It is hard to imagine a world without Shakespeare. Since their composition more than four hundred years ago, Shakespeare’s plays and poems have traveled the globe, inviting those who see and read his works to make them their own.
Readers of the New Folger Editions are part of this ongoing process of “taking up Shakespeare,” finding our own thoughts and feelings in language that strikes us as old or unusual and, for that very reason, new. We still struggle to keep up with a writer who could think a mile a minute, whose words paint pictures that shift like clouds. These expertly edited texts are presented to the public as a resource for study, artistic adaptation, and enjoyment. By making the classic texts of the New Folger Editions available in electronic form as The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), we place a trusted resource in the hands of anyone who wants them.
The New Folger Editions of Shakespeare’s plays, which are the basis for the texts realized here in digital form, are special because of their origin. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, is the single greatest documentary source of Shakespeare’s works. An unparalleled collection of early modern books, manuscripts, and artwork connected to Shakespeare, the Folger’s holdings have been consulted extensively in the preparation of these texts. The Editions also reflect the expertise gained through the regular performance of Shakespeare’s works in the Folger’s Elizabethan Theatre.
I want to express my deep thanks to editors Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine for creating these indispensable editions of Shakespeare’s works, which incorporate the best of textual scholarship with a richness of commentary that is both inspired and engaging. Readers who want to know more about Shakespeare and his plays can follow the paths these distinguished scholars have tread by visiting the Folger either in-person or online, where a range of physical and digital resources exists to supplement the material in these texts. I commend to you these words, and hope that they inspire.
Michael Witmore
Director, Folger Shakespeare Library
Until now, with the release of The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), readers in search of a free online text of Shakespeare’s plays and poems had to be content primarily with using the Moby™ Text, which reproduces a late-nineteenth century version of the plays and poems. What is the difference? Many ordinary readers assume that there is a single text of all these works: what Shakespeare wrote. But Shakespeare’s plays were not published the way modern novels or plays are published today: as a single, authoritative text. In some cases, the plays have come down to us in multiple published versions, represented by various Quartos (Qq) and by the great collection put together by his colleagues in 1623, called the First Folio (F). There are, for example, three very different versions of
Hamlet
, two of
King Lear
,
Henry V
,
Romeo and Juliet
, and others. Editors choose which version to use as their base text, and then amend that text with words, lines or speech prefixes from the other versions that, in their judgment, make for a better or more accurate text.
Other editorial decisions involve choices about whether an unfamiliar word could be understood in light of other writings of the period or whether it should be changed; decisions about words that made it into Shakespeare’s text by accident through four hundred years of printings and misprinting; and even decisions based on cultural preference and taste. When the Moby™ Text was created, for example, it was deemed “improper” and “indecent” for Miranda to chastise Caliban for having attempted to rape her. (See
The Tempest
, 1.2: “Abhorred slave,/Which any print of goodness wilt not take,/Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee…”). All Shakespeare editors at the time took the speech away from her and gave it to her father, Prospero.
The editors of the Moby™ Shakespeare produced their text long before scholars fully understood the proper grounds on which to make the thousands of decisions that Shakespeare editors face. The Folger Library Shakespeare Editions, on which the Folger Shakespeare texts depend, make this editorial process as nearly transparent as is possible, in contrast to older texts, like the Moby™, which hide editorial interventions. The reader of the Folger Shakespeare knows where the text has been altered because editorial interventions are signaled by square brackets (for example, from
Othello
: “
square bracket
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
square bracket
”), half-square brackets (for example, from
Henry V
: “With
half-square bracket
blood
half-square bracket
and sword and fire to win your right,”), or angle brackets (for example, from
Hamlet
: “O farewell, honest
angle bracket
soldier.
angle bracket
Who hath relieved/you?”). At any point in the text, you can hover your cursor over a bracket for more information.
Because the Folger Shakespeare texts are edited in accord with twenty-first century knowledge about Shakespeare’s texts, the Folger here provides them to readers, scholars, teachers, actors, directors, and students, free of charge, confident of their quality as texts of the plays and pleased to be able to make this contribution to the study and enjoyment of Shakespeare.
TO
THE
RIGHT
HONORABLE
,
HENRY
Wriothesley
,
Earl
of
Southampton
,
and
Baron
of
Titchfield
.
The
love
I
dedicate
to
your
Lordship
is
without
end
;
whereof
this
pamphlet
without
beginning
is
but
a
superfluous
moiety
.
The
warrant
I
have
of
your
honorable
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
.
Were
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
Lordship’s
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
suffrages
,
had
possessed
himself
of
the
kingdom
,
went
accompanied
with
his
sons
and
other
noblemen
of
Rome
to
besiege
Ardea
;
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
every
one
commended
the
virtues
of
his
own
wife
;
among
whom
Collatinus
extolled
the
incomparable
chastity
of
his
wife
Lucretia
.
In
that
pleasant
humor
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
Collatinus
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
Collatinus
the
victory
and
his
wife
the
fame
.
At
that
time
Sextus
Tarquinius
,
being
inflamed
with
Lucrece’
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
Lucrece
at
Collatium
.
The
same
night
he
treacherously
stealeth
into
her
chamber
,
violently
ravished
her
,
and
early
in
the
morning
speedeth
away
.
Lucrece
,
in
this
lamentable
plight
,
hastily
dispatcheth
messengers
,
one
to
Rome
for
her
father
,
another
to
the
camp
for
Collatine
.
They
came
—
the
one
accompanied
with
Junius
Brutus
,
the
other
with
Publius
Valerius
—
and
,
finding
Lucrece
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
withal
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
.
Lucrece
From
the
besiegèd
Ardea
all
in
post
,
Borne
by
the
trustless
wings
of
false
desire
,
Lust-breathèd
Tarquin
leaves
the
Roman
host
And
to
Collatium
bears
the
lightless
fire
Which
,
in
pale
embers
hid
,
lurks
to
aspire
And
girdle
with
embracing
flames
the
waist
Of
Collatine’s
fair
love
,
Lucrece
the
chaste
.
Haply
that
name
of
chaste
unhapp’ly
set
This
bateless
edge
on
his
keen
appetite
When
Collatine
unwisely
did
not
let
To
praise
the
clear
unmatchèd
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
beauteous
mate
,
Reck’ning
his
fortune
at
such
high
proud
rate
That
kings
might
be
espousèd
to
more
fame
,
But
king
nor
peer
to
such
a
peerless
dame
.
O
,
happiness
enjoyed
but
of
a
few
,
And
,
if
possessed
,
as
soon
decayed
and
done
As
is
the
morning’s
silver
melting
dew
Against
the
golden
splendor
of
the
sun
!
An
expired
date
,
canceled
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
needeth
then
apology
be
made
To
set
forth
that
which
is
so
singular
?
