The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 27
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining.
‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break
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Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.
‘But tell me, girl, when went’ – and there she stay’d,
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Till after a deep groan – ‘Tarquin from hence?’
‘Madam, ere I was up,’ replied the maid,
‘The more to blame my sluggard negligence.
Yet with the fault I can thus far dispense:
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
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And ere I rose was Tarquin gone away.
‘But lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.’
‘O peace,’ quoth Lucrece, ‘if it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less;
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For more it is than I can well express,
And that deep torture may be call’d a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.
‘Go get me hither paper, ink and pen;
Yet save that labour, for I have them here.
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– What should I say? – One of my husband’s men
Bid thou be ready by and by to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear:
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;
The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.’
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Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill;
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,
What wit sets down is blotted straight with will:
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill.
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Much like a press of people at a door,
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.
At last she thus begins: ‘Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person! next, vouchsafe t’afford –
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If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see –
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So I commend me, from our house in grief;
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.’
Here folds she up the tenure of her woe,
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Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality;
She dares not thereof make discovery,
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
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Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse.
Besides, the life and feeling of her passion
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her
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From that suspicion which the world might bear her:
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.
To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,
For then the eye interprets to the ear
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The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
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Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.’
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-fac’d groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast;
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Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain cur’sies to her low,
And blushing on her with a steadfast eye,
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
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And forth with bashful innocence doth hie;
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame,
For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame:
When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect
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Of spirit, life and bold audacity;
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
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Pawn’d honest looks, but us’d no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blazed;
She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust,
And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.
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Her earnest eye did make him more amazed;
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone;
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The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.
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At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy,
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,
Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
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Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets bow’d.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life:
Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear,
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Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife;
The red blood reek’d to show the painter’s strife,
And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring pioner
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Begrim’d with sweat and smeared all with dust;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:
Such sweet observance in this work was had,
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That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.
In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triumphing in their faces,
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces
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Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art
Of physiognomy might one behold!
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The face of either cipher’d either’s heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told.
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d,
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
S
how’d deep regard and smiling government.
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There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober action with his hand
That it beguil’d attention, charm’d the sight;
In speech it seem’d his beard all silver white
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Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath which purl’d up to the sky.
About him were a press of gaping faces,
Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice,
All jointly list’ning, but with several graces,
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As if some mermaid did their ears entice, –
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice:
The scalps of many almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind.
Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head,
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His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear;
Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n and red;
Another smother’d seems to pelt and swear:
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
As but for loss of Nestor’s golden words,
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It seem’d they would debate with angry swords.
For much imaginary work was there, –
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles’ image stood his spear
Gripp’d in an armed hand; himself behind
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Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head
Stood for the whole to be imagined.
And from the walls of strong besieged Troy,
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to field,
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Stood many Trojan mothers sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield
That through their light joy seemed to appear,
Like bright things stain’d, a kind of heavy fear.
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And from the strond of Dardan where they fought,
To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges, and their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and than
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Retire again, till meeting greater ranks
They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks.
To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is stell’d.
Many she sees where cares have carved some,
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But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies.
In her the painter had anatomiz’d
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Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign;
Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguis’d:
Of what she was no semblance did remain.
Her blue blood chang’d to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,
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Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead.
On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes;
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The painter was no god to lend her those,
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.
‘Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘without a sound,
I’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
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And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,
And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.
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‘Show me the strumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear!
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur
This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear;
Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,
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And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
The sire, the son, the dame and daughter die.
‘Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many moe?
Let sin alone committed, light alone
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Upon his head that hath transgressed so;
Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe:
For one’s offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general?