Shakespeare's Poetry (eBook)

THE POEM

(1) From the besieged Ardea all in post,

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,

Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,

And to Collatium bears the lightless fire

Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire

  And girdle with embracing flames the waist

  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set

This bateless edge on his keen appetite;

(10) When Collatine unwisely did not let

To praise the clear unmatched red and white

Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,

  Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,

  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,

Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;

What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent

In the possession of his beauteous mate;

Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,

(20)  That kings might be espoused to more fame,

  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!

And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done

As is the morning's silver-melting dew

Against the golden splendour of the sun!

An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun:

  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,

  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade

(30) The eyes of men without an orator;

What needeth then apologies be made,

To set forth that which is so singular?

Or why is Collatine the publisher

  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown

  From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty

Suggested this proud issue of a king;

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:

Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,

(40) Braving compare, disdainfully did sting

  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt

  That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate

His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those;

His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,

Neglected all, with swift intent he goes

To quench the coal which in his liver glows.

  O rash false heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold,

  Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!

(50) When at Collatium this false lord arriv'd,

Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame,

Within whose face beauty and virtue striv'd

Which of them both should underprop her fame:

When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame;

  When beauty boasted blushes, in despite

  Virtue would stain that or with silver white.

But beauty, in that white intituled,

From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field:

Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,

(60) Which virtue gave the golden age, to gild

Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield;

  Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,--

  When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.

This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,

Argued by beauty's red, and virtue's white:

Of either's colour was the other queen,

Proving from world's minority their right:

Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;

  The sovereignty of either being so great,

(70)  That oft they interchange each other's seat.

Their silent war of lilies and of roses,

Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,

In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses;

Where, lest between them both it should be kill'd,

The coward captive vanquish'd doth yield

  To those two armies that would let him go,

  Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,

(The niggard prodigal that prais'd her so)

(80) In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:

Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe

  Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,

  In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,

Little suspecteth the false worshipper;

For unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil;

Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear:

So guiltless she securely gives good cheer

(90)  And reverend welcome to her princely guest,

  Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:

For that he colour'd with his high estate,

Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;

That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

Which, having all, all could not satisfy;

  But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,

  That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never cop'd with stranger eyes,

(100) Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,

Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies

Writ in the glassy margents of such books;

She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;

  Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,

  More than his eyes were open'd to the light.

He stories to her ears her husband's fame,

Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

And decks with praises Collatine's high name,

Made glorious by his manly chivalry

(110) With bruised arms and wreaths of victory:

  Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,

  And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming hither,

He makes excuses for his being there.

No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather

Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;

Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,

  Upon the world dim darkness doth display,

  And in her vaulty prison stows the day.

(120) For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,

Intending weariness with heavy spright;

For, after supper, long he questioned

With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:

Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;

  And every one to rest themselves betake,

  Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

(130) Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:

Despair to 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,

(140)  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;

(150) 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,

(160)  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,

(170) 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...