Or
why
is
Collatine
the
publisher
Of
that
rich
jewel
he
should
keep
unknown
From
thievish
ears
because
it
is
his
own
?
Perchance
his
boast
of
Lucrece’
sov’reignty
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
honor
,
his
affairs
,
his
friends
,
his
state
Neglected
all
,
with
swift
intent
he
goes
To
quench
the
coal
which
in
his
liver
glows
.
O
,
rash
false
heat
,
wrapped
in
repentant
cold
,
Thy
hasty
spring
still
blasts
and
ne’er
grows
old
!
When
at
Collatium
this
false
lord
arrived
,
Well
was
he
welcomed
by
the
Roman
dame
,
Within
whose
face
Beauty
and
Virtue
strived
Which
of
them
both
should
underprop
her
fame
.
When
Virtue
bragged
,
Beauty
would
blush
for
shame
;
When
Beauty
boasted
blushes
,
in
despite
Virtue
would
stain
that
o’er
with
silver
white
.
But
Beauty
,
in
that
white
entitulèd
From
Venus’
doves
,
doth
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
Lucrece’
face
was
seen
,
Argued
by
Beauty’s
red
and
Virtue’s
white
.
Of
either’s
color
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
.
This
silent
war
of
lilies
and
of
roses
,
Which
Tarquin
viewed
in
her
fair
face’s
field
,
In
their
pure
ranks
his
traitor
eye
encloses
,
Where
,
lest
between
them
both
it
should
be
killed
,
The
coward
captive
vanquishèd
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
niggard
prodigal
that
praised
her
so
,
In
that
high
task
hath
done
her
beauty
wrong
,
Which
far
exceeds
his
barren
skill
to
show
.
Therefore
that
praise
which
Collatine
doth
owe
Enchanted
Tarquin
answers
with
surmise
,
In
silent
wonder
of
still-gazing
eyes
.
This
earthly
saint
,
adorèd
by
this
devil
,
Little
suspecteth
the
false
worshiper
,
For
unstained
thoughts
do
seldom
dream
on
evil
;
Birds
never
limed
no
secret
bushes
fear
.
So
,
guiltless
,
she
securely
gives
good
cheer
And
reverend
welcome
to
her
princely
guest
,
Whose
inward
ill
no
outward
harm
expressed
.
For
that
he
colored
with
his
high
estate
,
Hiding
base
sin
in
pleats
of
majesty
,
That
nothing
in
him
seemed
inordinate
,
Save
sometimes
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
secrecies
Writ
in
the
glassy
margents
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
,
Won
in
the
fields
of
fruitful
Italy
,
And
decks
with
praises
Collatine’s
high
name
,
Made
glorious
by
his
manly
chivalry
With
bruisèd
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
thither
He
makes
excuses
for
his
being
there
.
No
cloudy
show
of
stormy
blust’ring
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
Tarquin
brought
unto
his
bed
,
Intending
weariness
with
heavy
sprite
,
For
after
supper
long
he
questionèd
With
modest
Lucrece
and
wore
out
the
night
.
Now
leaden
slumber
with
life’s
strength
doth
fight
,
And
everyone
to
rest
himself
betakes
,
Save
thieves
and
cares
and
troubled
minds
that
wakes
;
As
one
of
which
doth
Tarquin
lie
revolving
The
sundry
dangers
of
his
will’s
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
meed
proposed
,
Though
death
be
adjunct
,
there’s
no
death
supposed
.
Those
that
much
covet
are
with
gain
so
fond
That
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
surfeit
,
and
such
griefs
sustain
That
they
prove
bankrout
in
this
poor-rich
gain
.
The
aim
of
all
is
but
to
nurse
the
life
With
honor
,
wealth
,
and
ease
in
waning
age
;
And
in
this
aim
there
is
such
thwarting
strife
That
one
for
all
or
all
for
one
we
gage
:
As
life
for
honor
in
fell
battle’s
rage
,
Honor
for
wealth
;
and
oft
that
wealth
doth
cost
The
death
of
all
,
and
all
together
lost
.
So
that
,
in
vent’ring
ill
,
we
leave
to
be
The
things
we
are
for
that
which
we
expect
;
And
this
ambitious
foul
infirmity
,
In
having
much
,
torments
us
with
defect
Of
that
we
have
.
So
then
we
do
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
honor
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
sland’rous
tongues
and
wretched
hateful
days
?
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
wakes
to
stain
and
kill
.
And
now
this
lustful
lord
leapt
from
his
bed
,
Throwing
his
mantle
rudely
o’er
his
arm
;
Is
madly
tossed
between
desire
and
dread
;
Th’
one
sweetly
flatters
,
th’
other
feareth
harm
,
But
honest
fear
,
bewitched
with
lust’s
foul
charm
,
Doth
too
too
oft
betake
him
to
retire
,
Beaten
away
by
brainsick
rude
desire
.
His
falchion
on
a
flint
he
softly
smiteth
,
That
from
the
cold
stone
sparks
of
fire
do
fly
,
Whereat
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
Lucrece
must
I
force
to
my
desire
.
Here
pale
with
fear
he
doth
premeditate
The
dangers
of
his
loathsome
enterprise
,
And
in
his
inward
mind
he
doth
debate
What
following
sorrow
may
on
this
arise
.
Then
,
looking
scornfully
,
he
doth
despise
His
naked
armor
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
love’s
modest
snow-white
weed
.
O
,
shame
to
knighthood
and
to
shining
arms
!
O
,
foul
dishonor
to
my
household’s
grave
!
O
,
impious
act
including
all
foul
harms
!
A
martial
man
to
be
soft
fancy’s
slave
!
True
valor
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
strucken
down
?
If
Collatinus
dream
of
my
intent
,
Will
he
not
wake
and
,
in
a
desp’rate
rage
,
Post
hither
this
vile
purpose
to
prevent
—
This
siege
,
that
hath
engirt
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
?
O
,
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
,
Mine
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
cowardlike
with
trembling
terror
die
.
Had
Collatinus
killed
my
son
or
sire
Or
lain
in
ambush
to
betray
my
life
,
Or
were
he
not
my
dear
friend
,
this
desire
Might
have
excuse
to
work
upon
his
wife
,
As
in
revenge
or
quittal
of
such
strife
;
But
as
he
is
my
kinsman
,
my
dear
friend
,
The
shame
and
fault
finds
no
excuse
nor
end
.
Shameful
it
is
:
ay
,
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
reason’s
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
’Tween
frozen
conscience
and
hot-burning
will
,
And
with
good
thoughts
makes
dispensation
,
Urging
the
worser
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
belovèd
Collatinus
lies
.
