"Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted, Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted, Then, let it not be call'd impiety, If in this blemish'd fort 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 stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath, 66 Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, And as his due writ in my testament. "My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife That wounds my body so dishonoured. 'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life; The one will live, the other being dead: So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred; For in my death I murther shameful scorn: My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. "Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, "This brief abridgment of my will I make: My soul and body to 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 confound; And all my fame that lives disbursed be To those that live, and think no shame of me. "Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will; This plot of death when sadly she had laid, Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky, Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts, For men have marble, women waxen, minds, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, Through crystal walls each little mote will peep: No man inveigh against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd. With men's abuses: those proud lords, to blame, The precedent whereof in Lucrece' view, That dying fear through all her body spread; By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak To the poor counterfeit 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 sustaining, Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood: "But tell me, girl, when went" (and there she stay'd Till after a deep groan) "Tarquin from hence?" 66 Madam, ere I was up," replied the maid; "The more to blame my sluggard negligence: "But lady, if your maid may be so bold, She would request to know your heaviness." 66 O peace!" quoth Lucrece: "if it should be told, The repetition cannot make it less; For more it is than I can well express: 66 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. 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, Much like a press of people at a door At last she thus begins: "Thou worthy lord So I commend me from our house in grief: |