But thou shalt know thy int’rest1067 was not bought
Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
And with my trespass never will dispense1070
Till life to death acquit my forced offence.
‘I will not poison thee with my attaint1072
Nor fold my fault in cleanly coined1073 excuses.
My sable ground1074 of sin I will not paint
To hide the truth of this false night’s1075 abuses.
My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like sluices,
As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale1077,
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.’
By this1079, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow, sad gait descended
To ugly hell, when, lo, the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow.
But cloudy1084 Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloistered be.
Revealing day through every cranny spies
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping,
To whom she sobbing speaks: ‘O eye of eyes,
Why pry’st thou1089 through my window? Leave thy peeping,
Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping,
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do1092 what’s done by night.’
Thus cavils she with everything she sees:
True grief is fond1094 and testy as a child,
Who wayward1095 once, his mood with naught agrees:
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild1096,
Continuance1097 tames the one, the other wild,
Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill.
So she, deep-drenchèd1100 in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views
And to herself all sorrow doth compare.
No object but her passion’s strength renews1103,
And as one shifts, another straight1104 ensues.
Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words,
Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords.
The little birds that tune their morning’s joy
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody,
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy1109.
Sad souls are slain in merry company,
Grief best is pleased with grief’s society:
True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed1112
When with like semblance it is sympathized1113.
’Tis double death to drown in ken1114 of shore,
He ten times pines1115 that pines beholding food,
To see the salve1116 doth make the wound ache more,
Great grief grieves most at that1117 would do it good,
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who, being stopped, the bounding1119 banks o’erflows:
Grief dallied1120 with nor law nor limit knows.
‘You mocking-birds,’ quoth she, ‘your tunes entomb
Within your hollow-swelling feathered breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb,
My restless1124 discord loves no stops nor rests:
A woeful hostess brooks1125 not merry guests.
Relish1126 your nimble notes to pleasing ears:
Distress likes dumps1127 when time is kept with tears.
‘Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevelled1129 hair.
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment1130,
So I at each sad strain will strain1131 a tear
And with deep groans the diapason1132 bear:
For burden-wise1133 I’ll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus1134 descants better skill.
‘And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part,
To keep thy sharp woes waking1135, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart
Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye,
Who, if it wink1139, shall thereon fall and die.
These means, as frets1140 upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heartstrings to true languishment.
‘And for1142, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day,
As shaming1143 any eye should thee behold,
Some dark deep desert1144, seated from the way,
That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold
Will we find out, and there we will unfold
To creatures stern1147, sad tunes to change their kinds:
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.’
As the poor frighted deer that stands at gaze1149,
Wildly determining which way to fly,
Or one encompassed1151 with a winding maze
That cannot tread the way out readily,
So with herself is she in mutiny:
To live or die which of the twain were better,
When life is shamed and death reproach’s debtor1155.
‘To kill myself,’ quoth she, ‘alack, what were it
But with my body my poor soul’s pollution1157?
They that lose half with greater patience bear it
Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion1159.
That mother tries1160 a merciless conclusion
Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,
Will slay the other and be nurse to none.
‘My body or my soul, which was the dearer,
When the one pure, the other made divine1164?
Whose love of either to myself was nearer1165
When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?
Ay me! The bark peeled from the lofty pine,
His leaves will wither and his sap decay,
So must my soul, her bark being peeled away.
‘Her house is sacked1170, her quiet interrupted,
Her mansion battered by the enemy,
Her sacred temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted,
Grossly engirt1173 with daring infamy.
Then let it not be called impiety,
If in this blemished fort1175 I make some hole
Through which I may convey this troubled soul.
‘Yet die I will not till my Collatine
Have heard the cause of my untimely death,
That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,
Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.
My stainèd blood to Tarquin I’ll bequeath,
Which by him tainted shall for him be spent1182,
And as his due writ in my testament1183.
‘My honour I’ll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonourèd.
’Tis honour to deprive1186 dishonoured life:
The one will live, the other being dead.
So of shame’s ashes shall my fame1188 be bred,
For in my death I murder shameful scorn:
My shame so dead, mine honour is newborn.
