And now this pale swan in her watery nest 1611 Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending; "Few words," quoth she, "shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending: In me moe woes than words are now depending; And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
"Then be this all the task it hath to say: Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; And what wrong else may be imagined
By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. "For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came A creeping creature, with a flaming light, And softly cried 'Awake, thou Roman dame, And entertain my love; else lasting shame
On thee and thine this night I will inflict, 1630 If thou my love's desire do contradict. "For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he,
'Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee And swear I found you where you did fulfil The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill
The lechers in their deed: this act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy.' "With this, I did begin to start and cry; And then against my heart he sets his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
I should not live to speak another word; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Rome Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.
"Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, And far the weaker with so strong a fear: My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; No rightful plea might plead for justice there: His scarlet lust came evidence to swear
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes; And when the judge is robb'd the prisoner dies. "O, teach me how to make mine own excuse! Or at the least this refuge let me find; Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind; That was not forced; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure."
Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, 1660 With head declined, and voice damm'd up with
But more than "he" her poor tongue could not speak;
Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, 1720 She utters this, "He, he, fair lords, '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 soul unsheathed: That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed: Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.
FROM A LOVER'S COMPLAINT "Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded; Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded: Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.
"But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent The destined ill she must herself assay? Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content, To put the by-past perils in her way? Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen.
"Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others' proof: To be forbod the sweets that seem so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgement stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry 'It is thy last.'
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