My shame be his that did my fame confound1202,
And all my fame that lives disbursed1203 be
To those that live and think no shame of me.
'Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee1205 this will --
How was I overseen1206 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 pearl1213 from her bright eyes,
With untuned1214 tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies1215,
For fleet-winged duty with thought's feathers1216 flies.
Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so
As winter meads1218 when sun doth melt their snow.
Her mistress she doth give demure good morrow
With soft, slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts1221 a sad look to her lady's sorrow,
For why1222 her face wore sorrow's livery,
But durst not ask of her audaciously1223
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed 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 gan1228 wet
Her circled eyne1229, 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 cisterns1234 filling:
One justly1235 weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause, but company1236, of her drops spilling.
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts1238,
And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they formed as marble will1241:
The weak oppressed, th'impression of strange kinds1242
Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill1243.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil
Wherein is stamped the semblance1246 of a devil.
Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign1247 plain,
Lays open1248 all the little worms that creep.
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping1250 evils that obscurely sleep.
Through crystal walls each little mote1251 will peep,
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
No man inveigh against1254 the withered flow'r,
But chide1255 rough winter that the flow'r hath killed:
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild1257
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfilled
With men's abuses: those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their1260 shame.
The precedent1261 whereof in Lucrece' view,
Assailed1262 by night with circumstances strong
Of present death and shame that might ensue
By that1264 her death, to do her husband wrong.
Such danger to resistance did belong
That dying fear1266 through all her body spread,
And who cannot abuse a body dead?
By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit1269 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 sustaining1272,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails1273 my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.
'But tell me, girl, when went' -- and there she stayed1275
Till after a deep groan -- 'Tarquin from hence?'
'Madam, ere I was up', replied the maid,
'The more to blame my sluggard1278 negligence.
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense1279:
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 heaviness1283.'
'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 labour, for I have them here.
What should I say? One of my husband's men
Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear.
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it.
The cause craves haste and it will soon be writ.'
Her maid is gone and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill.
Conceit1298 and grief an eager combat fight:
What wit1299 sets down is blotted straight with will.
This is too curious good1300, this blunt and ill:
Much like a press of people at a door
Throng her inventions1302 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'afford1305 --
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see --
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So I commend me1308, from our house in grief:
My woes are tedious1309 though my words are brief.'
Here folds she up the tenor1310 of her woe,
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule1312 Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief's true quality:
She dares not thereof make discovery1314,
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse1316.
Besides, the life and feeling of her passion1317
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 action1323 might become them better.
To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion1326 that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear1327.
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Deep sounds1329 make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words1330.
Her letter now is sealed and on it writ
'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste'.
The post1333 attends and she delivers it,
Charging1334 the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging1335 fowls before the northern blast.
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems1336:
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain1338 curtsies to her low,
And, bl
ushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea1340 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, silly1345 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 age1350
Pawned1351 honest looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled1352 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, wistly1355 on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed1356.
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks1359 till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain1361,
For now 'tis stale1362 to sigh, to weep and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints1364 a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy1367,
Before the which is drawn1368 the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape1369 the city to destroy,
Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion1370 with annoy,
Which the conceited1371 painter drew so proud
As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn1374 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 reeked1377, 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 labouring pioneer1380
Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust,
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loopholes1383 thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust1384:
Such sweet observance1385 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, quick1389 bearing and dexterity.
And here and there the painter interlaces1390
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 Ulysses1394, O, what art
Of physiognomy1395 might one behold!
The face of either ciphered1396 either's heart.
Their face their manners most expressly told:
In Ajax' eyes blunt1398 rage and rigour rolled,
But the mild glance that sly1399 Ulysses lent
Showed deep regard1400 and smiling government.
There pleading1401 might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober action1403 with his hand,
That it beguiled1404 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 purled1407 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 graces1410,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice,
Some high, some low -- the painter was so nice1412.
The scalps of many, almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind1414.
Here one man's hand leaned on another's head,
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour's ear.
Here one, being thronged1417, bears back, all boll'n and red.
Another smothered seems to pelt1418 and swear,
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
As, but for loss of1420 Nestor's golden words,
It seemed they would debate with angry swords.
For much imaginary work was there:
Conceit deceitful1423, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear1424,
Gripped in an armed 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 imagined.
And from the walls of strong besieged Troy,
When their brave hope, bold Hector1430, marched to field,
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield,
And to their hope they such1433 odd action yield
That through their light joy seemed to appear,
Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.
And from the strand of Dardan1436, where they fought,
To Simois1437' reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges1439 and their ranks began
To break upon the galled1440 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 stelled1444.
Many she sees where cares have carved some1445,
But none where all distress and dolour1446 dwelled
Till she despairing Hecuba1447 beheld,
Staring on Priam's wounds, with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.
In her the painter had anatomized1450
Time's ruin, beauty's wrack and grim care's reign.
Her cheeks with chaps1452 and wrinkles were disguised:
Of what she was1453 no semblance did remain.
Her blue1454 blood changed to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring1455 that those shrunk pipes had fed,
Showed life imprisoned in a body dead.
On this sad shadow1457 Lucrece spends her eyes
And shapes her sorrow to the beldame1458's woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her1459 but cries
And bitter words to ban1460 her cruel foes.
The painter was no god to lend her those1461,
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 strumpet1471 that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of lust, fond1473 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 dame1477, and daug
hter die.
'Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many moe1479?
Let sin, alone committed, light1480 alone
Upon his head that hath transgressed so.
Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe.
For one's offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general1484?
'Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus1486 swoons,
Here friend by friend in bloody channel1487 lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised1488 wounds,
And one man's lust these many lives confounds.
Had doting1490 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 goes1494;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell1495.
So Lucrece, set a-work1496, sad tales doth tell
To pencilled pensiveness and coloured sorrow1497:
She lends them words and she their looks doth borrow.
She throws her eyes about the painting round,
And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament.
At last she sees a wretched image bound1501,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent1502.
His face, though full of cares, yet showed content.
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains1504 he goes,
So mild, that patience seemed to scorn his woes.
In him the painter laboured with his skill
To hide deceit and give the harmless show1507
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still1508,
A brow unbent1509 that seemed to welcome woe,
Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so
That blushing red no guilty instance1511 gave,
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.
But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertained a show1514 so seeming just,
And therein so ensconced1515 his secret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust