In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past:
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw1672,
To push grief on and back the same grief draw.
Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth1674,
And his untimely frenzy1675 thus awaketh:
‘Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Another power1677, no flood by raining slaketh.
My woe too sensible1678 thy passion maketh
More feeling-painful. Let it then suffice
To drown on1680 woe, one pair of weeping eyes.
‘And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend1682 me:
Be suddenly1683 revengèd on my foe,
Thine, mine, his own1684. Suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me
Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die,
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.
‘But ere I name him, you fair lords,’ quoth she,
Speaking to those that came with Collatine,
‘Shall plight your honourable faiths1690 to me,
With swift pursuit to venge1691 this wrong of mine,
For ’tis a meritorious fair design
To chase injustice with revengeful arms:
Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies’ harms.’
At this request, with noble disposition
Each present lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her imposition1697,
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed1698.
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said1699,
The protestation1700 stops. ‘O, speak,’ quoth she,
‘How may this forcèd stain be wiped from me?
‘What is the quality1702 of my offence,
Being constrained with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense1704,
My low-declinèd honour to advance1705?
May any terms1706 acquit me from this chance?
The poisoned fountain clears itself again,
And why not I from this compellèd stain?’
With this, they all at once began to say,
Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.
‘No, no,’ quoth she, ‘no dame, hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving1714.’
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin’s name. ‘He, he,’ she says,
But more than ‘he’ her poor tongue could not speak,
Till after many accents and delays,
Untimely1720 breathings, sick and short assays,
She utters this, ‘He, he, fair lords, ’tis he,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.’
Even here she sheathèd in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed.
That blow did bail1725 it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison1726 where it breathed.
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her wingèd sprite1728, and through her wounds doth fly
Life’s lasting date from cancelled destiny1729.
Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew1731,
Till Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughtered body threw,
And from the purple fountain Brutus1734 drew
The murd’rous knife and, as it left the place,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase1736,
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who, like a late-sacked1740 island, vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remained,
And some looked black and that false Tarquin stained.
About the mourning and congealèd face
Of that black blood a wat’ry rigol1745 goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place,
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows,
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrefied.
‘Daughter, dear daughter,’ old Lucretius1751 cries,
‘That life was mine which thou hast here deprived.
If in the child the father’s image lies,
Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?
Thou wast not to this end from me derived.
If children predecease progenitors1756,
We are their offspring and they none of ours.
‘Poor broken glass1758, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new born,
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn.
O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
And shivered1763 all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was.
‘O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,
If they surcease1766 to be that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger
And leave the falt’ring feeble souls alive?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive.
Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see
Thy father die and not thy father thee.’
By this, starts Collatine as from a dream
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place1773,
And then in key-cold1774 Lucrece’ bleeding stream
He falls and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits1776 to die with her a space,
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath
And live to be revengèd on her death.
The deep vexation1779 of his inward soul
Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue,
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
Begins to talk, but through his lips do throng
Weak words, so thick come1784 in his poor heart’s aid,
That no man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime ‘Tarquin’ was pronouncèd plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrow’s tide, to make it more.
At last it rains and busy winds give o’er1790.
Then son and father weep with equal strife1791
Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.
The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
The father says, ‘She’s mine’. ‘O, mine she is’,
Replies her husband. ‘Do not take away
My sorrow’s interest1797, let no mourner say
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wailed by Collatine.’
‘O,’ quoth Lucretius, ‘I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spilled.’
‘Woe, woe,’ quoth Collatine, ‘she was my wife,
I owed1803 her and ’tis mine that she hath killed.’
‘My daughter’ and ‘my wife’ with clamours filled
The dispersed1805 air, who, holding Lucrece’ life,
Answered their cries, ‘my daughter’ and ‘my wife’.
Brutus1807, who plucked the knife from Lucrece’
side,
Seeing such emulation1808 in their woe,
Began to clothe his wit1809 in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show1810.
