This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper;"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 coloured with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty;That nothing in him seemed inordinate, Save sometime 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 bruised 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 questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.
Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;And every one 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 bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth and case, 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 honour in fell battle's rage;Honour 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 honour to obtain his lust;And for himself himself 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, leaped 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 brain-sick 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 lode-star 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 armour 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 dishonour to my household's grave!
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave!
True valour 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 eye-sore 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 sceptre 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.
