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For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,

And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell;

These contraries such unity do hold,

Only to flatter fools, and make them bold;

So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter,

That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.'

Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails,

That patience is quite beaten from her breast.

She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,

Comparing him to that unhappy guest

Whose deed hath made herself herself detest;

At last she smilingly with this gives o'er;

'Fool, fool!' quoth she, 'his wounds will not be sore.'

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,

And time doth weary time with her complaining.

She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow,

And both she thinks too long with her remaining:

Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.

Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps;

And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.

Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought,

That she with painted images hath spent;

Being from the feeling of her own grief brought

By deep surmise of others' detriment:

Losing her woes in shows of discontent.

It easeth some, though none it ever cur'd,

To think their dolour others have endur'd.

But now the mindful messenger, come back,

Brings home his lord and other company;

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black:

And round about her tear-distained eye

Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the sky.

These water-galls in her dim element

Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,

Amazedly in her sad face he stares:

Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw,

Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.

He hath no power to ask her how she fares,

Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance,

Met far from home, wondering each other's chance.

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,

And thus begins: 'What uncouth ill event

Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand?

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?

Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.'

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,

Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:

At length address'd to answer his desire,

She modestly prepares to let them know

Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe;

While Collatine and his consorted lords

With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her watery nest

Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending:

'Few words,' quoth she, 'shall fit the trespass best,

Where no excuse can give the fault amending:

In me more woes than words are now depending;

And my laments would be drawn out too long,

To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.

'Then be this all the task it hath to say:—

Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed

A stranger came, and on that pillow lay

Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head;

And what wrong else may be imagined

By foul enforcement might be done to me,

From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.

'For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,

With shining falchion in my chamber came

A creeping creature, with a flaming light,

And softly cried Awake, thou Roman dame,

And entertain my love; else lasting shame

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,

If thou my love's desire do contradict.

'For some hard-favour'd groom of thine, quoth he,

Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,

I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee

And swear I found you where you did fulfil

The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill

The lechers in their deed: this act will be

My fame and thy perpetual infamy.

'With this, I did begin to start and cry,

And then against my heart he sets his sword,

Swearing, unless I took all patiently,

I should not live to speak another word;

So should my shame still rest upon record,

And never be forgot in mighty Rome

The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

'Mine enemy was strong,