The dove fleeps faft, that this night owl will catch:
Thus treafon works ere traitors be efpy'd.
Who fees the lurking ferpent, fteps afide;
But the found fleeping, fearing no fuch thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal fting.
Into the chamber wickedly he ftalks,
And gazeth on her yet unftained bed :
The curtains being clofe, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head,
By their high treafon in his heart mifled;
Which gives the watch-word to his hand too soon,
To draw the cloud that hides the filver moon,
Look as the fair and fiery pointed fun,
Rufhing from forth a cloud, bereaves our fight;
Even fo the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light:
Whether it is, that the reflects fo bright,
That dazleth them, or else fome fhame fuppos'd;
But blind they are, and keep themselves inclos'd.
O had they in that darksome prifon died!
Then had they feen the period of their ill
Then Colatine again by Lucrece' fide,
In his clear bed might have reposed still.
But they muft ope, this bleffed league to kill;
And holy-thoughted Lucrece, to their fight
Muft fell her joy, her life, her world's delight.
Her lily hand her rofy cheeks lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss;
Which therefore angry, feems to part in funder,
Swelling on either fide to want his blifs:
Between whofe hills, her head intombed is;
Where like a virtuous monument fhe lies,
To be admir'd of lewd unhallow'd eyes.
Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet, whose perfect white
Shew'd like an April dazy on the grafs,
With pearly fweat, refembling dew of night,
Her eyes like marigolds had fheath'd their light,
And canopy'd in darknefs fweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.
Her hair like golden threads play'd with her breath;
O modeft wantons, wanton modefty!,
Showing life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's mortality.
Each in her fleep themfelves fo beautify,
As if between them twain there were no ftrife, E But that life liv'd in death, and death in life.
Her breafts like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered:
Save of their lord, no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured.
Thefe worlds in Tarquin, new ambition bred,
Who like a foul ufurper went about,
From this fair throne to have the owner out.
What could he fee, but mightily he noted?
What did he note, but ftrongly he defir'd?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doated,
And in his will his wilful eye he tir'd.
With more than admiration he admir'd
Her azure veins, her alabafter skin,
Her coral lips, her fnow-white dimpled chin...
As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,
Sharp hunger by the conqueft fatisfy'd :
So o'er this fleeping foul doth Tarquin stay,
His rage of luft by gazing qualify'd,
Slack'd, not fuppreft; for standing by her fide,
His eye which late this mutiny reftrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins.
And they, like ftraggling flaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vaffals, fell exploits effecting,
In bloody death and ravishment delighting,
Nor childrens tears, nor mothers groans refpecting,
Swell in their pride, the onfet ftill expecting.
Anon his beating heart alarum ftriking,
Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking.
His drumming heart chears up his burning eye:
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of fuch a dignity,
Smoaking with pride, march'd on to make his ftand.
On her bare breafts, the heart of all her land;
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did fcale,
Left their round turrets deftitute and pale.
They muft'ring to the quiet cabinet,
Where their dear governess and lady lies,
Do tell her fhe is dreadfully befet,
And fright her with confufion of their cries.
She much amaz'd breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes;
Who peeping forth, this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dim'd and controul'd.
Imagine her as one in dead of night,
Forth from dull fleep by dreadful fancy waking
That thinks fhe has beheld fome ghaftly (prite,
Whofe grim afpect fets every joint a fhaking,
What terror 'tis: but fhe in worfer taking,
From fleep disturbed, heedfully doth view
The fight, which makes supposed terror rue.
Wrapt and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird fhe trembling lies:
She dares not look, yet winking there appear,
Quick fhifting anticks ugly in her eyes,
Such fhadows are the weak brain's forgeries;
Who angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful fights.
His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,
(Rude ram! to batter fuch an ivory wall)
May feel her heart (poor citizen!) diftreft,
Wounding itself to death, rife up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand fhakes withal.
This moves in him more rage, and leffer pity,
To make the breach, and enter this sweet city.
Firft like a trumpet doth his tongue begin
To found a parley to his heartless foe,
Who o'er the white fheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this alarum to know,
Which he by dumb demeanor seeks to show;
But the with vehement prayers urgeth ftill,
Under what colour he commits this ill.
Thus he replies: The colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rofe blush at her own difgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale.
Under that colour am I come to scale
Thy never-conquer'd fort, the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.
Thus I foreftal thee, if thou mean to chide:
Thy beauty hath infnar'd thee to this night,
Where thou with patience muft my will abide;
My will, that marks thee for my earth's delight,
Which I to conquer fought with all my might.
But as reproof and reafon beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty it was newly bred.
I see what croffes my attempts will bring;
I know what thorns the growing rofe defends;
I think the honey guarded with a fting.
All this before-hand counfel comprehends;
But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends.
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
And doats on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty.
I have debated, even in my foul,
What wrong, what fhame, what forrow I fhall breed;
But nothing can affection's course controul,
Or ftop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears infue the deed,
Reproach, difdain, and deadly enmity;
Yet ftrive I to embrace mine infamy.
This faid, he fhakes aloft his Roman blade, Which like a faulcon tow'ring in the fkies, Coucheth the fowl below with his wings fhade, Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies: So under his infulting fauchion lies.
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells
With trembling fear, as fowls hear faulcon's bells.
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