The plesaunce of her forme was present; (90) But natheles, nat plesaunce, but delyt, 1770 Or an unrightful talent with despyt; 'For, maugre her, she shal my lemman be; Hap helpeth hardy man alday,' quod he; 'What ende that I make, hit shal be so;' And girt him with his swerde, and gan to go; 1775 And forth he rit til he to Rome is come, And al aloon his wey than hath he nome Unto the house of Colatyn ful right. Doun was the sonne, and day hath lost his light; (100) And in he com un-to a privy halke, 1780 And in the night ful theefly gan he stalke, Whan every night was to his reste broght, Ne no wight had of tresoun swich a thoght. Were hit by window or by other gin, With swerde y-drawe, shortly he comth in 1785 Ther as she lay, this noble wyf Lucresse. And, as she wook, her bed she felte presse. 'What beste is that,' quod she, 'that weyeth thus?' 'I am the kinges sone, Tarquinius,' (110) Quod he, 'but and thou crye, or noise make, 1790 Or if thou any creature awake, By thilke god that formed man on lyve, This swerd through-out thyn herte shal I ryve.' And ther-withal unto her throte he sterte, And sette the point al sharp upon her herte. 1795 No word she spak, she hath no might therto. What shal she sayn? her wit is al ago. Right as a wolf that fynt a lomb aloon, To whom shal she compleyne, or make moon? (120) What! shal she fighte with an hardy knight? 1800 Wel wot men that a woman hath no might. What! shal she crye, or how shal she asterte That hath her by the throte, with swerde at herte? She axeth grace, and seith al that she can. 'Ne wolt thou nat,' quod he, this cruel man, 1805 'As wisly Iupiter my soule save, As I shal in the stable slee thy knave, And leye him in thy bed, and loude crye, That I thee finde in suche avouterye; (130) And thus thou shalt be deed, and also lese 1810 Thy name, for thou shalt non other chese.' Thise Romain wyves loveden so hir name At thilke tyme, and dredden so the shame, That, what for fere of slaundre and drede of deeth, She loste bothe at-ones wit and breeth, 1815 And in a swough she lay and wex so deed, Men mighte smyten of her arm or heed; She feleth no-thing, neither foul ne fair. Tarquinius, that art a kinges eyr, (140) And sholdest, as by linage and by right, 1820 Doon as a lord and as a verray knight, Why hastow doon dispyt to chivalrye? Why hastow doon this lady vilanye? Allas! of thee this was a vileins dede!