The death of all and all together lost.
So that in vent’ring ill148, we leave to be
The things we are for that which we expect149:
And this ambitious foul infirmity150,
In having much, torments us with defect151
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
The thing we have and, all for want of wit153,
Make something nothing by augmenting154 it.
Such hazard155 now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his lust,
And for himself himself he must forsake157.
Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds160, 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 comfortable164 star did lend his light,
No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries165.
Now serves the season166 that they may surprise
The silly167 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 mantle170 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 retire174,
Beaten away by brainsick rude175 desire.
His falchion176 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 lodestar179 to his lustful eye,
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly180,
‘As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate183
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 armour of still-slaughtered lust188
And justly189 thus controls his thoughts unjust:
‘Fair torch, burn out thy light and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine,
And die, unhallowed192 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 weed196.
‘O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O foul dishonour to my household’s grave198!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft200 fancy’s slave!
True valour still201 a true respect should have,
Then my digression202 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 coat205:
Some loathsome dash206 the herald will contrive
To cipher me207 how fondly I did dote,
That my posterity, shamed with the note208,
Shall curse my bones and hold it for209 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 froth212 of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy214?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight217 be strucken down?
‘If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake and in a desp’rate rage
Post220 hither, this vile purpose to prevent?
This siege that hath engirt221 his marriage,
This blur222 to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during224 blame?
‘O, what excuse can my invention225 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 light228, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed229,
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly230,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.
‘Had Collatinus killed my son or sire232,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life,
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon235 his wife,
As in revenge or quittal236 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 fact239 be known,
Hateful it is: there is no hate in loving.
I’ll beg her love, but she is not her own241:
The worst is but denial and reproving.
My will243 is strong, past reason’s weak removing:
Who244 fears a sentence or an old man’s saw
Shall by a painted cloth245 be kept in awe.’
Thus, graceless246, holds he disputation
’Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will,
And with good thoughts make dispensation248,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still249,
Which in a moment doth confound250 and kill
All pure effects251, and doth so far proceed
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.
Quoth253 he, ‘She took me kindly by the hand
And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard255 news from the warlike band,
Where her belovèd Collatinus lies.
O, how her fear did make her colour rise!
First red as roses that on lawn258 we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took259 away.
‘And how her hand, in my hand being locked,
Forced it261 to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which262 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 Narcissus265 seen her as she stood,
Self-love had never drowned him in the flood.
‘Why hunt I then for colour267 or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth,
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses269,
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:
Affection271 is my captain and he leadeth,
And when his gaudy272 banner is displayed,
The coward273 fights and will not be dismayed.
‘Then, childish fear, avaunt274! Debating, die!
Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!
My heart shall never countermand276 mine eye;
Sad277 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 sinking280 where such treasure lies?’
As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful281 fear
Is almost choked by unresisted282 lust:
Away he steals with open list’ning ear,
Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust284,
Both which, as servitors285 to the unjust,
So cross286 him with their opposite persuasion
That now he vows a league287 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 wits290,
That eye which him beholds, as more divine291,
Unto a view292 so false will not incline,
But with a pure appeal seeks293 to the heart,
Which once corrupted takes the worser part,
And therein heartens up295 his servile powers,
Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund296 show,
Stuff up297 his lust, as minutes fill up hours,
And as their captain, so their pride298 doth grow,
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
By reprobate300 desire thus madly led,
The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.
The locks between her chamber302 and his will,
Each one by him enforced, retires his ward303,
But as they open they all rate his ill304,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard305:
The threshold grates the door to have him heard306,
Night-wand’ring weasels307 shriek to see him there,
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.
As each unwilling portal309 yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place,
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay311
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct313 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 needle317 sticks.
He takes it from the rushes318 where it lies,
And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,
As who should320 say, ‘This glove to wanton tricks
Is not inured321. Return again in haste,
Thou see’st our mistress’ ornaments322 are chaste.’
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him.
He in the worst sense consters324 their denial:
The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial326,
Or as those bars327 which stop the hourly dial,
Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let328
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.
‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend330 the time,
Like little frosts that sometime threat331 the spring
To add a more332 rejoicing to the prime
And give the sneapèd333 birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income334 of each precious thing:
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves335 and sands,
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’
Now is he come unto the chamber door
That shuts him from the heaven338 of his thought,
Which with a yielding latch and with no more
Hath barred him from the blessèd thing340 he sought.
So from341 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 foul346 thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they347 would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts348. Quoth he, ‘I must deflow’r.
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact:
How can they then assist me in the act350?
‘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 cleared354 with absolution,
Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution355.
The eye of heaven356 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 wide359.
The dove sleeps fast360 that this night owl will catch.
Thus treason works361 ere traitors be espied.
Who362 sees the lurking serpent steps aside,
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal364 sting.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks365
And gazeth on her yet unstainèd bed:
The curtains367 being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head.
By their high treason369 is his heart misled,
Which gives the watchword370 to his hand full soon
To draw the cloud371 that hides the silver moon.
Look as372 the fair and fiery-pointed sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves373 our sight,
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink375, being blinded with a greater light.
Whether it is that she reflects so bright376
That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,
But blind they are and keep themselves enclosed378.
O, had they in that darksome prison379 died
Then had they seen the period380 of their ill:
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece’ side,
In his clear382 bed might have reposèd still.
But they must ope383 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’ning387 the pillow of a lawful kiss,
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder388,
Swelling389 on either side to want his bliss,
Between whose hills her head entombèd is,
Where like a virtuous monument391 she lies,
To be admired of392 lewd unhallowed eyes.
Without393 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 light397
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 map402 of death
And death’s dim look in life’s mortality403.
Each404 in her sleep themselves so beautify,
As if between them twain405 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 maiden408 worlds unconquerèd,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke409 they knew,
And him by oath they truly honourèd.
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 will417 his wilful eye he tired.
With more than admiration he admired
Her azure419 veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.
As the grim421 lion fawneth o’er his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,
So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay423,
His rage of lust by gazing qualified424,
Slaked425, not suppressed, for standing by her
side,
His eye, which late426 this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar427 tempts his veins.
And they, like straggling slaves428 for pillage fighting,
Obdurate429 vassals fell exploits effecting,
In bloody death and ravishment430 delighting,
Nor431 children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,
Swell in their pride432, the onset still expecting.
Anon433 his beating heart, alarum striking,
Gives the hot charge434 and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart cheers up435 his burning eye,
His eye commends436 the leading to his hand,
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand438
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale440,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.
They, must’ring442 to the quiet cabinet
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her she is dreadfully beset444
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 ghastly451 sprite,
Whose grim aspect452 sets every joint a-shaking —
What terror ’tis! But she, in worser taking453,
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 8
