hazard now must doting Tarquin make, Pawning his honour to obtain his lust; And for himself himself he must forsake. Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust? When shall he think to find a stranger just, When he himself himself confounds, betrays To sland’rous tongues and wretched hateful days? 

 Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes. No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries; Now serves the season that they may surprise The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still, While lust and murder wake to stain and kill. 

 And now this lustful lord leaped from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; Is madly tossed between desire and dread; Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm. But honest fear, bewitched with lust’s foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. 

 His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly; Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be lodestar to his lustful eye, And to the flame thus speaks advisedly: “As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.” 

 Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise. Then looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughtered lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: 

 “Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not To darken her whose light excelleth thine. And die, unhallowed thoughts, before you blot With your uncleanness that which is divine. Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine. Let fair humanity abhor the deed That spots and stains love’s modest snow-white weed. 

 “O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! O foul dishonour to my household’s grave! O impious act including all foul harms! A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave! True valour still a true respect should have. Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. 

 “Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive And be an eye-sore in my golden coat; Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote, That my posterity, shamed with the note, Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish that I their father had not been. 

 “What win I if I 

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