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In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood

Circles her body in on every side,

Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood

Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood.

Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,

And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd.

About the mourning and congealed face

Of that black blood a watery rigol goes,

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place:

And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,

Corrupted blood some watery token shows;

And blood untainted still doth red abide,

Blushing at that which is so putrified.

'Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius cries,

'That life was mine which thou hast here depriv'd.

If in the child the father's image lies,

Where shall I live now Lucrece is unliv'd?

Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd

If children pre-decease progenitors,

We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

'Poor broken glass, I often did behold

In thy sweet semblance my old age new born;

But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,

Shows me a bare-bon'd death by time outworn;

O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn!

And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,

That I no more can see what once I was!

'O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,

If they surcease to be that should survive.

Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,

And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?

The old bees die, the young possess their hive:

Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see

Thy father die, and not thy father thee!'

By this starts Collatine as from a dream,

And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place;

And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream

He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,

And counterfeits to die with her a space;

Till manly shame bids him possess his breath,

And live, to be revenged on her death.

The deep vexation of his inward soul

Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue;

Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,

Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng

Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid,

That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime 'Tarquin' was pronounced plain,

But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.

This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,

Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more;

At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er:

Then son and father weep with equal strife,

Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.

The one doth call her his, the other his,

Yet neither may possess the claim they lay,

The father says 'She's mine,' 'O, mine she is,'

Replies her husband: 'do not take away

My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say

He weeps for her, for she was only mine,

And only must be wail'd by Collatine.'

'O,' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life

Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.'

'Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife,

I owed her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.'

'My daughter' and 'my wife' with clamours fill'd

The dispers'd air, who, holding Lucrece' life,

Answer'd their cries, 'My daughter!' and 'My wife!'

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side,

Seeing such emulation in their woe,

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,

Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show.

He with the Romans was esteemed so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,

For sportive words, and uttering foolish things:

But now he throws that shallow habit by,

Wherein deep policy did him disguise;

And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,

To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.

'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, 'arise;

Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool,

Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school.

'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow,

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?

Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds:

Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

'Courageous Roman,