William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (127 page)
Read William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition Online
Authors: William Shakespeare
Tags: #Drama, #Literary Criticism, #Shakespeare
BOOK: William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition
3.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
For in my death I murder shameful scorn;
My shame so dead, mine honour is new born.
‘Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou revenged mayst be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me.
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou revenged mayst be.
How Tarquin must be used, read it in me.
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe;
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.
‘This brief abridgement of my will I make:
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution, husband, do thou take;
Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound;
My shame be his that did my fame confound;
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution, husband, do thou take;
Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound;
My shame be his that did my fame confound;
And all my fame that lives disbursed be
To those that live and think no shame of me.
‘Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will.
How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
My life’s foul deed my life’s fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say “So be it”.
How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;
My life’s foul deed my life’s fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say “So be it”.
Yield to my hand, my hand shall conquer thee;
Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.’
This plot of death when sadly she had laid,
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;
For fleet-winged duty with thought’s feathers flies.
And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes,
With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies;
For fleet-winged duty with thought’s feathers flies.
Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so
As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.
Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow
With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow,
For why her face wore sorrow’s livery;
But durst not ask of her audaciously
With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow,
For why her face wore sorrow’s livery;
But durst not ask of her audaciously
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsèd so,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moistened like a melting eye,
Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky,
Each flower moistened like a melting eye,
Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy
Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky,
Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light;
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.
A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling.
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause but company of her drops’ spilling.
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling.
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause but company of her drops’ spilling.
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts,
And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.
For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they formed as marble will.
The weak oppressed, th’impression of strange kinds
Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
And therefore are they formed as marble will.
The weak oppressed, th’impression of strange kinds
Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill.
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil
Wherein is stamped the semblance of a devil.
Their smoothness like a goodly champaign plain
Lays open all the little worms that creep;
In men as in a rough-grown grove remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep.
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep;
Lays open all the little worms that creep;
In men as in a rough-grown grove remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep.
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep;
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books.
No man inveigh against the withered flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed.
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be held
Poor women’s faults that they are so full-filled
But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed.
Not that devoured, but that which doth devour
Is worthy blame. O, let it not be held
Poor women’s faults that they are so full-filled
With men’s abuses. Those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.
The precedent whereof in 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
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
That 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,
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:
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,
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.
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.
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.
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,
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 stain’s excuse.
Besides, the life and feeling of her passion
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the
fashion
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,
When sighs and groans and tears may grace the
fashion
Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
To shun this blot she would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.
To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear;
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear.
’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear;
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.
Her letter now is sealed, and on it writ
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste’.
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast.
‘At Ardea to my lord with more than haste’.
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast.
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems;
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.
The homely villain curtsies to her low,
And blushing on her with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
And blushing on her with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll without or yea or no,
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie
Imagine every eye beholds their blame,
For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame,
When, silly groom, God wot, it was defect
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawned honest looks, but laid no words to gage.
His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,
That two red fires in both their faces blazed.
She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin’s lust,
And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.
That two red fires in both their faces blazed.
She thought he blushed as knowing Tarquin’s lust,
And blushing with him, wistly on him gazed.
Her earnest eye did make him more amazed.
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.
But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan.
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan.
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.
At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting made for Priam’s Troy,
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,
Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
Of skilful painting made for Priam’s Troy,
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen’s rape the city to destroy,
Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud
As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.
A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear
Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.
The red blood reeked to show the painter’s strife,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear
Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.
The red blood reeked to show the painter’s strife,
And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.
There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust,
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.
Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust,
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust.
Such sweet observance in this work was had
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.
In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triumphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,
You might behold, triumphing in their faces;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity;
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces,
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble
That one would swear he saw them quake and
tremble.
In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art
Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either ciphered either’s heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told.
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled,
Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either ciphered either’s heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told.
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled,
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
Show I deep regard and smiling government.
There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober action with his hand
That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight.
In speech it seemed his beard all silver-white
As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,
Making such sober action with his hand
That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight.
In speech it seemed his beard all silver-white
Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath which purled up to the sky.
About him were a press of gaping faces
Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice,
All jointly list’ning, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice;
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.
Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice,
All jointly list’ning, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice;
Some high, some low, the painter was so nice.
The scalps of many, almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind.
Here one man’s hand leaned on another’s head,
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear;
Here one being thronged bears back, all boll’n and red;
Another, smothered, seems to pelt and swear,
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear;
Here one being thronged bears back, all boll’n and red;
Another, smothered, seems to pelt and swear,
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear
As but for loss of Nestor’s golden words
It seemed they would debate with angry swords.
Other books
For A Good Time, Call... by Gadziala, Jessica
My Reckless Surrender by Anna Campbell
Shadow Riders, The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 by Terry C. Johnston
The Scent (The Bryn and Sinjin Series Book 2) by H.P. Mallory
The Throwbacks by Stephanie Queen
Typhoon Island by Franklin W. Dixon
The Infinite Moment of Us by Lauren Myracle
Play It Away: A Workaholic's Cure for Anxiety by Charlie Hoehn
Anne of Windy Willows by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Vengeance Is Mine by Shiden Kanzaki