O
,
how
her
fear
did
make
her
color
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
she
did
hear
,
Whereat
she
smilèd
with
so
sweet
a
cheer
That
,
had
Narcissus
seen
her
as
she
stood
,
Self-love
had
never
drowned
him
in
the
flood
.
Why
hunt
I
then
for
color
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
,
avaunt
!
Debating
,
die
!
Respect
and
Reason
,
wait
on
wrinkled
Age
.
My
heart
shall
never
countermand
mine
eye
.
Sad
pause
and
deep
regard
beseems
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
?
As
corn
o’ergrown
by
weeds
,
so
heedful
fear
Is
almost
choked
by
unresisted
lust
.
Away
he
steals
with
open
list’ning
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
league
and
now
invasion
.
Within
his
thought
her
heavenly
image
sits
,
And
in
the
selfsame
seat
sits
Collatine
.
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
worser
part
;
And
therein
heartens
up
his
servile
powers
,
Who
,
flattered
by
their
leader’s
jocund
show
,
Stuff
up
his
lust
,
as
minutes
fill
up
hours
;
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
Lucrece’
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-wand’ring
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
Lucretia’s
glove
,
wherein
her
needle
sticks
.
He
takes
it
from
the
rushes
where
it
lies
,
And
gripping
it
,
the
needle
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
consters
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
ling’ring
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
,
To
add
a
more
rejoicing
to
the
prime
And
give
the
sneapèd
birds
more
cause
to
sing
.
Pain
pays
the
income
of
each
precious
thing
:
Huge
rocks
,
high
winds
,
strong
pirates
,
shelves
,
and
sands
The
merchant
fears
ere
rich
at
home
he
lands
.
Now
is
he
come
unto
the
chamber
door
That
shuts
him
from
the
heaven
of
his
thought
,
Which
with
a
yielding
latch
,
and
with
no
more
,
Hath
barred
him
from
the
blessèd
thing
he
sought
.
So
from
himself
impiety
hath
wrought
That
for
his
prey
to
pray
he
doth
begin
,
As
if
the
heavens
should
countenance
his
sin
.
But
in
the
midst
of
his
unfruitful
prayer
,
Having
solicited
th’
eternal
power
That
his
foul
thoughts
might
compass
his
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
abhor
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
fear’s
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-owl
will
catch
.
Thus
treason
works
ere
traitors
be
espied
.
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
unstainèd
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
a
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
reflects
so
bright
That
dazzleth
them
,
or
else
some
shame
supposed
,
But
blind
they
are
and
keep
themselves
enclosed
.
O
,
had
they
in
that
darksome
prison
died
,
Then
had
they
seen
the
period
of
their
ill
!
Then
Collatine
again
by
Lucrece’
side
In
his
clear
bed
might
have
reposèd
still
.
But
they
must
ope
,
this
blessèd
league
to
kill
,
And
holy-thoughted
Lucrece
to
their
sight
Must
sell
her
joy
,
her
life
,
her
world’s
delight
.
Her
lily
hand
her
rosy
cheek
lies
under
,
Coz’ning
the
pillow
of
a
lawful
kiss
,
Who
,
therefore
angry
,
seems
to
part
in
sunder
,
Swelling
on
either
side
to
want
his
bliss
;
Between
whose
hills
her
head
entombèd
is
,
Where
like
a
virtuous
monument
she
lies
,
To
be
admired
of
lewd
unhallowed
eyes
.
Without
the
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
there
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
unconquerèd
,
Save
of
their
lord
no
bearing
yoke
they
knew
,
And
him
by
oath
they
truly
honorèd
.
These
worlds
in
Tarquin
new
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
fawneth
o’er
his
prey
,
Sharp
hunger
by
the
conquest
satisfied
,
So
o’er
this
sleeping
soul
doth
Tarquin
stay
,
His
rage
of
lust
by
gazing
qualified
—
Slaked
,
not
suppressed
;
for
,
standing
by
her
side
,
His
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
mothers’
groans
respecting
,
Swell
in
their
pride
,
the
onset
still
expecting
.
Anon
his
beating
heart
,
alarum
striking
,
Gives
the
hot
charge
and
bids
them
do
their
liking
.
His
drumming
heart
cheers
up
his
burning
eye
;
His
eye
commends
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
,
must’ring
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
ope
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
joint
a-shaking
.
What
terror
’tis
!
But
she
,
in
worser
taking
,
From
sleep
disturbèd
,
heedfully
doth
view
The
sight
which
makes
supposèd
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
brain’s
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
withal
.
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
urgeth
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
fault
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
sought
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
,
’gainst
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
strive
I
to
embrace
mine
infamy
.
This
said
,
he
shakes
aloft
his
Roman
blade
,
Which
,
like
a
falcon
tow’ring
in
the
skies
,
Coucheth
the
fowl
below
with
his
wings’
shade
,
Whose
crookèd
beak
threats
,
if
he
mount
,
he
dies
.
So
under
his
insulting
falchion
lies
Harmless
Lucretia
,
marking
what
he
tells
With
trembling
fear
,
as
fowl
hear
falcons’
bells
.
Lucrece
,
quoth
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
honor
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
bastardy
;
And
thou
,
the
author
of
their
obloquy
,
Shalt
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
poisonous
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
descried
in
men’s
nativity
Are
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
aught
obeys
but
his
foul
appetite
.
But
when
a
black-faced
cloud
the
world
doth
threat
,
In
his
dim
mist
th’
aspiring
mountains
hiding
,
From
Earth’s
earth’s
dark
womb
some
gentle
gust
doth
get
,
Which
blow
these
pitchy
vapors
from
their
biding
,
Hind’ring
their
present
fall
by
this
dividing
;
So
his
unhallowed
haste
her
words
delays
,
And
moody
Pluto
winks
while
Orpheus
plays
.
Yet
,
foul
night-waking
cat
,
he
doth
but
dally
,
While
in
his
hold-fast
foot
the
weak
mouse
panteth
.
Her
sad
behavior
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
raining
.
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
troth
,
By
heaven
and
Earth
earth
,
and
all
the
power
of
both
,
That
to
his
borrowed
bed
he
make
retire
And
stoop
to
honor
,
not
to
foul
desire
.
Quoth
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
.
End
thy
ill
aim
before
thy
shoot
be
ended
;
He
is
no
woodman
that
doth
bend
his
bow
To
strike
a
poor
unseasonable
doe
.
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
look’st
not
like
deceit
;
do
not
deceive
me
.
My
sighs
,
like
whirlwinds
,
labor
hence
to
heave
thee
.
If
ever
man
were
moved
with
woman’s
moans
,
Be
movèd
with
my
tears
,
my
sighs
,
my
groans
,
All
which
together
,
like
a
troubled
ocean
,
Beat
at
thy
rocky
and
wrack-threat’ning
heart
,
To
soften
it
with
their
continual
motion
,
For
stones
dissolved
to
water
do
convert
.
O
,
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
wrong’st
his
honor
,
wound’st
his
princely
name
.
Thou
art
not
what
thou
seem’st
,
and
if
the
same
,
Thou
seem’st
not
what
thou
art
,
a
god
,
a
king
;
For
kings
,
like
gods
,
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
dar’st
do
such
outrage
,
What
dar’st
thou
not
when
once
thou
art
a
king
?
O
,
be
remembered
,
no
outrageous
thing
From
vassal
actors
can
be
wiped
away
;
Then
king’s
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
dishonor
in
thy
name
?
Thou
back’st
reproach
against
long-living
laud
And
mak’st
fair
reputation
but
a
bawd
.
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
canst
thou
fulfill
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
.
O
,
how
are
they
wrapped
in
with
infamies
That
from
their
own
misdeeds
askance
their
eyes
!
To
thee
,
to
thee
,
my
heaved-up
hands
appeal
,
Not
to
seducing
lust
,
thy
rash
relier
.
I
sue
for
exiled
majesty’s
repeal
;
Let
him
return
,
and
flatt’ring
thoughts
retire
.
His
true
respect
will
prison
false
desire
And
wipe
the
dim
mist
from
thy
doting
eyne
,
That
thou
shalt
see
thy
state
and
pity
mine
.
Have
done
,
quoth
he
.
My
uncontrollèd
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
falls’
haste
Add
to
his
flow
but
alter
not
his
taste
.
Thou
art
,
quoth
she
,
a
sea
,
a
sovereign
king
,
And
,
lo
,
there
falls
into
thy
boundless
flood
Black
lust
,
dishonor
,
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
hearsed
,
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
fouler
grave
;
Thou
loathèd
in
their
shame
,
they
in
thy
pride
.
The
lesser
thing
should
not
the
greater
hide
;
The
cedar
stoops
not
to
the
base
shrub’s
foot
,
But
low
shrubs
wither
at
the
cedar’s
root
.
So
let
thy
thoughts
,
low
vassals
to
thy
state
—
No
more
,
quoth
he
.
By
heaven
,
I
will
not
hear
thee
.
Yield
to
my
love
.
If
not
,
enforcèd
hate
,
Instead
of
love’s
coy
touch
,
shall
rudely
tear
thee
.
That
done
,
despitefully
I
mean
to
bear
thee
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
,
then
most
doth
tyrannize
.
The
wolf
hath
seized
his
prey
;
the
poor
lamb
cries
,
Till
,
with
her
own
white
fleece
her
voice
controlled
,
Entombs
her
outcry
in
her
lips’
sweet
fold
.
For
with
the
nightly
linen
that
she
wears
He
pens
her
piteous
clamors
in
her
head
,
Cooling
his
hot
face
in
the
chastest
tears
That
ever
modest
eyes
with
sorrow
shed
.
O
,
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
forcèd
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
gorgèd
hawk
,
Unapt
for
tender
smell
or
speedy
flight
,
Make
slow
pursuit
,
or
altogether
balk
The
prey
wherein
by
nature
they
delight
;
So
surfeit-taking
Tarquin
fares
this
night
.
His
taste
delicious
,
in
digestion
souring
,
Devours
his
will
,
that
lived
by
foul
devouring
.
O
,
deeper
sin
than
bottomless
conceit
Can
comprehend
in
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
rein
his
rash
desire
,
Till
,
like
a
jade
,
Self-will
himself
doth
tire
.
And
then
with
lank
and
lean
discolored
cheek
,
With
heavy
eye
,
knit
brow
,
and
strengthless
pace
,
Feeble
Desire
,
all
recreant
,
poor
,
and
meek
,
Like
to
a
bankrout
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
remission
prays
.
So
fares
it
with
this
faultful
lord
of
Rome
,
Who
this
accomplishment
so
hotly
chased
,
For
now
against
himself
he
sounds
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
controllèd
still
,
But
her
foresight
could
not
forestall
their
will
.
E’en
in
this
thought
through
the
dark
night
he
stealeth
,
A
captive
victor
that
hath
lost
in
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
.
He
like
a
thievish
dog
creeps
sadly
thence
;
She
like
a
wearied
lamb
lies
panting
there
.
He
scowls
and
hates
himself
for
his
offense
;
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
,
loathed
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
,
quoth
she
,
night’s
scapes
doth
open
lay
,
And
my
true
eyes
have
never
practiced
how
To
cloak
offenses
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
what
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
purer
chest
to
close
so
pure
a
mind
.
Frantic
with
grief
thus
breathes
she
forth
her
spite
Against
the
unseen
secrecy
of
night
.
O
,
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
bawd
,
dark
harbor
for
defame
,
Grim
cave
of
death
,
whisp’ring
conspirator
With
close-tongued
treason
and
the
ravisher
!
O
,
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
wonted
height
,
yet
ere
he
go
to
bed
,
Knit
poisonous
clouds
about
his
golden
head
.
With
rotten
damps
ravish
the
morning
air
;
Let
their
exhaled
unwholesome
breaths
make
sick
The
life
of
purity
,
the
supreme
fair
,
Ere
he
arrive
his
weary
noontide
prick
,
And
let
thy
musty
vapors
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
distain
;
Her
twinkling
handmaids
too
,
by
him
defiled
,
Through
Night’s
black
bosom
should
not
peep
again
.
So
should
I
have
copartners
in
my
pain
,
And
fellowship
in
woe
doth
woe
assuage
,
As
palmers’
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
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
Immodestly
lies
martyred
with
disgrace
!
Keep
still
possession
of
thy
gloomy
place
,
That
all
the
faults
which
in
thy
reign
are
made
May
likewise
be
sepulchered
in
thy
shade
.
Make
me
not
object
to
the
telltale
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
learnèd
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
wrongèd
me
,
I
Collatine
.
Let
my
good
name
,
that
senseless
reputation
,
For
Collatine’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
attaint
of
mine
As
I
,
ere
this
,
was
pure
to
Collatine
.
O
unseen
shame
,
invisible
disgrace
!
O
unfelt
sore
,
crest-wounding
private
scar
!
Reproach
is
stamped
in
Collatinus’
face
,
And
Tarquin’s
eye
may
read
the
mot
afar
,
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
,
Collatine
,
thine
honor
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
wand’ring
wasp
hath
crept
And
sucked
the
honey
which
thy
chaste
bee
kept
.
Yet
am
I
guilty
of
thy
honor’s
wrack
;
Yet
for
thy
honor
did
I
entertain
him
.
Coming
from
thee
,
I
could
not
put
him
back
,
For
it
had
been
dishonor
to
disdain
him
.
