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 bewray'd :
But the that yet her fad task hath not faid,
The protestation stops. Ospeak, quoth she,.
How may this forced stain be wip'd from me?
What is the quality of my offence,
Being conftrain'd with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
My low declined honour to advance?
May any terms acquit me from this chance?
The poison'd fountain clears itself again,
And why not I, from this compelled stain?
With this they all at once began to say,
Her body's stain the mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map, which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune carved in with tears.
No, no, quoth she, no dame hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuses giving.
Here with a figh, 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, fick and short afsays,
She utters this, He, he, fair lord, 'tis he
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.
Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her foul unsheathed,
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison where it breathed;
Her contrite fighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her winged sprite, and thro' her wounds doth fly
Life's lasting date from cancel'd destiny.
Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,,
Stood Colatine and all his lordly crew,
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himfelf on her felf-flaughter'd body threw:.
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew
The murdous knife, and as it left the place,,
Her blood, in pure revenge, held it in chase..
And bubbling from her breast it doth divide
In two flow rivers, that the crimson blood.
Circles her body in on every fide;,
Who like a late fack'd island vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,
And fome look'd black, and that false Tarquin
[stained..
About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood, a watry rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place;
And ever fince, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood some wat'ry token shows:
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrify'd.
Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries,
That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd;
If in the child the father's image lies,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd?
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd.
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 cold,
Shews me a bare-bon'd death by time out worm:
O! from my cheeks my image thou hast torn!
And shiver'd all the beauty from my glass,
That I no more can fee what once I was...
O! time! cease thou thy course, and haste no longer,
If thou furcease to be, that should furvive :
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,
And leave the falt'ring feeble fouls alive ?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive;
Then live sweet Lucrece, live again and fees
Thy father die, and not thy father thee...
By this starts Colatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;
And then in clay cold Lucrece' bleeding streams
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 revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward fouk
Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
Who made that forrów should his use controul,
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
He 'gins to talk; but thro' his lips do throng
Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart'said,
That no man could diftinguish what he said. -
Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
Butthro' his teeth, as if his name he tore:
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his forrow's tide to make it more..
At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er :
Then son and father weep with equal ftrife,
Who should weep most for daughter, or for wife:
The one dosh 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 forrow's interest, let no mourner say,
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Colatine.
O! quoth Lueretius, I did give that life,
Which the too early and too late hath spill'ds
Wo! wo! quoth Colatine, she was my wife,
Lown'd her, and 'tis mine, that the hath kill'd.
My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd
The disperst air, who holding Lucrece life,
Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.
Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' fide,
Seeing fuch emulation in their woe,.
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his follies show;
He with the Romans was esteemed so,
As-filly jeering ideots are with kings,
For sportive words, and uttering foolish things.
But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein true policy did him disguises.
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes.
Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arife
Let my unfounded self, suppos'd a fool,
Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school.
Why, Colatine, is woe the cure for woe ?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds??
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul-act, by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? -
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds::
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
To flay herself, that should have flain her foe.
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such lamenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will fuffer these abominations
(Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd)
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd...
Now by the capitol that we adore!
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd! *
By heaven's fair fun, that breeds the fat earth's store!
By all our country rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chaste Lucrece' foul, that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife!
We will revenge the death of this true wife.
This faid, he stroke his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow::
And to his protestation urg'd the rest,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow :
Then joinly to the ground their knees they bow
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