Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be load-ftar to his lustful eye :
And to the flame thus fpeaks advisedly;

As from this flint I enforc❜d this fire,

So Lucrece muft I force to my defire.'

Here pale with fear, he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprize;
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following forrow may on this arife:
Then looking fcornfully he doth despise

His naked armour of ftill flaughter'd luft,
And justly thus controuls his thoughts unjust.

Fair torch burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her, whofe light excelleth thine:
And die unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleannefs, that which is divine.
Offer pure incenfe to fo pure a shrine:

Let fair humanity abhor the deed, That fpots and ftains love's modeft fnow-white [weed. O fhame to knighthood, and to fhining arms! O foul dishonour to my houfhold's grave! 9 impious act, including all foul harms! A martial man to be foft fancy's flave! True valour still a true refpect fhould have. Then my digreffion is fo vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face.

Yes, tho' I die, the fcandal will furvive,
And be an eye-fore in my golden coat:
Some loathfome dafh the herald will contrive
To cypher me how fondly I did dote:
That my pofterity fhamed with the note,

Shall curfe my bones, and hold it for no fin,.
To with that I their father had not been.

What win I, if I gain the thing I feek?
A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy,
Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?
Or fells eternity, to get a toy?

For one fweet grape, who will the vine destroy?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the fcepter ftrait be ftrucken down?

If Colatinus dream of my intent,

Will he not wake, and in a defperate rage
Poft hither, this vile purpofe to prevent?
This frege, that hath ingirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this forrow to the fage,
This dying virtue, this furviving shame,
Whofe crime will bear an ever-during blame..

O what excufe can my invention make,
When thou shalt charge me with fo black a deed!
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake?
Mine eyes forgo their light, my falfe heart bleed?
The guilt being great, the fear doth ftill exceed,
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But coward like with trembling terror die..

Had Colatinus kill'd my fon or fire,
Or lain in ambush to betray my life;
Or were he not my dear friend, this defire
Might have excufe to work upon his wife,
As in revenge or quital of fuch ftrife:

But as he is my kinfman, my dear friend,
The fhame and fault finds no excufe nor end.

Shameful it is, if once the fact be known;
Hateful it is; there is no hate in loving.
I'll beg her love; but fhe is not her own:
The worft is but denial, and reproving;

My will is ftrong, past reason's weak removing.
Who fears a fentence, or an old man's faw,
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.

Thus (graceless) holds he difputation,
"Tween frozen confcience and hot-burning will;
And with good thoughts makes difpenfation,
Urging the worser sense for 'vantage ftill;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill

All pure effects, and doth fo far proceed,
That what is vile fhews like a virtuous deed.

Quoth he, fhe took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing fome bad news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Colatinus lies.

O how her fear did make her colour rife!
First, red as rofes, that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

And now her hand in my hand being lock❜d,
Forc❜d it to tremble with her loyal fear :

Which ftrook her fad, and then it fafter rock'd.
Until her husband's welfare fhe did hear

Whereat the smiled with fo fweet a chear,

That had Narciffus feen her as the ftood,
Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.

Why hunt I then for colour or excufes ?
All orators are dumb, when beauty pleads.

Poor wretches have remorfe in poor abuses;

Love thrives not in the heart, that fhadows dreads.
Affection is my captain, and he leads;

And when his gaudy banner is display'd.
The coward fights, and will not be difmay'd.

Then childish fear avant debating die!
Refpect and reason wait on wrinkled age!
My heart fhall never countermand mine eye,
Sad pause and deep regard befeems the fage;
My part is youth, and beats thefe from the stage.
Defire my plot is, beauty my prize;

Then who fears finking, where fuch treafure lies

As corn o'ergrown by weeds, fo heedful fear
Is almoft cloak'd by unrefifted luft.
Away he steals with open lift'ning ear,
Full of foul hope, and full of fond miftruft:
Both which, as fervitors to the unjust,

So cross him with their oppofite perfuafion,
That now he vows a league, and now invafion.

"Within his thought her heavenly image fits, And in the felf-fame feat fits Colatine,

That eye which looks on her, confounds his wits;
That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view fo falfe will not incline :

But with a pure appeal feeks to the heart,
Which once corrupted takes the worfer part.

And therein heartens up his fervile powers,
Who flatter'd by their leaders jocund fhow,
Stuff up his luft, as minutes fill up hours;
And as their captain fo their pride doth grow,
Paying more flavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate defire thus madly led,

The Roman lord doth march to Lucrece' bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one by him enforc❜d, recites his ward ;
But as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to fome regard:
The threshold grates the door to have him heard ;
Night wand'ring weezels fhriek to fee him there,
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Thro' little vents and crannies of the place,
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay,
And blows the fmoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case.

But his hot heart, which fond defire doth fcorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch.

And being lighted by the light he fpies
Lucretia's glove, wherein the needle sticks;
He takes it from the rufhes where it lies,
And griping it, the needle his finger pricks :
As who fhould fay, this glove to wanton tricks:
Is not inur'd; return again in haste,

Thou feeft our mistress' ornaments are chaste.

But all these poor forbiddings could not flay him,
He in the worst fenfe conftrues their denial:
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,.
He takes for accidental things of trial,

Or as those bars which ftop the hourly dial;

Which with a lingring ftay his courfe doth let,,
Till every minute pays the hour his debt..
CS