Besides
,
of
weariness
he
did
complain
him
And
talked
of
virtue
.
O
,
unlooked-for
evil
,
When
virtue
is
profaned
in
such
a
devil
!
Why
should
the
worm
intrude
the
maiden
bud
?
Or
hateful
cuckoos
hatch
in
sparrows’
nests
?
Or
toads
infect
fair
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
agèd
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
cursèd-blessèd
fortune
long
.
The
sweets
we
wish
for
turn
to
loathèd
sours
Even
in
the
moment
that
we
call
them
ours
.
Unruly
blasts
wait
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-annexèd
Opportunity
Or
kills
his
life
or
else
his
quality
.
O
Opportunity
,
thy
guilt
is
great
!
’Tis
thou
that
execut’st
the
traitor’s
treason
;
Thou
sets
the
wolf
where
he
the
lamb
may
get
;
Whoever
plots
the
sin
,
thou
’point’st
the
season
.
’Tis
thou
that
spurn’st
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
violate
her
oath
;
Thou
blowest
the
fire
when
temperance
is
thawed
;
Thou
smother’st
honesty
,
thou
murd’rest
troth
.
Thou
foul
abettor
,
thou
notorious
bawd
,
Thou
plantest
scandal
and
displacest
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
raggèd
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
strifes
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
grant’st
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
apaid
As
well
to
hear
as
grant
what
he
hath
said
.
My
Collatine
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
.
Misshapen
Time
,
copesmate
of
ugly
Night
,
Swift
subtle
post
,
carrier
of
grisly
care
,
Eater
of
youth
,
false
slave
to
false
delight
,
Base
watch
of
woes
,
sin’s
packhorse
,
virtue’s
snare
!
Thou
nursest
all
and
murd’rest
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
gav’st
me
to
repose
,
Canceled
my
fortunes
,
and
enchainèd
me
To
endless
date
of
never-ending
woes
?
Time’s
office
is
to
fine
the
hate
of
foes
,
To
eat
up
errors
by
opinion
bred
,
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
agèd
things
,
To
wake
the
morn
and
sentinel
the
night
,
To
wrong
the
wronger
till
he
render
right
,
To
ruinate
proud
buildings
with
thy
hours
And
smear
with
dust
their
glitt’ring
golden
towers
,
To
fill
with
worm-holes
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’s
sap
and
cherish
springs
,
To
spoil
antiquities
of
hammered
steel
And
turn
the
giddy
round
of
Fortune’s
wheel
,
To
show
the
beldam
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
in
themselves
beguiled
,
To
cheer
the
plowman
with
increaseful
crops
And
waste
huge
stones
with
little
water
drops
.
Why
work’st
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
to
bad
debtors
lends
.
O
this
dread
night
,
wouldst
thou
one
hour
come
back
,
I
could
prevent
this
storm
and
shun
thy
wrack
!
Thou
ceaseless
lackey
to
Eternity
,
With
some
mischance
cross
Tarquin
in
his
flight
.
Devise
extremes
beyond
extremity
To
make
him
curse
this
cursèd
crimeful
night
.
Let
ghastly
shadows
his
lewd
eyes
affright
,
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
hard’ned
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
curlèd
hair
,
Let
him
have
time
against
himself
to
rave
,
Let
him
have
time
of
Time’s
help
to
despair
,
Let
him
have
time
to
live
a
loathèd
slave
,
Let
him
have
time
a
beggar’s
orts
to
crave
And
time
to
see
one
that
by
alms
doth
live
Disdain
to
him
disdainèd
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
th’abusing
of
his
time
.
O
Time
,
thou
tutor
both
to
good
and
bad
,
Teach
me
to
curse
him
that
thou
taught’st
this
ill
!
At
his
own
shadow
let
the
thief
run
mad
,
Himself
himself
seek
every
hour
to
kill
.
Such
wretched
hands
such
wretched
blood
should
spill
,
For
who
so
base
would
such
an
office
have
As
sland’rous
deathsman
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
honored
or
begets
him
hate
;
For
greatest
scandal
waits
on
greatest
state
.
The
moon
being
clouded
presently
is
missed
,
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
,
kings
glorious
day
.
Gnats
are
unnoted
wheresoe’er
they
fly
,
But
eagles
gazed
upon
with
every
eye
.
Out
,
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
.
In
vain
I
rail
at
Opportunity
,
At
Time
,
at
Tarquin
,
and
uncheerful
Night
.
In
vain
I
cavil
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
defilèd
blood
.
Poor
hand
,
why
quiver’st
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
liv’st
in
my
defame
;
Since
thou
couldst
not
defend
thy
loyal
dame
And
wast
affeard
to
scratch
her
wicked
foe
,
Kill
both
thyself
and
her
for
yielding
so
.
This
said
,
from
her
betumbled
couch
she
starteth
,
To
find
some
desp’rate
instrument
of
death
,
But
this
,
no
slaughterhouse
,
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
dischargèd
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
slain
,
Yet
for
the
selfsame
purpose
seek
a
knife
.
But
when
I
feared
,
I
was
a
loyal
wife
;
So
am
I
now
.
—
O
no
,
that
cannot
be
!
Of
that
true
type
hath
Tarquin
rifled
me
.
O
,
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
stol’n
away
,
To
burn
the
guiltless
casket
where
it
lay
!
Well
,
well
,
dear
Collatine
,
thou
shalt
not
know
The
stainèd
taste
of
violated
troth
;
I
will
not
wrong
thy
true
affection
so
To
flatter
thee
with
an
infringèd
oath
.
This
bastard
graff
shall
never
come
to
growth
;
He
shall
not
boast
who
did
thy
stock
pollute
That
thou
art
doting
father
of
his
fruit
.
Nor
shall
he
smile
at
thee
in
secret
thought
,
Nor
laugh
with
his
companions
at
thy
state
,
But
thou
shalt
know
thy
int’rest
was
not
bought
Basely
with
gold
,
but
stol’n
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
offense
.
I
will
not
poison
thee
with
my
attaint
,
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
;
mine
eyes
,
like
sluices
,
As
from
a
mountain
spring
that
feeds
a
dale
,
Shall
gush
pure
streams
to
purge
my
impure
tale
.
By
this
,
lamenting
Philomel
had
ended
The
well-tuned
warble
of
her
nightly
sorrow
,
And
solemn
night
with
slow
sad
gait
descended
To
ugly
hell
,
when
,
lo
,
the
blushing
morrow
Lends
light
to
all
fair
eyes
that
light
will
borrow
.
But
cloudy
Lucrece
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
pry’st
thou
through
my
window
?
Leave
thy
peeping
.
Mock
with
thy
tickling
beams
eyes
that
are
sleeping
.
Brand
not
my
forehead
with
thy
piercing
light
,
For
day
hath
naught
to
do
what’s
done
by
night
.
