The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 22
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise;
And in his inward mind he doth debate
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What following sorrow may on this arise.
When looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still slaughter’d lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust:
‘Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
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To darken her whose light excelleth thine;
And die, unhallow’d 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
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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!
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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;
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Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me how fondly I did dote:
That my posterity sham’d with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
To wish that I their father had not been.
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‘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?
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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? –
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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.
‘O what excuse can my invention make
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When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,
Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
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But coward-like with trembling terror die.
‘Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life;
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife,
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As in revenge or quittal 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 fact be known.
Hateful it is, – there is no hate in loving.
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I’ll beg her love, – but she is not her own.
The worst is but denial and reproving.
My will is strong past reason’s weak removing:
Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’
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Thus graceless holds he disputation
’Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will,
And with good thoughts makes dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill
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All pure effects, and doth so far proceed
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.
Quoth he, ‘She took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz’d for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band
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Where her beloved Collatinus lies.
O how her fear did make her colour rise!
First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.
‘And how her hand in my hand being lock’d,
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Forc’d it to tremble with her loyal fear!
Which strook her sad, and then it faster rock’d,
Until her husband’s welfare she did hear;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer
That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
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Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood.
‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth.
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Affection is my captain, and he leadeth;
And when his gaudy banner is display’d,
The coward fights, and will not be dismay’d.
‘Then childish fear avaunt, debating die!
Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age!
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My heart shall never countermand mine eye:
Sad 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 sinking where such treasure lies?’
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As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost chok’d by unresisted lust.
Away he steals with open list’ning ear,
Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust;
Both which, as servitors to the unjust,
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So cross him with their opposite persuasion
That now he vows a league, and now invasion.
Within his thought her heavenly image sits,
And in the self-same seat sits Collatine.
That eye which looks on her confounds his wits;
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That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view so false will not incline,
But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
Which once corrupted takes the worser part:
And therein heartens up his servile powers,
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Who flatter’d by their leader’s jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
By reprobate desire thus madly led,
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The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.
The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforc’d, retires his ward;
But as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard.
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The threshold grates the door to have him heard;
Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there:
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.
As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place
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The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch.
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And being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia�
��s glove, wherein her needle sticks;
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,
As who should say, ‘This glove to wanton tricks
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Is not inur’d; return again in haste;
Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’
But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;
He in the worst sense consters their denial.
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
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He takes for accidental things of trial;
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let,
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.
‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,
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Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing:
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands
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The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’
Now is he come unto the chamber door
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,
Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he sought.
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So from 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
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That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts; quoth he, ‘I must deflower:
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact;
How can they then assist me in the act?
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‘Then love and fortune be my gods, my guide!
My will is back’d with resolution;
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;
The blackest sin is clear’d with absolution.
Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution:
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The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’
This said, his guilty hand pluck’d up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide.
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch;
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Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside;
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
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And gazeth on her yet unstained bed.
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head;
By their high treason is his heart misled,
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon,
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To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.
Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight:
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light.
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Whether it is that she reflects so bright,
That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed;
But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.
O had they in that darksome prison died,
Then had they seen the period of their ill!
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Then Collatine again by Lucrece’ side
In his clear bed might have reposed still.
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill;
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight.
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Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
Coz’ning the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Who therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,
Swelling on either side to want his bliss:
Between whose hills her head entombed is,
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Where like a virtuous monument she lies,
To be admir’d of lewd unhallowed eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet; whose perfect white
Show’d like an April daisy on the grass,
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With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.
Her eyes like marigolds had sheath’d their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair like golden threads play’d with her breath:
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O modest wantons, wanton modesty!