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.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,

Intending weariness with heavy sprite;

For after supper long he questioned

With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.

Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight,

And everyone to rest himself betakes

Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds that

wakes.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining,

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining.

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining,

And when great treasure is the meed proposed,

Though death be adjunct, there’s no death supposed.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond

That 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 battle’s 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 sland’rous 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 wakes to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leapt from his bed,

Throwing his mantle rudely o‘er his arm,

Is madly tossed between desire and dread.

Th’one sweetly flatters, th’other feareth harm,

But honest fear, bewitched with lust’s foul charm,

Doth too-too oft betake him to retire,

Beaten away by brainsick 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 lodestar 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-slaughtered 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, unhallowed 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 eyesore in my golden coat.

Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive

To cipher me how fondly I did dote,

That my posterity, shamed 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 desp’rate 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,