Thus
cavils
she
with
everything
she
sees
.
True
grief
is
fond
and
testy
as
a
child
,
Who
,
wayward
once
,
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
labor
drowns
for
want
of
skill
.
So
she
,
deep
drenchèd
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
’tis
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
sympathized
.
’Tis
double
death
to
drown
in
ken
of
shore
;
He
ten
times
pines
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
o’erflows
;
Grief
dallied
with
nor
law
nor
limit
knows
.
You
mocking
birds
,
quoth
she
,
your
tunes
entomb
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
likes
dumps
when
time
is
kept
with
tears
.
Come
,
Philomel
,
that
sing’st
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
Tarquin
still
,
While
thou
on
Tereus
descants
better
skill
.
And
whiles
against
a
thorn
thou
bear’st
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
means
,
as
frets
upon
an
instrument
,
Shall
tune
our
heartstrings
to
true
languishment
.
And
for
,
poor
bird
,
thou
sing’st
not
in
the
day
,
As
shaming
any
eye
should
thee
behold
,
Some
dark
,
deep
desert
seated
from
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
frighted
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
reproach’s
debtor
.
To
kill
myself
,
quoth
she
,
alack
,
what
were
it
But
with
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
nurse
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
Collatine
?
Ay
me
,
the
bark
pilled
from
the
lofty
pine
,
His
leaves
will
wither
and
his
sap
decay
;
So
must
my
soul
,
her
bark
being
pilled
away
.
Her
house
is
sacked
,
her
quiet
interrupted
,
Her
mansion
battered
by
the
enemy
,
Her
sacred
temple
spotted
,
spoiled
,
corrupted
,
Grossly
engirt
with
daring
infamy
.
Then
let
it
not
be
called
impiety
If
in
this
blemished
fort
I
make
some
hole
Through
which
I
may
convey
this
troubled
soul
.
Yet
die
I
will
not
till
my
Collatine
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
stainèd
blood
to
Tarquin
I’ll
bequeath
,
Which
,
by
him
tainted
,
shall
for
him
be
spent
,
And
as
his
due
writ
in
my
testament
.
My
honor
I’ll
bequeath
unto
the
knife
That
wounds
my
body
so
dishonorèd
.
’Tis
honor
to
deprive
dishonored
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
,
mine
honor
is
new
born
.
Dear
lord
of
that
dear
jewel
I
have
lost
,
What
legacy
shall
I
bequeath
to
thee
?
My
resolution
,
love
,
shall
be
thy
boast
,
By
whose
example
thou
revenged
mayst
be
.
How
Tarquin
must
be
used
,
read
it
in
me
;
Myself
,
thy
friend
,
will
kill
myself
,
thy
foe
,
And
for
my
sake
serve
thou
false
Tarquin
so
.
This
brief
abridgement
of
my
will
I
make
:
My
soul
and
body
to
the
skies
and
ground
;
My
resolution
,
husband
,
do
thou
take
;
Mine
honor
be
the
knife’s
that
makes
my
wound
;
My
shame
be
his
that
did
my
fame
confound
;
And
all
my
fame
that
lives
disbursèd
be
To
those
that
live
and
think
no
shame
of
me
.
Thou
,
Collatine
,
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
hies
,
For
fleet-winged
duty
with
thought’s
feathers
flies
.
Poor
Lucrece’
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
,
Forwhy
her
face
wore
sorrow’s
livery
,
But
durst
not
ask
of
her
audaciously
Why
her
two
suns
were
cloud-eclipsèd
so
,
Nor
why
her
fair
cheeks
over-washed
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
gan
wet
Her
circled
eyne
,
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
guess
at
others’
smarts
,
And
then
they
drown
their
eyes
or
break
their
hearts
.
For
men
have
marble
,
women
waxen
,
minds
,
And
therefore
are
they
formed
as
marble
will
.
The
weak
oppressed
,
th’
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
champaign
plain
,
Lays
open
all
the
little
worms
that
creep
;
In
men
,
as
in
a
rough-grown
grove
,
remain
Cave-keeping
evils
that
obscurely
sleep
.
Through
crystal
walls
each
little
mote
will
peep
.
Though
men
can
cover
crimes
with
bold
stern
looks
,
Poor
women’s
faces
are
their
own
faults’
books
.
No
man
inveigh
against
the
withered
flower
,
But
chide
rough
winter
that
the
flower
hath
killed
.
Not
that
devoured
,
but
that
which
doth
devour
,
Is
worthy
blame
.
O
,
let
it
not
be
hild
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
Lucrece
view
,
Assailed
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
That
dying
fear
through
all
her
body
spread
,
And
who
cannot
abuse
a
body
dead
?
By
this
,
mild
patience
bid
fair
Lucrece
speak
To
the
poor
counterfeit
of
her
complaining
:
My
girl
,
quoth
she
,
on
what
occasion
break
Those
tears
from
thee
,
that
down
thy
cheeks
are
raining
?
If
thou
dost
weep
for
grief
of
my
sustaining
,
Know
,
gentle
wench
,
it
small
avails
my
mood
.
If
tears
could
help
,
mine
own
would
do
me
good
.
But
tell
me
,
girl
,
when
went
—
and
there
she
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
!
quoth
Lucrece
.
If
it
should
be
told
,
The
repetition
cannot
make
it
less
,
For
more
it
is
than
I
can
well
express
,
And
that
deep
torture
may
be
called
a
hell
When
more
is
felt
than
one
hath
power
to
tell
.
Go
,
get
me
hither
paper
,
ink
,
and
pen
.
Yet
save
that
labor
,
for
I
have
them
here
.
—
What
should
I
say
?
—
One
of
my
husband’s
men
Bid
thou
be
ready
by
and
by
to
bear
A
letter
to
my
lord
,
my
love
,
my
dear
.
Bid
him
with
speed
prepare
to
carry
it
;
The
cause
craves
haste
,
and
it
will
soon
be
writ
.
Her
maid
is
gone
,
and
she
prepares
to
write
,
First
hovering
o’er
the
paper
with
her
quill
.
Conceit
and
grief
an
eager
combat
fight
;
What
wit
sets
down
is
blotted
straight
with
will
;
This
is
too
curious-good
,
this
blunt
and
ill
.
Much
like
a
press
of
people
at
a
door
Throng
her
inventions
,
which
shall
go
before
.
At
last
she
thus
begins
:
Thou
worthy
lord
Of
that
unworthy
wife
that
greeteth
thee
,
Health
to
thy
person
.
Next
,
vouchsafe
t’
afford
,
If
ever
,
love
,
thy
Lucrece
thou
wilt
see
,
Some
present
speed
to
come
and
visit
me
.
So
I
commend
me
from
our
house
in
grief
.