‘Dear lord of that dear jewel1191 I have lost,
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My resolution1193, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou revenged may’st be.
How Tarquin must be used1195, read it in me:
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
‘This brief abridgement of my will I make:
My soul and body to1199 the skies and ground,
My resolution, husband, do thou take,
Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound,
My shame be his that did my fame confound1202,
And all my fame that lives disbursèd1203 be
To those that live and think no shame of me.
‘Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee1205 this will —
How was I overseen1206 that thou shalt see it!
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill,
My life’s foul deed my life’s fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say “So be it.”
Yield to my hand, my hand shall conquer thee:
Thou dead, both die and both shall victors be.’
This plot of death when sadly she had laid
And wiped the brinish pearl1213 from her bright eyes,
With untuned1214 tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies1215,
For fleet-winged duty with thought’s feathers1216 flies.
Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so
As winter meads1218 when sun doth melt their snow.
Her mistress she doth give demure good morrow
With soft, slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts1221 a sad look to her lady’s sorrow,
For why1222 her face wore sorrow’s livery,
But durst not ask of her audaciously1223
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsèd so,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moistened like a melting eye,
Even so the maid with swelling drops gan1228 wet
Her circled eyne1229, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky,
Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.
A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns1234 filling:
One justly1235 weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause, but company1236, of her drops spilling.
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts1238,
And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they formed as marble will1241:
The weak oppressed, th’impression of strange kinds1242
Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill1243.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil
Wherein is stamped the semblance1246 of a devil.
Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign1247 plain,
Lays open1248 all the little worms that creep.
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping1250 evils that obscurely sleep.
Through crystal walls each little mote1251 will peep,
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books.
No man inveigh against1254 the withered flow’r,
But chide1255 rough winter that the flow’r hath killed:
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild1257
Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfilled
With men’s abuses: those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their1260 shame.
The precedent1261 whereof in Lucrece’ view,
Assailed1262 by night with circumstances strong
Of present death and shame that might ensue
By that1264 her death, to do her husband wrong.
Such danger to resistance did belong
That dying fear1266 through all her body spread,
And who cannot abuse a body dead?
By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit1269 of her complaining:
‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break
Those tears from thee that down thy cheeks are raining?
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining1272,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails1273 my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.
‘But tell me, girl, when went’ — and there she stayed1275
Till after a deep groan — ‘Tarquin from hence?’
‘Madam, ere I was up’, replied the maid,
‘The more to blame my sluggard1278 negligence.
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense1279:
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.
‘But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness1283.’
‘O, peace!’ quoth Lucrece. ‘If it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less:
For more it is than I can well express,
And that deep torture may be called 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.
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.’
Her maid is gone and she prepares to write,
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill.
Conceit1298 and grief an eager combat fight:
What wit1299 sets down is blotted straight with will.
This is too curious good1300, this blunt and ill:
Much like a press of people at a door
Throng her inventions1302 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’afford1305 —
If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see —
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So I commend me1308, from our house in grief:
My woes are tedious1309 though my words are brief.’
Here folds she up the tenor1310 of her woe,
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule1312 Collatine may know
Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality:
She dares not thereof make discovery1314,
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,
Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse1316.
Besides, the life and feeling of her passion1317
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
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
With words, till action1323 might become them better.
To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion1326 that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear1327.
’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:
Deep sounds1329 make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words1330.
Her letter now is sealed and on it writ
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste’.
The post1333 attends and she delivers it,
Charging1334 the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging1335 fowls before the northern blast.
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems1336:
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain1338 curtsies to her low,
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast
eye
Receives the scroll without or yea1340 or no
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 blushed to see her shame,
When, silly1345 groom, God wot, it was defect
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 age1350
Pawned1351 honest looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled1352 duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blazed.
She thought he blushed, as knowing Tarquin’s lust,
And, blushing with him, wistly1355 on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed1356.
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks1359 till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain1361,
For now ’tis stale1362 to sigh, to weep and groan:
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tirèd moan,
That she her plaints1364 a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy1367,
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 11