And contempt of base; the incurr'd vengeance Of any starting hound, no horse-cough breath'd from the entrails [Lucrece discovered in her bed. To make thy lust live, all thy virtues kill. To offend this face, this brow, this lip, this hand? With thought once to defile thy innocent sleep? Or pay, with treason, her hospitable grace; But I am lust-burnt all, bent on what's bad; That, which should calm good thought, makes Tarquin mad. Madam! Lucrece! Luc. Whose that? oh me! beshrew you. Sex. Sweet, 'tis I.. Luc. What I? Sex. Make room. Luc. My husband Collatine? Sex. Thy husband's at the camp. Luc. Here is no place for any man save him. Sex. Grant me that grace. Luc. What are you? Sex. Tarquin and thy friend, and must enjoy thee. Luc. Heaven such sins defend! Sex. Why do you tremble, lady? cease this fear; I am alone;, there is no suspicious ear That can betray this deed: nay, start not, sweet. I know I dream to see Prince Sextus so. For Rome's imperial diadem: oh then Pardon this dream! for being awake, I know Prince Sextus, Rome's great hope, would not for shame Sex. I'm bent on both; my thoughts are all on fire; Luc. No. Sex. If not thy love, thou must enjoy thy foe. Where fair means cannot, force shall make my way: By Jove, I must enjoy thee. Luc. Sweet lord, stay. Sex. I'm all impatience, violence, and rage, And save thy bed, nought can this fire assuage: Wilt love me? Luc. No, I cannot. Sex. Tell me why? Luc. Hate me, and in that hate first let me die. Luc. By a god you swear To do a devil's deed; sweet lord, forbear. By the same Jove I swear, that made this soul, Help! help! Sex. These pillows first shall stop thy breath, The uncraz'd honour I have yet maintain'd. Sex. Thou can'st keep neither, for if thou but squeak'st, Or let'st the least harsh noise jar in my ear, I'll broach thee on my steel; that done, straight murder Grasp'd arm in arm on thy adulterate bed, And to thy fortunes add another friend, Give thy fears comfort, and these torments end. Luc. I'll die first; and yet hear me, as you're noble : If all your goodness and best generous thoughts Be not exil'd your heart, pity, oh pity The virtues of a woman! mar not that Cannot be made again: this once defil'd, Or wash my stain away; you seek to soil Oh think them pearl'd drops, distilled from the heart Of soul-chaste Lucrece; think them orators, To plead the cause of absent Collatine, your friend and kinsman. Sex. Tush, I am obdure. Luc. Then make my name foul, keep my body pure. Oh, prince of princes, do but weigh your sin; Think how much I shall lose, how small you win. I lose the honour of my name and blood, Loss Rome's imperial crown cannot make good. Curse your hot lust, and say you've wrong'd your friends, I took you for a friend, wrong not my trust, But let these chaste tears quench your fiery lust. Sex. No, those moist tears contending with my fire, Quench not my heat, but make it climb much higher; I'll drag thee hence. Luc. Oh! Sex. If thou raise these cries, lodg'd in thy slaughter'd Arms some base groom dies. And Rome, that hath admir'd thy name so long, Shall blot thy death with scandal from my tongue. Luc. Jove guard my innocence! Sex. Lucrece, thou art mine, In spite of Jove and all the powers divine. "Luc. Mirable. Maid. Madam. Luc. Is not my father, old Lucretius, come yet? [he bears her out. Luc. Nor any from the camp? Maid. Neither, madam. Luc. Go, begone, and leave me to the truest grief of heart, That ever enter'd any matron's breast; Oh! Maid. Why weep you, lady? alas! why do you stain Luc. Nothing, nay, nothing; oh, you powerful gods, Of harmless virtue? wherefore take you charge Or is my sin more heinous than the rest, To be a stain to women, nature's scorn? oh! Maid. What ails you, madam? truth, you make me weep Your habit sable, and your eyes thus swoln Maid. Madam, not I. Luc. Indeed, thou didst, And in that blush my guilt thou didst betray; Luc. My blot, my scandal, and my shame: Maid. Sweet lady, cheer yourself; I'll fetch my viol, And see if I can sing you fast asleep : A little rest would wear away this passion. Luc. Do what thou wilt, I can command no more; Being no more a woman, I am now Devote to death and an inhabitant Of th' other world: these eyes must ever weep Not the least singular part of this play is the songs, which are freely introduced, and somewhat too freely expressed. Some of them are strange and fantastical productions, and one is written in a sort of Dutch jargon. Three of them, however, we consider worth a place here. Valerius is the great master of harmony" amongst the Roman peers." The first is a wild, pretty thing, though not very pregnant with meaning. "Now what is love? I will thee tell: It is the fountain and the well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell: That rings all into heaven or hell, And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell. Now what is love I will you show: And he that proves shall find it so; And this is love, and this is love, sweet friend, I trow." The second is very beautiful of its kind, and extremely melodious. "Pack clouds away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft, To give my love good morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my love good morrow. To give my love good morrow, Notes from them all I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each bill, let music shrill |