marks thee for my earth’s delight, Which I to conquer sought with all my might. But as reproof and reason beat it dead, By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. 

 “I see what crosses my attempt will bring; I know what thorns the growing rose defends; I think the honey guarded with a sting; All this beforehand counsel comprehends. But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends; Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty. 

 “I have debated, even in my soul, What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed; But nothing can affection’s course control, Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity; Yet strike I to embrace mine infamy.” 

 This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, Which, like a falcon tow’ring in the skies, Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade, Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies. So under his insulting falchion lies Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells. 

 “Lucrece,” quoth he, “this night I must enjoy thee. If thou deny, then force must work my way, For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee; That done, some worthless slave of thine I’ll slay. To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay; And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. 

 “So thy surviving husband shall remain The scornful mark of every open eye; Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, Thy issue blurred with nameless bastardy. And thou, the author of their obloquy, Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes And sung by children in succeeding times. 

 “But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend. The fault unknown is as a thought unacted; A little harm done to a great good end For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted In a pure compound; being so applied, His venom in effect is purified. 

 “Then, for thy husband and thy children’s sake, Tender my suit. Bequeath not to their lot The shame that from them no device can take, The blemish that will never be forgot, Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour’s blot: For marks descried in men’s nativity Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.” 

 Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye He rouseth up himself and makes a pause; While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the 

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