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And who cannot abuse a body dead？
By this； mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining。
'My girl；' quoth she； 'on what occasion break
Those tears from thee that down thy cheeks are raining？
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining；
Know； gentle wench； it small avails my mood；
If tears could help； mine own would do me good。
'But tell me； girl； when went'…and there she stayed
Till after a deep groan…'Tarquin from hence？'
'Madam； ere I was up；' replied the maid；
'The more to blame my sluggard negligence。
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense：
Myself was stirring ere the break of day；
And ere I rose was Tarquin gone away。
'But； lady； if your maid may be so bold；
She would request to know your heaviness。'
'O； peace！' quoth Lucrece： 'if it should be told；
The repetition cannot make it less；
For more it is than I can well express；
And that deep torture may be called a hell
When more is felt than one hath power to tell。
'Go； get me hither paper； ink and pen；
Yet save that labour； for I have them here。
What should I say？ One of my husband's men
Bid thou be ready by and by to bear
A letter to my lord； my love； my dear。
Bid him with speed prepare to carry it；
The cause craves haste and it will soon be writ。'
Her maid is gone； and she prepares to write；
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill。
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight；
What wit sets down is blotted straight with will；
This is too curious…good； this blunt and ill：
Much like a press of people at a door；
Throng her inventions； which shall go before。
At last she thus begins： 'Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee；
Health to thy person！ next vouchsafe t'afford…
If ever； love； thy Lucrece thou wilt see…
Some present speed to come and visit me。
So I commend me； from our house in grief；
My woes are tedious； though my words are brief。'
Here folds she up the tenor of her woe；
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly。
By this short schedule Collatine may know
Her grief； but not her grief's true quality；
She dares not thereof make discovery；
Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse；
Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse。
Besides； the life and feeling of her passion
She hoards； to spend when he is by to hear her；
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion
Of her disgrace； the better so to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her。
To shun this blot； she would not blot the letter
With words； till action might become them better。
To see sad sights moves more than hear them told；
For then the eye interprets to the car
The heavy motion that it doth behold；
When every part a part of woe doth bear。
'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear：
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords；
And sorrow ebbs； being blown with wind of words。
Her letter now is sealed and on it writ
'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste。'
The post attends； and she delivers it；
Charging the sour…faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast。
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems：
Extremity still urgeth such extremes。
The homely villain curtsies to her low；
And blushing on her； with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea or no；
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie。
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
Imagine every eye beholds their blame；
For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame：
When； silly groom； God wot； it was defect
Of spirit； life and bold audacity。
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds； while others saucily
Promise more speed but do it leisurely。
Even so this pattern of the worn…out age
Pawned honest looks； but laid no words to gage。
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust；
That two red fires in both their faces blazed；
She thought he blushed； as knowing Tarquin's lust；
And blushing with him； wistly on him gazed；
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed；
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish；
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish。
But long she thinks till he return again；
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone。
The weary time she cannot entertain；
For now 'tis stale to sigh； to weep and groan；
So woe hath wearied woe； moan tired moan；
That she her plaints a little while doth stay；
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way。
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting； made for Priam's Troy；
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece；
For Helen's rape the city to destroy；
Threat'ning cloud…kissing Ilion with annoy；
Which the conceited painter drew so proud
As heaven； it seemed； to kiss the turrets bowed。
A thousand lamentable objects there；
In scorn of nature； art gave lifeless life：
Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear；
Shed for the slaught'red husband by the wife；
The red blood reeked； to show the painter's strife；
And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights；
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights。
There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust；
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop…holes thrust；
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust。
Such sweet observance in this work was had
That one might see those far…off eyes look sad。
In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold； triumphing in their faces；
In youth； quick bearing and dexterity；
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces；
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble
That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble。
In Ajax and Ulysses； O what art
Of physiognomy might one behold！
The face of either ciphered either's heart；
Their face their manners most expressly told：
In Ajax's eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled；
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
Showed deep regard and smiling government。
There pleading might yo