THE RAPE OF LUCRECE FROM the besieged Ardea all in post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathed 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 Collatines fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of chaste unhappily set This bateless edge on his keen appetite; When Collatine unwisely did not let To praise the clear unmatched red and white Which triumphd in that sky of his delight, Where mortal stars, as bright as heavens beauties, With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. For he the night before, in Tarquins tent, Unlockd the treasure of his happy state; What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate; Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate, That kings might be espoused to more fame, But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. O happiness enjoyd but of a few! And, if possessd, as soon decayd and done As is the mornings silver-melting dew Against the golden splendor of the sun! An expired date, cancelld ere well begun: Honour and beauty, in the owners arms, Are weakly fortressd from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator; What needeth then apologies 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 sovereignty 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-pitchd 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 honour, 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, wrappd in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts, and neer 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 braggd, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that oer with silver white. But beauty, in that white intituled, From Venus doves doth challenge that fair field: Then virtue claims from beauty beautys red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and calld it then their shield; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assaild, the red should fence the white. This heraldry in Lucrece face was seen, Argued by beautys red and virtues white Of eithers colour was the other queen, Proving from worlds minority their right: Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; The sovereignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each others seat. Their silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin viewd in her fair faces field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Where, lest between them both it should be killd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him go, Rather than triumph in so false a foe. Now thinks he that her husbands 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, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper; For unstaind 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 expressd: For that he colourd with his high estate, Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty; That nothing in him seemd inordinate, Save something too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy; But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, That, cloyd 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 touchd no unknown baits, nor feard no hooks; Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were opend to the light. He stories to her ears her husbands fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; And decks with praises Collatines 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 hither, He makes excuses for his being there: No cloudy show of stormy blustering 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 spright; For, after supper, long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night: Now leaden slumber with lifes strength doth fight; And every one to rest themselves betake, Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake. As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his wills 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, theres no death supposed. Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For 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 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 honour in fell battles rage; Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. So that in venturing 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 be 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 slanderous 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 wake to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord leapd from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely oer his arm; Is madly tossd between desire and dread; Th one sweetly flatters, th other feareth harm; But honest fear, bewitchd with lusts 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-slaughterd 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, unhallowd 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 loves modest snow-white weed. O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! O foul dishonour to my households grave! O impious act, including all foul harms! A martial man to be soft fancys 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 bin. What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minutes 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?
Posted on: Fri, 23 Jan 2015 07:31:32 +0000
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