My
woes
are
tedious
,
though
my
words
are
brief
.
Here
folds
she
up
the
tenor
of
her
woe
,
Her
certain
sorrow
writ
uncertainly
.
By
this
short
schedule
Collatine
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
Ardea
to
my
lord
with
more
than
haste
.
The
post
attends
,
and
she
delivers
it
,
Charging
the
sour-faced
groom
to
hie
as
fast
As
lagging
fowls
before
the
northern
blast
.
Speed
more
than
speed
but
dull
and
slow
she
deems
;
Extremity
still
urgeth
such
extremes
.
The
homely
villain
curtsies
to
her
low
And
,
blushing
on
her
with
a
steadfast
eye
,
Receives
the
scroll
without
or
yea
or
no
,
And
forth
with
bashful
innocence
doth
hie
.
But
they
whose
guilt
within
their
bosoms
lie
Imagine
every
eye
beholds
their
blame
,
For
Lucrece
thought
he
blushed
to
see
her
shame
,
When
,
silly
groom
,
God
wot
,
it
was
defect
Of
spirit
,
life
,
and
bold
audacity
.
Such
harmless
creatures
have
a
true
respect
To
talk
in
deeds
,
while
others
saucily
Promise
more
speed
but
do
it
leisurely
.
Even
so
this
pattern
of
the
worn-out
age
Pawned
honest
looks
,
but
laid
no
words
to
gage
.
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
she
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
duteous
vassal
scarce
is
gone
.
The
weary
time
she
cannot
entertain
,
For
now
’tis
stale
to
sigh
,
to
weep
,
and
groan
;
So
woe
hath
wearied
woe
,
moan
tirèd
moan
,
That
she
her
plaints
a
little
while
doth
stay
,
Pausing
for
means
to
mourn
some
newer
way
.
At
last
she
calls
to
mind
where
hangs
a
piece
Of
skillful
painting
,
made
for
Priam’s
Troy
,
Before
the
which
is
drawn
the
power
of
Greece
,
For
Helen’s
rape
the
city
to
destroy
,
Threat’ning
cloud-kissing
Ilion
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
reeked
to
show
the
painter’s
strife
,
And
dying
eyes
gleamed
forth
their
ashy
lights
Like
dying
coals
burnt
out
in
tedious
nights
.
There
might
you
see
the
laboring
pioneer
Begrimed
with
sweat
and
smearèd
all
with
dust
,
And
from
the
towers
of
Troy
there
would
appear
The
very
eyes
of
men
through
loop-holes
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’
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
Nestor
stand
,
As
’twere
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
purled
up
to
the
sky
.
About
him
were
a
press
of
gaping
faces
,
Which
seemed
to
swallow
up
his
sound
advice
,
All
jointly
list’ning
,
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
boll’n
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
armèd
hand
;
himself
,
behind
,
Was
left
unseen
,
save
to
the
eye
of
mind
.
A
hand
,
a
foot
,
a
face
,
a
leg
,
a
head
,
Stood
for
the
whole
to
be
imaginèd
.
And
from
the
walls
of
strong-besiegèd
Troy
,
When
their
brave
hope
,
bold
Hector
,
marched
to
field
,
Stood
many
Trojan
mothers
,
sharing
joy
To
see
their
youthful
sons
bright
weapons
wield
,
And
to
their
hope
they
such
odd
action
yield
That
through
their
light
joy
seemèd
to
appear
,
Like
bright
things
stained
,
a
kind
of
heavy
fear
.
And
from
the
strand
of
Dardan
,
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
gallèd
shore
,
and
then
Retire
again
till
,
meeting
greater
ranks
,
They
join
and
shoot
their
foam
at
Simois’
banks
.
To
this
well-painted
piece
is
Lucrece
come
To
find
a
face
where
all
distress
is
stelled
.
Many
she
sees
where
cares
have
carvèd
some
,
But
none
where
all
distress
and
dolor
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
Time’s
ruin
,
beauty’s
wrack
,
and
grim
care’s
reign
.
Her
cheeks
with
chaps
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
Lucrece
spends
her
eyes
,
And
shapes
her
sorrow
to
the
beldam’s
woes
,
Who
nothing
wants
to
answer
her
but
cries
And
bitter
words
to
ban
her
cruel
foes
.
The
painter
was
no
god
to
lend
her
those
,
And
therefore
Lucrece
swears
he
did
her
wrong
To
give
her
so
much
grief
and
not
a
tongue
.
Poor
instrument
,
quoth
she
,
without
a
sound
,
I’ll
tune
thy
woes
with
my
lamenting
tongue
,
And
drop
sweet
balm
in
Priam’s
painted
wound
,
And
rail
on
Pyrrhus
,
that
hath
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
transgressèd
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
Troilus
swounds
,
Here
friend
by
friend
in
bloody
channel
lies
,
And
friend
to
friend
gives
unadvisèd
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
Lucrece
,
set
a-work
,
sad
tales
doth
tell
To
penciled
pensiveness
and
colored
sorrow
;
She
lends
them
words
,
and
she
their
looks
doth
borrow
.
She
throws
her
eyes
about
the
painting
round
,
And
who
she
finds
forlorn
she
doth
lament
.
At
last
she
sees
a
wretchèd
image
bound
,
That
piteous
looks
to
Phrygian
shepherds
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
labored
with
his
skill
To
hide
deceit
and
give
the
harmless
show
An
humble
gait
,
calm
looks
,
eyes
wailing
still
,
A
brow
unbent
that
seemed
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
confirmèd
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
saintlike
forms
.
The
well-skilled
workman
this
mild
image
drew
For
perjured
Sinon
,
whose
enchanting
story
The
credulous
old
Priam
after
slew
;
Whose
words
like
wildfire
burnt
the
shining
glory
Of
rich-built
Ilion
,
that
the
skies
were
sorry
,
And
little
stars
shot
from
their
fixèd
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
Sinon’s
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
,
quoth
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
forsook
,
And
turned
it
thus
:
It
cannot
be
,
I
find
,
But
such
a
face
should
bear
a
wicked
mind
.
For
even
as
subtle
Sinon
here
is
painted
So
sober
sad
,
so
weary
,
and
so
mild
,
As
if
with
grief
or
travail
he
had
fainted
,
To
me
came
Tarquin
armèd
too
,
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
list’ning
Priam
wets
his
eyes
To
see
those
borrowed
tears
that
Sinon
sheeds
!
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
devils
steal
effects
from
lightless
hell
,
For
Sinon
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
Sinon’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
Sinon
with
her
nails
,
Comparing
him
to
that
unhappy
guest
Whose
deed
hath
made
herself
herself
detest
.
At
last
she
smilingly
with
this
gives
o’er
:
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
dolor
others
have
endured
.
