The Rape of Lucrece | Page 5

gain doth traffic oft for gaining;?And when great treasure is the meed propos'd,?Though death be adjunct, there's no death suppos'd.
Those that much covet are with gain so fond,?For what they have not, that which they possess?They scatter and unloose it from their bond,?And so, by hoping more, they have but less;?Or, gaining more, the profit of excess?Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,?That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
The aim of all is but to nurse the life?With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;?And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,?That one for all, or all for one we gage;?As life for honour in fell battles' rage;?Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost?The death of all, and all together lost.
So that in vent'ring ill we leave to be?The things we are, for that which we expect;?And this ambitious foul infirmity,?In having much, torments us with defect?Of that we have: so then we do neglect?The thing we have; and, all for want of wit,?Make something nothing, by augmenting it.
Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,?Pawning his honour to obtain his lust;?And for himself himself he must forsake:?Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust??When shall he think to find a stranger just,?When he himself himself confounds, betrays?To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days?
Now stole upon the time the dead of night,?When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes:?No comfortable star did lend his light,?No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries;?Now serves the season that they may surprise?The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,?While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.
And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,?Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;?Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;?Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm;?But honest Fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm,?Doth too too oft betake him to retire,?Beaten away by brain-sick rude Desire.
His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,?That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly;?Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,?Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;?And to the flame thus speaks advisedly:?'As from this cold flint I enforced this fire,?So Lucrece must I force to my desire.'
Here pale with fear he doth premeditate?The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,?And in his inward 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 household'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.
'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,?And be an eye-sore in my golden coat;?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.
'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??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 desperate rage?Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent??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?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 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;?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;?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