He with the Romans was esteemèd so
As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,
For sportive words and utt’ring foolish things,
But now he throws that shallow habit1814 by,
Wherein deep policy1815 did him disguise,
And armed his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes.
‘Thou wrongèd lord of Rome,’ quoth he, ‘arise!
Let my unsounded1819 self, supposed a fool,
Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.
‘Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?
Is it revenge to give thyself a blow
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour1825 from weak minds proceeds.
Thy wretched1826 wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself that should have slain her foe.
‘Courageous Roman, do not steep1828 thy heart
In such relenting1829 dew of lamentations,
But kneel with me and help to bear thy part
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations1831,
That they will suffer1832 these abominations —
Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced —
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.
‘Now, by the Capitol1835 that we adore,
And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,
By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat1837 earth’s store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintained,
And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complained
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife
We will revenge the death of this true wife.’
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kissed the fatal knife, to end his vow,
And to his protestation1844 urged the rest,
Who, wond’ring1845 at him, did his words allow.
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
And that deep vow, which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advisèd doom1849,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To show her bleeding body thorough1851 Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence;
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly1854 did give consent
To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment.
THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM
[1]
When my love swears that she is made of truth1,
I do believe her, though I know she lies2,
That she might think3 me some untutored youth,
Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries4.
Thus vainly5 thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I, smiling, credit7 her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing8 faults in love with love’s ill rest.
But wherefore9 says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love’s best habit11’s in a soothing tongue,
And age in love loves not to have years told12.
Therefore I’ll lie13 with love and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smothered14 be.
[2]
Two loves1 I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest2 me still:
My better angel is a man right fair3,
My worser spirit a woman coloured ill4.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride8.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each, friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell12.
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out14.
[3]
Did not the heavenly rhetoric1 of thine eye,
Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury3?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore5, but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love.
Thy grace8 being gained cures all disgrace in me.
My vow was breath and breath a vapour is,
Then thou, fair sun that on this earth doth shine,
Exhal’st11 this vapour vow. In thee it is:
If broken, then it is no fault of mine.
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?
[4]
Sweet Cytherea1, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis2, lovely, fresh and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely3 look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.
She told him stories to delight his ears,
She showed him favours6 to allure his eye,
To win his heart she touched him here and there:
Touches so soft still8 conquer chastity.
But whether unripe9 years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer10,
The tender11 nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair queen13, and toward:
He rose and ran away, ah fool too froward14.
[5]
If love make me forsworn1, how shall I swear to love?
O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed.
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove:
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers4 bowed.
Study5 his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art6 can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark7, to know thee shall suffice:
Well learnèd is that tongue that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise10, that I thy parts admire.
Thine eye Jove11’s lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful
thunder,
Which, not to anger bent12, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.
[6]
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea3, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance4 for Adonis made
Under an osier5 growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon6 used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day, she hotter7 that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon9 he comes and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim:
The sun looked on the world with glorious11 eye,
Yet not so wistly12 as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in13 whereas he stood:
‘O Jove14,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood?’
[7]
Fair is my love but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a dove2 but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glass and yet as glass i
s brittle,
Softer than wax and yet as iron rusty:
A lily pale with damask5 dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser6 to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joinèd,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing.
How many tales to please me hath she coinèd9,
Dreading10 my love, the loss whereof still fearing.
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings11,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears and all were jestings.
She burnt with love as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out love as soon as straw out-burneth:
She framed15 the love and yet she foiled the framing,
She bade love last and yet she fell16 a-turning.
Was this a lover or a lecher, whether17?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither18.
[8]
If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs2, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great ’twixt thee3 and me,
Because thou lov’st the one and I the other.
Dowland5 to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense:
Spenser7 to me, whose deep conceit is such
As passing all conceit needs no defence.
Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus10’ lute, the queen of music, makes:
And I in deep delight am chiefly drowned
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both13, as poets feign:
One knight14 loves both and both in thee remain.
[9]
Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love1,
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 13