Lucrece view, Assailed by night with circumstances strong Of present death, and shame that might ensue By that her death, to do her husband wrong. Such danger to resistance did belong, The dying fear through all her body spread; 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. 

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