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The repetition cannot make it less;

For more it is than I can well express:

And that deep torture may be call'd a hell,

When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

'Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen—

Yet save that labour, for I have them here.

What should I say?—One of my husband's men

Bid thou be ready, by and by, to bear

A letter to my lord, my love, my dear;

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;

The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.'

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,

First hovering o'er the paper with her quill:

Conceit and grief an eager combat fight;

What wit sets down is blotted straight with will;

This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill:

Much like a press of people at a door,

Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins:—'Thou worthy lord

Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,

Health to thy person! next vouchsafe to afford

(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)

Some present speed to come and visit me:

So, I commend me from our house in grief:

My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.'

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,

Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

By this short schedule Collatine may know

Her grief, but not her grief's true quality;

She dares not thereof make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse.

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her;

When sighs, and groans, and tears may grace the fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

From that suspicion which the world my might bear her.

To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter

With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;

For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold,

When every part a part of woe doth bear.

'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ

'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste;'

The post attends, and she delivers it,

Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast

As lagging fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems:

Extremely still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain court'sies to her low;

And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye

Receives the scroll, without or yea or no,

And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie

Imagine every eye beholds their blame;

For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame:

When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.

Such harmless creatures have a true respect

To talk in deeds, while others saucily

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely:

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age

Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd;

She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust,

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd:

The more saw the blood his cheeks replenish,

The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.

The weary time she cannot entertain,

For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, to groan:

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,

That she her plaints a little while doth stay,

Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece

Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy;

Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,

For Helen's rape the city to destroy,

Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;

Which the conceited painter drew so proud,

As heaven (it seem'd) to kiss the turrets bow'd.

A thousand lamentable objects there,

In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life:

Many a dry drop seem'd a