For me, I am the mistress of my fate, And with my trespass never will dispense, Till life to death acquit my first offence.
I will not poison thee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in cleanly coin'd excuses; My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false night's abuses; My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like sluices, As from a mountain spring, that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams, to purge my impure tale.
By this, lamenting Philomel had ended The well-tun'd warble of her nightly sorrow, And solemn night with slow, sad gait descended To ugly hell; when lo! the blushing morrow Lends light to all fair eyes that light would borrow. But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, And therefore still in night would cloister'd be.
Revealing day thro' every cranny spies,
And seems to point her out where she sits weeping, To whom she sobbing speaks! Oh, eye of eyes ! Why pry'st thou thro' my window ? leave thy peeping, Mock with thy tickling beams, eyes that are sleeping: Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,
For day hath nought to do what's done by night.
Thus cavils she with every thing she sees : True grief is fond, and testy as a child, Who wayward once, his mood with no Old woes, not infant sorrows bear them mild; Continuance tames the one, the other wild, Like an unpractis'd swimmer, plunging still, With too much labour, drowns for want of skill.
So she, deep trenched in a sea of care, Holds disputation with each thing she views; And to herself all sorrow doth compare; No object but her passion's strength renews, And as one shifts, another strait ensues:
Sometimes her grief is dumb, and hath no words: Sometimes 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.
The little birds that tune their morning's joy, Make her moans mad, with their sweet melody, For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ; Sad souls are slain in merry company; Grief best is pleas'd with grief's society. True sorrow then is feelingly surpriz'd, When with like semblance it is sympathiz'd.
'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore; He ten times pines, that pines beholding food: To see the salve, doth make the wound ache more Great grief grieves most at that will do it good; Deep woes roll forward, like a gentle flood,
Which being stopt, the bounding banks o'erflows Grief dally'd with, nor law nor limit knows.
You mocking birds, quoth she, your tunes intomb Within your hollow swelling feather'd breast; And in my hearing be you ever dumb, My restless discord loves no stops nor rests; A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests. Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears, Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with t
Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair. As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, So I at each sad strain will strain my tear, And with deep groans the diapason bear:
For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus descants better skill.
And while against a thorn thou bear'st thy part To keep thy sharp woes waking; wretched I, To imitate thee well, against my heart Will fix a sharp knife, to affright mine eye, Who if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. These means, as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishn
And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold; Some dark, deep desert seated from the way, That knows not parching heat, nor freezing co We will find out; and there we will unfold To creatures stern, sad tunes to change their kinds; Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.
As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly, Or one incompass'd with a winding maze, That cannot tread the way out readily, So with herself is she in mutiny;
To live or die, which of the twain were better, When life is sham'd, and death reproaches debtor.
To kill myself, (quoth she) alack! what were it, But with my body my poor soul's pollution ? They that lose half, with greater patience bear it, Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion,
Who having two sweet babes, when death takes one, Will slay the other, and be nurse to none.
My body or my soul, which was the dearer? When the one pure, the other made divine, Whose love of either to myself was nearer, When both were kept from heaven and Colatine? Ah, me ! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine, His leaves will wither, and his sap decay,
So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away.
Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted; Her mansion batter'd by the enemy; Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted, Grossly ingirt with daring infamy. Then let it not be call'd impiety,
If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole, Thro' which I may convey this troubled soul.
Yet die I will not, till my Colatine Have heard the cause of my untimely death; That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, Revenge on him that made me stop my breath : My stained blood to Tarquin I bequeath, Which by him tainted, shall for him be spent, And as his due, writ in my testament.
My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife, That wounds my body so dishonoured : 'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life ; The one will live, the other being dead. So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred, For in my death I murder shameful scorn, My shame so dead, my honour is new born.
Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, What legacy shall I bequeath to thee? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, By whose example thou reveng'd may'st be. How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me : Myself thy friend, will kill myself thy foe, And for my sake, serve thou false Tarquin so
This brief abridgement of my will I make : My soul and body to the skies and ground; My resolution, husband, do you take; My honour be the knife's that makes my wound; My shame be his, that did my fame confound; And all my fame that lives disturbed be
To those that live, and think no shame of me.
When Colatine shall oversee this will, How was I overseen, that thou shalt see it? My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill; My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it. Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, So be it: Yield to my hand, and that shall conquer thee; Thou dead, that dies, and both shall victors be.
This plot of death, when sadly she had laid, And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untun'd tongue she hoarsely call'd the maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies, For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so, As winter meads, when sun does melt their sno
Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow With soft slow tongue, true marks of modesty, And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow, For why, her face wore sorrow's livery,
But durst not ask of her audaciously,
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, Nor why her fair cheeks overwash'd with wo.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye, E'en so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy, Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky; Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night
A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling; One justly weeps, the other takes in hand No cause, but company of her drops spilling : Their gentle sex to weep are often willing; Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts,
And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen minds, And therefore they are form'd as marble will; The weak oppress'd, th' impression of strange kinds Is form'd in them by force, by fraud or skill. Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax should be accounted evil, Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.
Their smoothness, like an even champaign plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils, that obscurely sleep; 'Thro' crystal walls each little mote will peep. Thơ men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
No man inveighs against the wither'd flower, But chides rough winter, that the flower has kill'd; Not that's devour'd, but that which doth devour Is worthy blame; O let it not be held Poor women's faults that they are so fulfill'd
With men's abuses; those proud lords, to blame, Make weak made women tenants to their shame.
« PreviousContinue » |