Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame.

‘O what excuse can my invention make

When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed?

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,

But coward-like with trembling terror die.

‘Had Collatinus killed my son or sire,

Or lain in ambush to betray my life,

Or were he not my dear friend, this desire

Might have excuse to work upon his wife

As in revenge or quittal of such strife.

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,

The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

‘Shameful it is—ay, if the fact be known.

Hateful it is—there is no hate in loving.

I’ll beg her love—but she is not her own.

The worst is but denial and reproving;

My will is strong past reason’s weak removing.

Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw

Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’

Thus graceless holds he disputation

‘Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,

And with good thoughts makes dispensation,

Urging the worser sense for vantage still;

Which in a moment doth confound and kill

All pure effects, and doth so far proceed

That what is vile shows like a virtuous. deed.

Quoth he, ‘She took me kindly by the hand,

And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,

Fearing some hard news from the warlike band

Where her beloved Collatinus lies.

O how her fear did make her colour rise!

First red as roses that on lawn we lay,

Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

‘And how her hand, in my hand being locked,

Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear,

Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked

Until her husband’s welfare she did hear,

Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer

That had Narcissus seen her as she stood

Self-love had never drowned him in the flood.

‘Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?

All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth.

Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth;

Affection is my captain, and he leadeth,

And when his gaudy banner is displayed,

The coward fights, and will not be dismayed.

‘Then childish fear avaunt, debating die,

Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age!

My heart shall never countermand mine eye,

Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage.

My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.

Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize.

Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?’

As corn o‘ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

Is almost choked by unresisted lust.

Away he steals, with open list’ning ear,

Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust,

Both which as servitors to the unjust

So cross him with their opposite persuasion

That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,

And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine.

That eye which looks on her confounds his wits,

That eye which him beholds, as more divine,

Unto a view so false will not incline,

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,

Which once corrupted, takes the worser part,

And therein heartens up his servile powers

Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund show,

Stuff up his lust as minutes fill up hours,

And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,

Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate desire thus madly led

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,

Each one by him enforced, retires his ward;

But as they open they all rate his ill,

Which drives the creeping thief to some regard.

The threshold grates the door to have him heard,

Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there.

They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,

Through little vents and crannies of the place

The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,

And blows the smoke of it into his face,

Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch,

And being lighted, by the light he spies

Lucretia’s glove wherein her needle sticks.

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,

And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,

As who should say ‘This glove to wanton tricks

Is not inured. Return again in haste.

Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him;

He in the worst sense consters their denial.

The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him

He takes for accidental things of trial,

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,

Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

‘So, so,’ quoth he, ‘these lets attend the time,

Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring

To add a more rejoicing to the prime,