“With this, I did begin to start and cry, And then against my heart he sets his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently, I should not live to speak another word; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Rome The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. “Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, And far the weaker with so strong a fear. My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; No rightful plea might plead for justice there. His scarlet lust came evidence to swear That my poor beauty had purloined his eyes; And when the judge is robbed, the prisoner dies. “O, teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or at the least, this refuge let me find: Though my gross blood be stained with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind; That was not forced; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poisoned closet yet endure.” Lo, here the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declined and voice dammed up with woe, With sad set eyes and wretched arms across, From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow The grief away that stops his answer so. But wretched as he is, he strives in vain; What he breathes out his breath drinks up again. As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast, In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past: Even so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw, To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh: “Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power; no flood by raining slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling-painful. Let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. “And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me: Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Thine, mine, his own. Suppose thou dost defend me From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die, For sparing justice feeds iniquity. “But ere I name him, you fair lords,” quoth she, Speaking to those that came with Collatine, “Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine; For ’tis a meritorious fair design To chase injustice with revengeful arms. Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies’ harms.” At this request, with noble disposition Each present lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, The protestation stops. “O, speak,” quoth she, “How may this forced stain be wiped from me?