At this request, with noble difpofition,
Each prefent lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her impofition,
Langing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd;
But the that yet her fad tafk hath not faid,
The protestation ftops. O fpeak, quoth she,.
How may this forced ftain be wip'd from me?
What is the quality of my offence,
Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance?
May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,
My low declined honour to advance ?
May any terms acquit me from this chance?
The poifon'd fountain clears itself again,
And why not I, from this compelled ftain?
With this they all at once began to say,
Her body's ftain the mind untainted clears,
While with a joyless fmile the turns away
The face, that map, which deep impreffion bears Of hard misfortune carved in with tears.
No, no, quoth fhe, no dame hereafter living,
By my excufe fhall claim excuses giving.
Here with a figh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin's name. He, he, fhe fays:
But more, than he, her poor tongue could not speak,
Till after many accents and delays,
Untimely breathings, fick and short afsays,
She utters this, He, he, fair lord, 'tis he
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.
Even-here the fheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her foul unsheathed, -
That blow did bail it from the deep unreft
Of that polluted prifon where it breathed;
Her contrite fighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her winged fprite, and thro' her wounds doth fly
Life's lafting date from cancel'd deftiny.
Stone-ftill, aftonish'd with this deadly deed,.
Stood Colatine and all his lordly crew,
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her felt-flaughter'd body threw :.
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew
The murd'ious knife, and as it left the places,
Her blood, in pure revenge, held it in chase..
And bubbling from her breaft it doth divide
In two flow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every fide;.
Who like a late fack'd island vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remain 'd,
And fome look'd black, and that falfe Tarquin
About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood, a watry rigol goes,
Which feems to weep upon the tainted place;
And ever fince, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood fome wat'ry token fhows:
And blood untainted ftill doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrify❜d.
Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries,
That life was mine, which thou haft here depriv'd ;,
If in the child the father's image lies,.
Where fhall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd?.
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd.
If children predecease progenitors,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours.
Poor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy fweet femblance, my old age new-born;
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and cold,
Shews me a bare-bon'd death by time out-worm:
O! from my cheeks my image thou haft torn!
And fhiver'd all the beauty from my glafs,
That I no more can fee what once I was.
O! time! ceafe thou thy courfe, and hafte no longer,.
If thou furceafe to be, that should furvive :
Shall rotten death make conqueft of the ftronger,
And leave the falt'ring feeble fouls alive?
The old bees die, the young poffefs their hive;
Then live fweet Lucrece, live again and fee:
Thy father die, and not thy father thee.
By this starts Colatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his forrow place;
And then in clay cold Lucrece' bleeding ftream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space:
Till manly fhame bids him poffefs his breath,.
And live to be revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward foul
Hath ferv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue;
Who made that forrów fhould his ufe controul,
Or keep him from heart-eafing words fo long,
He 'gins to talk; but thro' his lips do throng
Weak words, fo thick come in his poor heart's aid,
That no man could diftinguish what he faid.
Yet fometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
But thro' his teeth, as if his name he tore :
This windy tempeft, till it blow up rain,
Held back his forrow's tide to make it more..
At laft it rains, and bufy winds give o'er :
Then fan and father weep with equal ftrife,
Who should weep most for daughter, or for wife:
The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may poffefs the claim they lay.
The father fays, fhe's mine; O mine the is,
Replies her husband; do not take away
My forrow's intereft, let no mourner fay,
He weeps for her, for she was only mine,.
And only must be wail'd by Colatine.
O quoth Lucretius, I did give that life;
Which the too early and too late hath spill'd.
Wo! wo! quoth Colatine, fhe was my wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine, that she hath kill'd:
My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd
The difperft air, who holding Lucrece life,
Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.
Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' fide,
Seeing fuch emulation in their woe,-
Began to clothe his wit in ftate and pride,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his follies show
He with the Romans was efteemed fo,
As filly jeering ideots are with kings,
For fportive words, and uttering foolish things.
But now he throws that fhallow habit by,
Wherein true policy did him disguise,
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes.
Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arife-
Let my unfounded felf, fuppos'd a fool,
Now fet thy long-experienc'd wit to school.
Why, Colatine, 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 humour from weak minds proceeds: Thy wretched wife miftook the matter fo,
To flay herfelf, that should have flain her foe...
Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In fuch lamenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,`,
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will fuffer these abominations
(Since Rome herself in them doth stand difgrac'd)} By our ftrong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd....
Now by the capitol that we adore!
And by this chafte blood fo unjustly stain❜d! *
By heaven's fair fun, that breeds the fat earth's store!? By all our country rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chafte Lucrece' foul, that late complain’d * Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife! We will revenge the death of this true wife.
This faid, he ftroke his hand upon his breast,
And kifs'd the fatal knife to end his vow:
And to his protestation urg'd the reft,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow:
Then joinly to the ground their knees they bows,
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