The Rape of Lucrece. Уильям Шекспир

doth yield

        To those two armies that would let him go,

        Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

      Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,

      (The niggard prodigal that prais'd her so)

      In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

      Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:

      Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe

        Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,

        In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

      This earthly saint, adored by this devil,

      Little suspecteth the false worshipper;

      For unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil;

      Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear:

      So guiltless she securely gives good cheer

        And reverend welcome to her princely guest,

        Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd:

      For that he colour'd with his high estate,

      Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty;

      That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,

      Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

      Which, having all, all could not satisfy;

        But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,

        That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

      But she, that never cop'd with stranger eyes,

      Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,

      Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies

      Writ in the glassy margents of such books;

      She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks;

        Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,

        More than his eyes were open'd to the light.

      He stories to her ears her husband's fame,

      Won in the fields of fruitful Italy;

      And decks with praises Collatine's high name,

      Made glorious by his manly chivalry

      With bruised arms and wreaths of victory:

        Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,

        And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.

      Far from the purpose of his coming hither,

      He makes excuses for his being there.

      No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather

      Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;

      Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear,

        Upon the world dim darkness doth display,

        And in her vaulty prison stows the day.

      For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,

      Intending weariness with heavy spright;

      For, after supper, long he questioned

      With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:

      Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight;

        And every one to rest themselves betake,

        Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake.

      As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

      The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;

      Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

      Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:

      Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining;

        And when great treasure is the meed propos'd,

        Though death be adjunct, there's no death suppos'd.

      Those that much covet are with gain so fond,

      For what they have not, that which they possess

      They scatter and unloose it from their bond,

      And so, by hoping more, they have but less;

      Or, gaining more, the profit of excess

        Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,

        That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

      The aim of all is but to nurse the life

      With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;

      And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,

      That one for all, or all for one we gage;

      As life for honour in fell battles' rage;

        Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost

        The death of all, and all together lost.

      So that in vent'ring ill we leave to be

      The things we are, for that which we expect;

      And this ambitious foul infirmity,

      In having much, torments us with defect

      Of that we have: so then we do neglect

        The thing we have; and, all for want of wit,

        Make something nothing, by augmenting it.

      Such 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 slanderous 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 leap'd from his bed,

      Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm;

      Is madly toss'd between desire and dread;

      Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm;

      But honest Fear, bewitch'd 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 lode-star 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