, And let thy misty vapours march so thick That in their smoky ranks his smothered light May set at noon and make perpetual night. Were Tarquin night, as he is but night's child, The silver shining queen he would disdain, Her twinkling handmaids too by him defiled, Through night's black bosom should not peep again. So should I have co-partners in my pain, And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, As Palmer's chat makes short their pilgrimage. Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To mask their brows and hide their infamy. But I alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. O night, thou furnace of foul reeking smoke, Let not the jealous day behold that face Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak, Immodesty lies martyred with disgrace, Keeps to possession of thy gloomy place, That all the faults which in thy reign Are made may likewise be sepulchred in thy shade. Make me not object to the tell-tale day, The light will show charactered in my brow The story of sweet chastity's decay, The impious breach of holy wedlock vow, Yea, the illiterate that know not how To cipher what is writ in learned books Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. The nurse to still her child will tell my story, And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name. The orator to deck his oratory Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame. Feast finding minstrels, Tuning my defame will tie the hearers To attend each line. How Tarquin wronged me, I, Colotine. Let my good name that senseless reputation For Colotine's dear love be kept unspotted. If that be made a theme for disputation, The branches of another root are rotted, And undeserved reproach to him allotted, That is as clear from this attain of mine As I ere this was pure to Colotine. Oh unseen shame, invisible disgrace, Oh unfelt sore crest wounding private scar, Reproach is stamped in Colotine's face, And Tarquin's eye may read the moa far, How he in peace is wounded not in war. Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, Which not themselves but he that gives them knows. If, Colotine, thine honour lay in me, From me by strong assault it is bereft. My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee, Have no perfection of my summer left, But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft. In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept, And sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept. Yet am I guilty of thy honour's rack. Yet for thy honour did I entertain him. Coming from thee I could not put him back, For it had been dishonour to disdain him. Besides of weariness he did complain him, And talked of virtue. Oh, unlooked for evil, When virtue was profaned in such a devil. Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud? Or hateful cuckoo's hatch and sparrow's nests? Or toads in fact fare founts with venom mud? Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts? Or kings be breakers of their own behests? But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute. The aged man that coffers up his gold Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits, And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, But like still pining tantalus he sits, And useless barns the harvest of his wits, Having no other pleasure of his gain but Torment that it cannot cure his pain. So then he hath it when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be mastered by his young, Who in their pride do presently abuse it. Their father was too weak and they too strong To hold their cursed blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours. Unruly blasts weight on the tender spring. Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers. The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing. What virtue breeds iniquity devours. We have no good that we can say is ours, But ill-annexed opportunity, Or kills his life or else his quality. The Rape of Lucrice by William Shakespeare Section 6 O opportunity, thy guilt is great. Tis thou that executes the traitors treason, Thou sets the wolf where he the lamb may get, Whoever plots the sin thou points the season, Tis thou that spurts at right, at law, at reason, And in thy shady cell where none may spy him, Sits sin to seize the souls that wander by him. Thou makest the vestal violator oath, Thou blows the fire when temperance is thawed, Thou smothersed honesty, Thou murder'st truth, Thou foul of better, Thou notorious baud, Thou plantest scandal and displace est laud, Thou ravisher, Thou traitor, Thou false thief, Thy honey turns to gall, Thy joy to grief, Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood taste, Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it, then, vile opportunity, Being so bad such numbers seek for thee? When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, And bring him where his suit may be obtained? When wilt thou sort an hour great strife'st to end, Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained? Give physic to the sick, Ease to the pained. The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, Cry out for thee, But they ne'er meet with opportunity. The patient dies while the physician sleeps, The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds, Justice is feasting while the widow weeps, Advice is sporting while infection breeds. Thou grants no time for charitable deeds. Wrath, envy, treason, rape, And murder's rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. When truth and virtue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid. They buy thy help, but sin ne'er gives a fee. He gratis comes, And thou art well a-paid as well To hear as grant what he hath said. My colotine would else have come to me when Tarquin did, but he was stayed by thee. Guilty thou art of murder and of theft, Guilty of perjury and subornation, Guilty of treason, forgery and shift, Guilty of incest, that abomination, An accessory by thine inclination To all sins past and all that are to come, From the creation to the general doom. Miss shape and time, copes mate of ugly night, Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care, Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Base watch of woes, sins, packhors, virtues snare, Thou nursest all and murderest all that are, O hear me then, injurious, shifting time, Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. Why hath thy servant opportunity Betrayed the hours thou gavest me to repose, Cancelled my fortunes, and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes? Time's office is to find the hate of foes, To eat up heirs by opinion bread, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. Time's glory is to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time in aged things, To wake the mourn and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right, To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, And smear with dust their glittering golden towers, To fill with wormholes stately monuments, To feed oblivion with decay of things, To blot old books and alter their contents, To pluck the quills from ancient ravens wings, To dry the old oak sap and cherished springs, To spoil antiquities of hammered steel, And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel, To show the beldum daughters of her daughter, To make the child a man, the man a child, To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter, To tame the unicorn and lion wild, To mock the subtle and themselves beguiled, To cheer the plowmen with increaseful crops, And waste huge stones with little water drops. Why works thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, Unless thou couldst return to make amends? One poor retiring minute in an age Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, Lending him wit that too bad debtor's lands? Oh, this dread night, Would thou one hour come back I could prevent this storm and shun thy rack? Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity, With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight, Devise extremes beyond extremity To make him curse this cursed crimeful night, Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes afright, And the dire thought of his committed evil Shape every bush a hideous, shapeless devil. Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans, Let there bechance him pitiful mischances To make him moan, but pity not his moans. Stone him with hardened hearts, harder than stones, And let mild women to him lose their mildness, Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. Let him have time to tear his curled hair, Let him have time against himself to rave, Let him have time of times helped to despair, Let him have time to live a loathed slave, Let him have time of beggars' orts to crave, And time to see one that by alms doth live, Distain to him disdain'd scraps to give. Let him have time to see his friends, his foes, And merry fools to mock at him resort, Let him have time to mark how slow time goes In time of sorrow, and how swift and short His time of folly and his time of sport, And ever let his unrecalling crime Have time to wail the abusing of his time. O time! Thou tooter both to good and bad, Teach me to curse him that thou tought this ill, At his own shadow let the thief run mad, Himself, himself seek every hour to kill. Such wretched hand, such wretched blood should spill, For whoso base would such an office have As slanderous deathsmen to so base a slave? The baser is he, coming from a king, To shame his hope with deeds degenerate. The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honoured or begets him hate, For greatest scandal waits on greatest state, The moon being clouded presently is mist, But little stars may hide them when they list. The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, And unperceived fly with the filth away, But if the like, the snow-white swan desire, The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, King's glorious day. Nats are unnoted where so ere they fly, But eagles gazed upon with every eye. Howt, idle words, servants to shallow fools, Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators! Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools, Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters, To trembling clients be you mediators. For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law. END OF SECTION SIX SECTION SEVEN OF THE RAPE OF LUCRISE This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clatt. THE RAPE OF LUCRISE by William Shakespeare SECTION SEVEN In vain I rail at opportunity, At time, at tarquin, and unshearful night. In vain I cavill with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirmed 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 quivers thou at this decree? Honor thyself to rid me of this shame, For if I die, my honor lives in thee. But if I live, thou livest in my defame. Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, And was to fear to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thyself and her for yielding so. This said, from her betumbled couch she started, To find some desperate instrument of death. But there's 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, or that which from discharge it cannon fumes. In vain, quoth she, I live, And seek in vain some happy mean to end a hapless life. I feared by tarquin's falchion to be stain, Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife. But when I feared I was a loyal wife, So am I now. Oh no, that cannot be. Of that true type hath tarquin rifled me. Oh, that is gone for which I sought to live, And therefore now I need not fear to die. 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 stolen away, To burn the guiltless casket where it lay. Well, well, dear colotine, Thou shalt know the staining taste of violated truth. I will not wrong thy true affection so, To flatter thee with an infringed oath. This bastard graft shall never come to growth. He shall not boast who did thy stalk pollute, That thou art doting father of his brute. Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, Nor laugh with his companions at thy state. Thou shalt know thy interest was not bought basely with gold, But stolen from forth thy gate. For me, I am the mistress of my fate, And with my trespass never will dispense, Till life to death acquit my forced offence. I will not poison thee with my attained, Nor fold my fault in cleanly coined 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. My eyes like sluices, As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale. By this lamenting filimel had ended The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow, And solemn night with slow sad gate Descended to ugly hell. When low, the blushing morrow Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow. But cloudy Lucrice shames herself to see, And therefore still in night would cloistered be. Revealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping, To whom she sobbing speaks, O eye of eyes, why prize thou through my window? Leave thy peeping, mock with thy tickling beam's eyes that are sleeping, Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath not to do what's done by night. Thus cavils she with everything she sees, To grief is fond and testy as a child, Who wayward wants his mood with naught agrees. Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild. Continuance tames the one, the other wild, Like an unpracticed swimmer plunging still, With too much labour drowns for want of skill. So she, deep drenched in a sea of care, Holds disputation with each thing she views, And to herself all sorrow doth compare, No object but her passion's strength renews. And as one shifts another straight ensues, Sometimes her grief is dumb and hath no words, Sometimes his mad and too much talk affords. The little birds that tune their morning's joy Make her moans mad with their sweet melody, For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy, Sad souls are slain in merry company. Grief best is pleased with grief's society, True sorrow then is feelingly Sufficed when with like semblance it is sympathised. To his double death to drown in can of shore, He ten times pined that pines beholding food, To see the salve doth make the wound ache more, Great grief grieves most at that would do it good. Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, Who being stopped the bounding banks or flows, Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. You mocking birds, quote she, Your tunes in tomb within your hollow swelling feathered breasts, And in my hearing be you mute and dumb. My restless discord loves no stops nor rests, A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests. Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears, Distress like dumps when time is kept with tears. Come, Philomel, that singst of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my disheveled hair, As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, So I at each sad strain will strain a tear, And with deep groans the diapason bear, For burden wise I'll hum on tarquined still, While thou, on terrius, descents better skill. And whilst against a thorn thou bearst thy part To keep thy sharp woes waking, Wretched I, to imitate thee well, Against my heart will fix a sharp knife To affright mine eye, Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. These memes, as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heartstrings to true languishment. And for, poor bird, thou sinks not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold, Some dark, deep desert, seated room the way, That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold, Will we find out. And there we will unfold To creatures stern, sad tunes, To change their kinds, since men prove beasts, Let beasts bear gentle minds. As the poor frightened deer that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly, Or one encompassed with a winding maze That cannot tread the way out readily, So with herself is she in mutiny, To live or die which of the twain were better, When life is shamed, and death reproaches debtor. To kill myself, quotes she, A lack what were it but my body, my poor soul's pollution. They that lose half with greater patience bear it, Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion, Who having two sweet babes, When death takes one, will slay the other and be nursed to none. My body or my soul, which was the dearer, When the one pure, the other made divine, Whose love of either to myself was nearer, When both were kept for heaven and colotine. I me, the bark peeled from the lofty pine, His leaves will wither and his sap decay, So must my soul her bark being peeled away. Her house is sacked, her quiet interrupted, Her mansion battered by the enemy, Her sacred temples spotted, spoiled, corrupted, Grossly engirred with daring infamy. Then let it not be called impiety, If in this blemished fort I make some whole, Through which I may convey this troubled soul. Yet die I will not till my colotine Have heard the cause of my untimely death, That he may vow in that sad hour of mine Revenge on him that made me stop my breath. My stain at blood to torque when I'll bequeath, Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, And as his dew writ in my testament. My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife That wounds my body so dishonoured, To his honour to deprive dishonoured 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 newborn. 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 revenged mayst be. How tarquan must be used, read it in me. Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false tarquan so. This brief abridgment of my will I make, My soul and body to the skies and ground, My resolution husband, do thou take. Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound, My shame be his that did my fame confound, And all my fame that lives dispersed be, To those that live and think no shame of me. Thou, Colotine, shalt 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, my hand shall conquer thee. Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be. This plot of death, when sadly she had laid, And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress' highs, For fleet-winged duty with thought's feathers flies. Poor Lucris' cheeks unto her maid seem so, As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. Her mistress she doth give demure good morrow, With soft slow tongue, true mark 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 sons were cloud-eclipsed so, Nor why her fair cheeks overwashed with woe. But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moistened like a melting eye, Even so the maid with swelling drops scan wet, Her circled eye, enforced by sympathy, Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky, Who in a salt-waved 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 gasset other's smarts, And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts. For men have marble, women wax in minds, And therefore are they formed as marble-will. The weak oppressed, the impression of strange kinds, Is formed in them by force, by fraud or skill. Then call them not the authors of their ill. No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamped the semblance of a devil. Their smoothness, like a goodly campaign plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep. In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain, Cave keeping evils that obscurely sleep. Through crystal walls each little moat will peep. Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor women's faces are their own false books. No man in vain against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed. Not that devoured, but that which doth devour is worthy blame. Oh, let it not be hilled poor women's faults, That they are so fulfilled, with men's abuses, Those proud lords to blame, make weak-made women tenants to their shame. The precedent whereof in Lucris' view, A sales 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 through all her body spread, And who cannot abuse a body dead? By this mild patience bid fair Lucris speak, To the poor counterfeit of her complaining. My girl, quote she, On what occasion break those tears from thee, That down thy cheeks are reigning? If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, No, 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 stayed till after a deep groan. Tarquin, from hence? 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, 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, quote Lucris, 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 called 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 and eager combat fight, What wit sets down is blotted straight with will. This is too curious good, this blunt and ill, Much like oppressive 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 to Ford, Of ever love thy Lucris 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. Here folds she up the tenor of her woe, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule Colotine may know her grief, But not her grief's true quality. She dares not thereof make discovery, Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, ere she with blood had stained her stained 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 sealed, and on it writ, At ardia to my lord with more than haste. The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to high as fast, As lagging fowls before the northern blast. Speed more than speed, but dull and slow she deems, Extremely still urges such extremes. The homely villain 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 high. But they who's guilt within their bosoms lie, Imagine every eye beholds their blame, For Lucris thought he blushed to see her shame. When, silly groom, God-what 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 Pawned honest looks, but laid no words to gauge. His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both their faces blazed. She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin's lust, And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed. Her earnest eye did make him more amazed. The more saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish. But long she thinks till he return again, And yet the dubious vassal scares is gone, The weary time she cannot entertain, For now to stale, to sigh, to weep, to groan. So woe, half-wearyed woe, moan, tired moan, That she her planks a little wild off-stay, Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of skillful painting made for Priam's Troy, Before the witch is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen's rape the city to destroy, Threatening cloud-kissing Elian with annoy, Which the conceited painter drew so proud, As heaven it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed. A thousand lamentable objects there, In scorn of nature art gave lifeless life, Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear, Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife, The red blood reaped to show the painter's strife, The dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. There might you see the laboring pioneer, Begrimmed with sweat and smear it all with dust, And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loopholes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust. Such sweet observance in this work was had, That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. In great commanders grace and majesty you might behold, Triumphing in their faces, In youth, quick-bearing and dexterity, And here and there the painter interlaces, Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces, Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art of physiognomy might one behold, The face of either ciphered either's heart, Their face their manners most expressly told, In Ajax's eyes blunt rage and rigor rolled, But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Showed deep regard and smiling government. There pleading might you see grave nester stand, As tour encouraging the Greeks to fight, Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight. In speech it seemed, his beard all silver-white, Wagged up and down, And from his lips did fly, thin winding breath, Which curled up to the sky. About him were a press of gaping faces, Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice, All jointly listening, But with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice. Some high, some low, the painter was so nice, The scalps of many almost hid behind, To jump up higher seemed to mock the mind. Here one man's hand leaned on another's head, His nose being shadowed by his neighbor's ear, Here one being thronged bears back, All bone and red, Another smothered seems to pelt and swear, And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, It seemed they would debate with angry swords. For much imaginary work was there, Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear, Gripped in an arm at hand, Himself behind, was left unseen, Saved to the eye of mind. A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined. And from the walls of strong besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy, To see their youthful son's bright weapons wield, And to their hope they such odd action yield, That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear. And