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-distainèd
eye
Blue
circles
streamed
like
rainbows
in
the
sky
.
These
water-galls
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
in
tears
,
looked
red
and
raw
,
Her
lively
color
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
,
wond’ring
each
other’s
chance
.
At
last
he
takes
her
by
the
bloodless
hand
And
thus
begins
:
What
uncouth
ill
event
Hath
thee
befall’n
that
thou
dost
trembling
stand
?
Sweet
love
,
what
spite
hath
thy
fair
color
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
sighs
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
honor
is
ta’en
prisoner
by
the
foe
,
While
Collatine
and
his
consorted
lords
With
sad
attention
long
to
hear
her
words
.
And
now
this
pale
swan
in
her
wat’ry
nest
Begins
the
sad
dirge
of
her
certain
ending
:
Few
words
,
quoth
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
tirèd
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
wont
to
rest
thy
weary
head
;
And
what
wrong
else
may
be
imaginèd
By
foul
enforcement
might
be
done
to
me
,
From
that
,
alas
,
thy
Lucrece
is
not
free
.
For
in
the
dreadful
dead
of
dark
midnight
,
With
shining
falchion
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-favored
groom
of
thine
,
quoth
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
lechers
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
set
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
Th’
adulterate
death
of
Lucrece
and
her
groom
.
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
purloined
his
eyes
,
And
when
the
judge
is
robbed
,
the
prisoner
dies
.
O
,
teach
me
how
to
make
mine
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
accessory
yieldings
,
but
still
pure
Doth
in
her
poisoned
closet
yet
endure
.
Lo
,
here
the
hopeless
merchant
of
this
loss
,
With
head
declined
and
voice
dammed
up
with
woe
,
With
sad
set
eyes
and
wreathèd
arms
across
,
From
lips
new-waxen
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
past
—
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
awaketh
:
Dear
lord
,
thy
sorrow
to
my
sorrow
lendeth
Another
power
;
no
flood
by
raining
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
Lucrece
,
now
attend
me
:
Be
suddenly
revengèd
on
my
foe
,
Thine
,
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
,
quoth
she
,
Speaking
to
those
that
came
with
Collatine
,
Shall
plight
your
honorable
faiths
to
me
With
swift
pursuit
to
venge
this
wrong
of
mine
,
For
’tis
a
meritorious
fair
design
To
chase
injustice
with
revengeful
arms
.
Knights
,
by
their
oaths
,
should
right
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
bewrayed
.
But
she
,
that
yet
her
sad
task
hath
not
said
,
The
protestation
stops
:
O
,
speak
,
quoth
she
,
How
may
this
forcèd
stain
be
wiped
from
me
?
What
is
the
quality
of
my
offense
,
Being
constrained
with
dreadful
circumstance
?
May
my
pure
mind
with
the
foul
act
dispense
,
My
low-declinèd
honor
to
advance
?
May
any
terms
acquit
me
from
this
chance
?
The
poisoned
fountain
clears
itself
again
,
And
why
not
I
from
this
compellèd
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
,
quoth
she
,
no
dame
hereafter
living
By
my
excuse
shall
claim
excuse’s
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
sheathèd
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
wingèd
sprite
,
and
through
her
wounds
doth
fly
Life’s
lasting
date
from
canceled
destiny
.
Stone-still
,
astonished
with
this
deadly
deed
,
Stood
Collatine
and
all
his
lordly
crew
,
Till
Lucrece’
father
,
that
beholds
her
bleed
,
Himself
on
her
self-slaughtered
body
threw
,
And
from
the
purple
fountain
Brutus
drew
The
murd’rous
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
congealèd
face
Of
that
black
blood
a
wat’ry
rigol
goes
,
Which
seems
to
weep
upon
the
tainted
place
;
And
ever
since
,
as
pitying
Lucrece’
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
Lucretius
cries
,
That
life
was
mine
which
thou
hast
here
deprived
.
If
in
the
child
the
father’s
image
lies
,
Where
shall
I
live
now
Lucrece
is
unlived
?
Thou
wast
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
falt’ring
feeble
souls
alive
?
The
old
bees
die
,
the
young
possess
their
hive
.
Then
,
live
,
sweet
Lucrece
,
live
again
and
see
Thy
father
die
,
and
not
thy
father
thee
.
By
this
starts
Collatine
as
from
a
dream
And
bids
Lucretius
give
his
sorrow
place
,
And
then
in
key-cold
Lucrece’
bleeding
stream
He
falls
and
bathes
the
pale
fear
in
his
face
,
And
counterfeits
to
die
with
her
a
space
,
Till
manly
shame
bids
him
possess
his
breath
And
live
to
be
revengèd
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
sometimes
Tarquin
was
pronouncèd
plain
,
But
through
his
teeth
,
as
if
the
name
he
tore
.
This
windy
tempest
,
till
it
blow
up
rain
,
Held
back
his
sorrow’s
tide
,
to
make
it
more
.
At
last
it
rains
,
and
busy
winds
give
o’er
.
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
Collatine
.
O
,
quoth
Lucretius
,
I
did
give
that
life
Which
she
too
early
and
too
late
hath
spilled
.
Woe
,
woe
,
quoth
Collatine
,
she
was
my
wife
.
I
owed
her
,
and
’tis
mine
that
she
hath
killed
.
My
daughter
and
my
wife
with
clamors
filled
The
dispersed
air
,
who
,
holding
Lucrece’
life
,
Answered
their
cries
,
my
daughter
and
my
wife
.
Brutus
,
who
plucked
the
knife
from
Lucrece’
side
,
Seeing
such
emulation
in
their
woe
,
Began
to
clothe
his
wit
in
state
and
pride
,
Burying
in
Lucrece’
wound
his
folly’s
show
.
He
with
the
Romans
was
esteemèd
so
As
silly
jeering
idiots
are
with
kings
,
For
sportive
words
and
utt’ring
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
Collatinus’
eyes
:
Thou
wrongèd
lord
of
Rome
,
quoth
he
,
arise
!
Let
my
unsounded
self
,
supposed
a
fool
,
Now
set
thy
long-experienced
wit
to
school
.
Why
,
Collatine
,
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
humor
from
weak
minds
proceeds
.
Thy
wretchèd
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
chased
.
Now
,
by
the
Capitol
,
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
rights
in
Rome
maintained
,
And
by
chaste
Lucrece’
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
,
wond’ring
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
advisèd
doom
,
They
did
conclude
to
bear
dead
Lucrece
thence
To
show
her
bleeding
body
thorough
Rome
,
And
so
to
publish
Tarquin’s
foul
offense
;
Which
being
done
with
speedy
diligence
,
The
Romans
plausibly
did
give
consent
To
Tarquin’s
everlasting
banishment
.