To the poor counterfeit of her complaining.

  ‘My girl,’ quoth she, ‘on what occasion break

  1270

  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:

  If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

  ‘But tell me, girl, when went’ – and there she stay’d,

  1275

  Till after a deep groan – ‘Tarquin from hence?’

  ‘Madam, ere I was up,’ replied the maid,

  ‘The more to blame my sluggard negligence.

  Yet with the fault I can thus far dispense:

  Myself was stirring ere the break of day,

  1280

  And ere I rose was Tarquin gone away.

  ‘But lady, if your maid may be so bold,

  She would request to know your heaviness.’

  ‘O peace,’ quoth Lucrece, ‘if it should be told,

  The repetition cannot make it less;

  1285

  For more it is than I can well express,

  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.

  1290

  – 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.’

  1295

  Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,

  First hovering o’er the paper with her quill;

  Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,

  What wit sets down is blotted straight with will:

  This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill.

  1300

  Much like a press of people at a door,

  Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

  At last she thus begins: ‘Thou worthy lord

  Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,

  Health to thy person! next, vouchsafe t’afford –

  1305

  If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see –

  Some present speed to come and visit me.

  So I commend me, from our house in grief;

  My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.’

  Here folds she up the tenure of her woe,

  1310

  Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

  By this short schedule Collatine may know

  Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality;

  She dares not thereof make discovery,

  Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

  1315

  Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse.

  Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

  She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,

  When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion

  Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

  1320

  From that suspicion which the world might bear her:

  To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter

  With words, till action might become them better.

  To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,

  For then the eye interprets to the ear

  1325

  The heavy motion that it doth behold,

  When every part a part of woe doth bear.

  ’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:

  Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,

  And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

  1330

  Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ

  ‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.’

  The post attends, and she delivers it,

  Charging the sour-fac’d groom to hie as fast

  As lagging fowls before the northern blast;

  1335

  Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:

  Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

  The homely villain cur’sies to her low,

  And blushing on her with a steadfast eye,

  Receives the scroll without or yea or no,

  1340

  And forth with bashful innocence doth hie;

  But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie,

  Imagine every eye beholds their blame,

  For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame:

  When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect

  1345

  Of spirit, life and bold audacity;

  Such harmless creatures have a true respect

  To talk in deeds, while others saucily

  Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.

  Even so this pattern of the worn-out age

  1350

  Pawn’d honest looks, but us’d no words to gage.

  His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

  That two red fires in both their faces blazed;

  She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust,

  And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.

  1355

  Her earnest eye did make him more amazed;

  The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,

  The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

  But long she thinks till he return again,

  And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone;

  1360

  The weary time she cannot entertain,

  For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep and groan:

  So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,

  That she her plaints a little while doth stay,

  Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

  1365

  At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece

  Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy,

  Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,

  For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,

  Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;

  1370

  Which the conceited painter drew so proud,

  As heaven, it seem’d, to kiss the turrets bow’d.

  A thousand lamentable objects there,

  In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life:

  Many a dry drop seem’d a weeping tear,

  1375

  Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife;

  The red blood reek’d to show the painter’s strife,

  And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights,

  Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

  There might you see the labouring pioner

  1380

  Begrim’d with sweat and smeared all with dust;

  And from the towers of Troy there would appear

  The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,

  Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:

  Such sweet observance in this work was had,

  1385

  That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

  In great commanders grace and majesty

  You might behold, triumphing in their faces,

  In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;

  And here and there the painter interlaces

  1390

  Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,

  Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,

  That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

  In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art

  Of physiognomy might one behold!

  1395

  The face of either cipher’d either’s heart;

  Their face their manners most expressly told.

  In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d,

  But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent

  Show’d deep regard and smiling government.

  1400

  There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,

  As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,

  Making such sober action with his hand

  That it beguil’d attention, charm’d the sight;

  In speech it seem’d his beard all silver white

  1405

  Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly

  Thin winding breath which purl’d up to the sky.

  About him were a press of gaping faces,

  Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice,

  All jointly list’ning, but with several graces,

  1410

  As if some mermaid did their ears entice, –

  Some high, some low, the painter was so nice:

  The scalps of many almost hid behind,

  To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind.

  Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head,

  1415

  His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear;

  Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n and red;

  Another smother’d seems to pelt and swear:

  And in their rage such signs of rage they bear

  As but for loss of Nestor’s golden words,

  1420

  It seem’d they would debate with angry swords.

  For much imaginary work was there, –

  Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,

  That for Achilles’ image stood his spear

  Gripp’d in an armed hand; himself behind

  1425

  Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:

  A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head

  Stood for the whole to be imagined.

  And from the walls of strong besieged Troy,

  When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to field,

  1430

  Stood many Trojan mothers sharing joy

  To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;

  And to their hope they such odd action yield

  That through their light joy seemed to appear,

  Like bright things stain’d, a kind of heavy fear.

  1435

  And from the strond of Dardan where they fought,

  To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran,

  Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

  With swelling ridges, and their ranks began

  To break upon the galled shore, and than

  1440

  Retire again, till meeting greater ranks

  They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks.

  To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,

  To find a face where all distress is stell’d.

  Many she sees where cares have carved some,

  1445

  But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d,

  Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

  Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes,

  Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies.

  In her the painter had anatomiz’d

  1450

  Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign;

  Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguis’d:

  Of what she was no semblance did remain.

  Her blue blood chang’d to black in every vein,

  Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,

  1455

  Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead.

  On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,

  And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes,

  Who nothing wants to answer her but cries

  And bitter words to ban her cruel foes;

  1460

  The painter was no god to lend her those,

  And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,

  To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.

  ‘Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘without a sound,

  I’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,

  1465

  And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound,

  And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,

  And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,

  And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes

  Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

  1470

  ‘Show me the strumpet that began this stir,

  That with my nails her beauty I may tear!

  Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur

  This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear;

  Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,

  1475

  And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,

  The sire, the son, the dame and daughter die.

  ‘Why should the private pleasure of some one

  Become the public plague of many moe?

  Let sin alone committed, light alone

  1480

  Upon his head that hath transgressed so;

  Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe:

  For one’s offence why should so many fall,

  To plague a private sin in general?

 

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