from the strand of Darden where they fought, To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran, Whose waves to imitate the battle sought, With swelling ridges, and their ranks began, To break upon the gollid shore, and then retire again, Till, meeting greater ranks, they join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. To this well-painted peace is Lucris come, To find a face where all distress is stelled, Many she sees where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and doler dwelled, Till she, despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomized, Times ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign, Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguised, Of what she was no semblance did remain, Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Showed life imprisoned in a body dead. On this sad shadow Lucris spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the bedlam's woes, Who nothing wants to answer her but cries, And bid her words to ban her cruel foes, The painter was no god to lend her those, And therefore Lucris swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief and not a tongue. Poor instrument, quotes she, Without a sound I'll tune my woes with my lamenting tongue, And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus that have done him wrong, And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long, And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. Show me the strumpet that began this stir, That with my nails her beauty I may tear, Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, Did incur this load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear, Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here, And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. Why should the private pleasure of some one Become the public plague of many moe? Let sin alone committed, light alone, Upon his head that hath transgressed so. Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe. For one's offense why should so many fall To plague a private sin in general? Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, Here manly Hector faints, here Troyless swoones, Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies. And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds. And one man's lust these many lives confounds. Had doting Priam checked his son's desire, Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire. Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes, For sorrow, like a heavy hanging bell, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes, Then little strength rings out the doleful knell. So Lucrice said a work, sad tales doth tell, To pencil pensiveness and coloured sorrow, She lends them words, and she there looks doth borrow. She throws her eyes about the painting round, And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament. At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherd's lent. His face, though full of cares, yet showed content. Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild that patience seemed to scorn his woes. In him the painter laboured with his skill, To hide deceit, and give the harmless show, And humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still. A brow unbent that seems to welcome woe, Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so, That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. But like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertained a show so seeming just, And therein so ensconced his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust, False creeping craft and perjury should thrust, Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skilled workman this mild image drew, For perjured Simon, whose enchanting story, The credulous old priam after slew, Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory, Of rich-built Ilion, that the sighs were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they viewed their faces. This picture she advisedly perused, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, Saying some shape in Sinons was abused, So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill, And still on him she gazed, and gazing still, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes the picture was belied. It cannot be, quote she, that so much guile, She would have said, can lurk in such a look, But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue can lurk from cannot took. It cannot be, she in that sense foresook, And turned it thus, it cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind. For even as subtle Simon here is painted, So sober sad, so weary, and so mild, As if with grief or travail he had fainted, To me came Tarquin armed, so beguiled with outward honesty, But yet defiled with inward vice, As Priam him did cherish, so did I Tarquin, So my Troy did perish. Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrowed tears that Simon sheds. Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise? For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds, His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds. Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. Such devil's steel effects from lightless hell, For Simon in his fire doth quake with cold, And in that cold hot burning fire doth dwell, These contraries such unity do hold, Only to flatter fools and make them bold. So Priam's trust false Simon's tears doth flatter, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water. Here, all enraged, such passion her assails, That patience is quite beaten from her breast, She tears the senseless Simon with her nails, Comparing him to that unhappy guest, Whose deed hath made herself herself detest. At last she smilingly with this gives oar. Fool, fool, quoth she, his wounds will not be sore. Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining. She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining. Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining, Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, And they that watch see time how slow it creeps. Which all this time hath overslipped her thought, That she with painted images hath spent, Being from the feeling of her own grief brought, By deep surmise of others' detriment, Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their doler others have endured.