And give the sneapèd birds more cause to sing.

Pain pays the income of each precious thing.

Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves, and sands

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’

Now is he come unto the chamber door

That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,

Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,

Hath barred him from the blessed thing he sought.

So from himself impiety hath wrought

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer

Having solicited th‘eternal power

That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,

And they would stand auspicious to the hour,

Even there he starts. Quoth he, ‘I must deflower.

The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact;

How can they then assist me in the act?

‘Then love and fortune be my gods, my guide!

My will is backed with resolution.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried;

The blackest sin is cleared with absolution.

Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution.

The eye of heaven is out, and misty night

Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’

This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch,

And with his knee the door he opens wide.

The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch.

Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.

Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside,

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,

Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,

And gazeth on her yet-unstained bed.

The curtains being close, about he walks,

Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head.

By their high treason is his heart misled,

Which gives the watchword to his hand full soon

To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.

Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun

Rushing from forth a cloud bereaves our sight,

Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun

To wink, being blinded with a greater light.

Whether it is that she reflects so bright

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,

But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed.

O had they in that darksome prison died,

Then had they seen the period of their ill.

Then Collatine again by Lucrece’ side

In his clear bed might have reposed still.

But they must ope, this blessed league to kill,

And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight

Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

Coz’ning the pillow of a lawful kiss,

Who therefore angry seems to part in sunder,

Swelling on either side to want his bliss;

Between whose hills her head entombed is,

Where like a virtuous monument she lies

To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes.

Without the bed her other fair hand was,

On the green coverlet, whose perfect white

Showed like an April daisy on the grass,

With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.

Her eyes like marigolds had sheathed their light,

And canopied in darkness sweetly lay

Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair like golden threads played with her breath—

O modest wantons, wanton modesty!—

Showing life’s triumph in the map of death,

And death’s dim look in life’s mortality.

Each in her sleep themselves so beautify

As if between them twain there were no strife,

But that life lived in death, and death in life.

Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue,

A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,

Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,

And him by oath they truly honoured.

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,

Who like a foul usurper went about

From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?

What did he note but strongly he desired?

What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,

And in his will his wilful eye he tired.

With more than admiration he admired

Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o‘er his prey,

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified,

Slaked not suppressed for standing by her side.

His eye which late this mutiny restrains

Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins,

And they like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,

Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting,

In bloody death and ravishment delighting,

Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting,

Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting.

Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,

Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,

His eye commends the leading to his hand.

His hand, as proud of such a dignity,

Smoking with pride marched on to make his stand

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,

Whose ranks of blue veins as his hand did scale