 But now the mindful messenger come back, brings home his Lord and other company, who finds his Lucris clad in mourning black, and round about her tear-distained eye, blue circles streamed like rainbows in the sky. These water-gulls in her dim element foretell new storms to those already spent. Which when her sad beholding husband saw, amazedly in her sad face he stares. Her eyes, though sod and tears, looked red and raw, her lively colour killed with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares. Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, met far from home, wondering each other's chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, and thus begins, What uncouth ill event hath thee befallen that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent? Unmask, dear, dear, this moody heaviness, and tell thy grief that we may give redress. Three times with sigh she gives her sorrow fire, ere once she can discharge one word of woe, at length addressed to answer his desire. She modestly prepares to let them know, her honour is tamed prisoner by the foe, while Colotine and his consorted lords, with sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her watery nest begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. Few words, quote she, shall fit the trespass best, where no excuse can give the fault amending. In me moe woes than words are now depending, and my laments would be drawn out too long to tell them all with one poor tired tongue. Then be this all the task it hath to say, Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed a stranger came, and on that pillow lay where thou wast want to rest thy weary head, and what wrong else may be imagined by foul enforcement might be done to me? From that, alas, thy luke crease is not free. For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, with shining falcon in my chamber came a creeping creature, with a flaming light, and softly cried, Awake, thou Roman dame, and entertain my love, else lasting shame on thee and thine this night I will inflict, if thou my love's desire do contradict. For some hard-favoured groom of thine, quote he, unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee, and swear I found you where you did fulfill the loathsome act of lust, and so did kill the lethers in their deed. This act will be my fame and thy perpetual infamy. With this I did begin to start and cry, and then against my heart he sets his sword, swearing, unless I took all patiently I should not live to speak another word. So should my shame still rest upon record, and never be forgot in mighty Rome the adulterate death of luke crease and her groom. My 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 perloined his eyes, and when the judge is robbed the prisoner dies. Oh, teach me how to make my own excuse, or at the least this refuge let me find, though my gross blood be stained with this abuse immaculate and spotless is my mind, that was not forced, that never was inclined to accessor a yieldings but still pure, doth in her poisoned closet yet endure. Lo, hear the hopeless merchant of this loss, with head declined and voice damned up with woe, with sad set eyes and wretched arms across, from lips new wax and pale begins to blow, the grief away that stops his answer so. But wretched as he is, he strives in vain, what he breathes out his breath drinks up again. As through an arch the violent roaring tide outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride back to the strait that forced him on so fast, in rage sent out, recalled in rage being passed. Even so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw, to push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, and his untimely frenzy thus awakeeth. Dear Lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth another power, no flood by reigning slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh, more feeling painful. Let it then suffice to drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, for she that was thy lucris now attend me, be suddenly revenged on my foe, thou, mine, his own. Suppose thou dost defend me from what is past, the help that thou shalt lend me comes all too late, yet let the traitor die, for sparing justice feeds iniquity. But ere I name him, you fair lords, quote she, speaking to those that came with colotine, shall plight your honourable faiths to me, with swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine, for it is a meritorious fair design to chase injustice with revengeful arms, knights by their oaths should write poor ladies' harms. At this request, with noble disposition, each present lord began to promise aid, as bound in knighthood to her imposition, longing to hear the hateful foe berate. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, the protestation stops. Oh, speak, quote she, how may this forced stain be wiped from me? What is the quality of mine offence, being constrained with dreadful circumstance? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, my low-declined honour to advance? May any terms acquit me from this chance? The poisoned fountain clears itself again, and why not I from this compelled stain? With this they all at once began to say, her body's stain her mind untainted clears, while with a joyless smile she turns away the face, that map which deep impression bears of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears. No, no, quote she, no dame hereafter living, by my excuse shall claim excuses giving. Here with a sigh as if her heart would break, she throws forth Tarquin's name. He, he, she says, but more than he her poor tongue could not speak, till after many accents and delays, untimely breathings, sick and short assays, she utters this. He, he, fair lords, tis he, that guides this hand to give this wound to me. Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast a harmful knife that thence her soul unsheathed, that blow did bail it from the deep unrest of that polluted prison where it breathed. Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly life's lasting date from cancelled destiny. Stone still, astonished with this deadly deed, stood Colotine and all his lordly crew, till Lucre's father, that beholds her bleed, himself on her self-slaughtered body threw, and from the purple fountain Brutus drew the murderous knife, and as it left the place, her blood in poor revenge held it in chase. And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide in two slow rivers, that the crimson blood circles her body in on every side, who, like a late-sacked island, vastly stood, bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pure and red remained, and some looked black, and that false tarquin stained. About the mourning and congealed face of that black blood a watery wriggle goes, which seems to weep upon the tainted place, and ever since, as pitying Lucre's woes, corrupted blood some watery token shows, and blood untainted still doth red abide, blushing at that which is so putrefied. Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucrecious cries, that life was mine which thou hast here deprived. If in the child the father's image lies, where shall I live now Lucrease is unlived? Thou wasst not to this end from me derived. If children predecease progenitors, we are their offspring, and they none of ours. Poor broken glass, I often did behold in thy sweet semblance my old age new-born. But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn. O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, and shivered all the beauty of my glass, that I no more can see what once I was. O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, if they surcease to be that should survive. Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, and leave the faltering feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive. Then live, sweet Lucrease, live again, and see thy father die, and not thy father thee. By this starts colotine is from a dream, and bids Lucrecious give his sorrow place. And then in key-cold Lucrease bleeding stream he falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, and counterfeits to die with hurrah-space, till manly shame bids him possess his breath, and live to be revenged on her death. The deep vexation of his inward soul hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue, who, mad that sorrow should his use control, or keep him from heart-easing words so long, begins to talk, but through his lips do throng weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid, that no man could distinguish what he said. Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain, but through his teeth as if the name he tore. This windy tempest till it blow up rain, held back his sorrows tied to make it more. At last it rains, and busy winds give oar. Then son and father weep with equal strife, who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. The one doth call her his, the other his. Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. The father says, she's mine. O mine she is, replies her husband. Do not take away my sorrow's interest. Let no mourner say he weeps for her, for she was only mine, and only must be wailed by colotine. O, quote Lucrecious, I did give that life which she too early and too late have spilled. Woe, woe, quote colotine, she was my wife. I owed her and tis mine that she hath killed. My daughter and my wife with clamours filled the dispersed air, who, holding Lucreous life, answered their cries, my daughter and my wife. Brutus, who plucked the knife from Lucreous's side, seeing such emulation in their woe, sent to clothe his wit in state and pride, burying in Lucreous's wound his folly show. He with the Romans was esteemed so, as silly-jeering idiots are with kings, for sportive words and uttering foolish things. But now he throws that shallow habit by, wherein deep policy did him disguise, and armed his long-hid wits advisedly, to check the tears in colotinous eyes. Thou wronged Lord of Rome, quote he, arise. Let my unsounded self, supposed to fool, now set thy long-experienced wit to school. Why colotine, is woe the cure for woe? Do wounds help wounds or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow for his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds? Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds. Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so to slay herself, that should have slain her foe. Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart in such relenting dew of lamentations. But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, to rouse our Roman gods with invocations, that they will suffer these abominations, since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced by our strong arms from forth her fair streets chaste. Now, by the capital that we adore, and by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, by heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store, by all our country rites in Rome maintained, and by chaste Lucre's soul that late complained her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife we will revenge the death of this true wife. This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, and kissed the fatal knife to end his vow, and to his protestation urged the rest, who, wondering at him, did his words allow, then jointly to the ground their knees they bow. And that deep vow, which Brutus made before, he doth again repeat, and that they swore. When they had sworn to this advised doom, they did conclude to bear dead Lucre's fence, to show her bleeding body through a Rome, and so to publish Tarquin's foul offence, which being done with speedy diligence, the Romans plausibly did give consent to Tarquin's everlasting banishment. End of section 11. Recording by Ariel Lipschaw. End of The Rape of Lucre's by William Shakespeare.