Which all this time hath overslipped her thought, That she with painted images hath spent, Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others’ detriment, Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured. But now the mindful messenger, come back, Brings home his lord and other company; Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black, And round about her tear-distained eye Blue circles streamed, like rainbows in the sky. These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent. Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares. Her eyes, though sod in tears, looked red and raw, Her lively colour killed with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares; Both stood like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from home, wond’ring each other’s chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins: “What uncouth ill event Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent? Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.” Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, Ere once she can discharge one word of woe. At length addressed to answer his desire, She modestly prepares to let them know Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe; While Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her wat’ry nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending: “Few words,” quoth she, “shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending. In me more woes than words are now depending; And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. “Then be this all the task it hath to say: Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; And what wrong else may be imagined By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. “For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came A creeping creature with a flaming light, And softly cried ‘Awake, thou Roman dame, And entertain my love; else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict, If thou my love’s desire do contradict. “‘For some hard-favoured groom of thine,’ quoth he, ‘Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I’ll murder straight, and then I’ll slaughter thee And swear I found you where you did fulfil The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill The lechers in their deed. This act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy.’