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 proposed, Though death be adjunct, there’s no death supposed. 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 bankrout 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 battle’s 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 sland’rous 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 leaped from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; Is madly tossed between desire and dread; Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm. But honest fear, bewitched 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 lodestar 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 looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughtered lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: