That blow did bail it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prifon where it breathed;
Her contrite fighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her winged fprite, and thro' her wounds doth fly
Life's lafting date from cancel'd destiny.

Stone-ftill, aftonifh'd with this deadly deed,
Stood Colatine and all his lordly crew,
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her felf-flaughter'd body threw :
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew

The murd'rous knife, and as it left the place,
Her blood, in pure revenge, held it in chase.

And bubbling from her breast it doth divide
In two flow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every fide;

Who like a late fack'd ifland vaftly ftood
Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.

Some of her blood ftill pure and red remain'd, And fome look'd black, and that falfe Tarquin [ftain'd.

About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood, a watry rigol goes,
Which feems to weep upon the tainted place;
And ever fince, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood fome wat'ry token fhows:
And blood untainted ftill doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is fo putrify'd.

Daughter, dear daughter, old Lucretius cries,
That life was mine, which thou haft here depriy'd;
If in the child the father's image lies,

Where fhall I live, now Lucrece is unliv'd?

Thou waft not to this end from me deriv'd.

If children predecease progenitors,

We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

Poor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy fweet femblance, my old age new-born;
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and cold,
Shews me a bare-bon'd death by time out-worn:
O! from my cheeks my image thou haft torn!
And shiver'd all the beauty from my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was.

O! time! cease thou thy courfe, and hafte no longer,
If thou furcease to be, that should survive:
Shall rotten death make conqueft of the stronger,
And leave the falt'ring feeble fouls alive?
The old bees die, the young poffefs their hive;
Then live sweet Lucrece, live again and fee
Thy father die, and not thy father thee.

By this ftarts Colatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his forrow place;
And then in clay-cold Lucrece' bleeding ftream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space:

Till manly fhame bids him poffefs his breath,
And live to be revenged on her death.

The deep vexation of his inward foul
Hath ferv'd a dumb arreft upon his tongue;
Who made that forrow fhould his ufe controul,
Or keep him from heart-eafing words fo long,
He 'gins to talk; but thro' his lips do throng
Weak words, fo thick come in his poor heart's aid,
That no man could diftinguish what he faid.

Yet fometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
But thro' his teeth, as if his name he tore :
This windy tempeft, till it blow up rain,
Held back his forrow's tide to make it more.
At last it rains, and bufy winds give o'er:

Then fon and father weep with equal ftrife,
Who fhould weep most for daughter, or for wife.

The one doth call her his, the other his;'
Yet neither may poffefs the claim they lay.
The father fays, fhe's mine; O mine fhe is,
Replies her husband; do not take away
My forrow's intereft, let no mourner say,
He weeps for her, for fhe was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Colatine.

O! quoth Lucretius, I did give that life,
Which the too early and too late hath spill'd.
Wo! wo! quoth Colatine, fhe was my wife,
I own'd her, and 'tis mine, that fhe hath kill'd.
My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd
The difperft air, who holding Lucrece life,
Anfwer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife.

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' fide,
Seeing fuch emulation in their woe,

Began to clothe his wit in ftate and pride,
Burying in Lucrece' wound his follies fhow:
He with the Romans was esteemed fo,
As filly jeering ideots are with kings,

For fportive words, and uttering foolish things,

But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein true policy did him difguise,

And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Colatinus' eyes.

Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arife;
Let my unfounded felf, fuppos'd a fool,
Now fet thy long experienc'd wit to school.

Why, Colatine, is woe the cure for woe?
Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous
Is it revenge to give thyfelf a blow [deeds?
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 flay herself, that fhould have flain her foe.

Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In fuch lamenting dew of lamentations;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
To roufe our Roman gods with invocations,
That they will fuffer thefe abominations

(Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd) By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd.

Now by the capitol that we adore!

And by this chafte blood fo unjustly ftain'd!
By heaven's fair fun, that breeds the fat earth's ftore!
By all our country rites in Rome maintain'd!
And by chafte Lucrece' foul, that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife!
We will revenge the death of this true wife.

This said, he stroke his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow:
And to his proteftation urg'd the rest,
Who wond'ring at him did his words allow :
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,

And that deep vow which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

When they had fworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,
To fhew the bleeding body throughout Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence.
Which being done, with speedy diligence,
The Romans plaufibly did give confent
To Tarquin's everlafting banishment.