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Here pale with fear, he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprize ;
And in his invard mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise ;
Then 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
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,
That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed.
O shame to knighthood, and to shining arms !
O foul dishonour to my houshold's grave !
O impious act, including all foul harms !
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave !
True valour still a true respect should have,
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.
Yes, tho' I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat :
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive
To cypher me how fondly I did dote ;
That my posterity shamed with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin,
To wish that I their father had not been.
What win 1, 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 ?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
If Colatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ?
This siege, that hath ingirt 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,
When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed!
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake!
Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward-like with trembling terror die.
had Colatinus 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 ;
As in revenge or quital of such strife :
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.
Shameful it is, if once the fact be known ;
Hateful it is, there is no hate in loving.
I'll beg her love, but it 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.
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
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,
That what is vile shews like a virtuous deed.
Quoth he, she took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some bad news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Colatinus lies.
O how her, fear did make her colour rise !
irst, red as roses, that on lawn we lay, Then white as lawn the roses took away.
And now her hand in my hand being lock'd,
Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal fear,
Which struck 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,
Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.
Why hunt I then for colour or excuses ?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleads.
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses ;
Love thrives not in the heart, that shadows dreads.
Affection is my captain, and he leads ;
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 !
My heart shall never countermand mine eye,
Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage ;
My part is youth, and beats them from the stage.
Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize ;
Then who fears sinking, where such treasure lies As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choak'd by unresisted lust. Away he steals with open, listning ear, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust; Both which, as servitors to the unjust,
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-saine seat sits Colatine.
That eye which looks on her, confounds his wits;
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,
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,
The Roman lord doth march to Lucrece's bed.
The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforc'd, recites his ward ;
But as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard ;
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,
Thro' little vents and crannies of the place,
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,
And blows the snioke 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.
And being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein the needle sticks ;
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks ;
As who should say, this glove to wanton tricks
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 construes their denial ;
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial,
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
Which 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,
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 ;
Hugę rocks,high winds,strong pirates,shoals and sands;
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands..
Now he is 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,
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,
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair Fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour ;
E’en there he starts : quoth he, I must deflour !
The powers to whom I pray, abhor this fact,
How can they then assist me in the act ! Then love and fortune be my gods, my guide, My will is back'd with resolution : Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be try'd, Black sin is clear'd with absolution ; Against love's fire, fear's frost hath dissolution. The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight. This said, the 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 catchThus treason works ere traitors be espy'd, 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,
And gazeth on her yet unstained bed :
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head,
By their high treason in his heart misled :
Which gives the watch-word to his hand too soony,
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: