Quoth he, “She took me kindly by the hand, And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes, Fearing some hard news from the warlike band Where her beloved Collatinus lies. O how her fear did make her colour rise! First red as roses that on lawn we lay, Then white as lawn, the roses took away. “And how her hand, in my hand being locked, Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear, Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked, Until her husband’s welfare she did hear; Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, Self-love had never drowned him in the flood. “Why hunt I then for colour or excuses? All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth. Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses; Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth. Affection is my captain, and he leadeth; And when his gaudy banner is displayed, The coward fights and will not be dismayed. “Then, childish fear, avaunt! Debating, die! Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age! My heart shall never countermand mine eye. Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize; Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?” As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choked by unresisted lust. Away he steals with opening, list’ning ear, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust; Both which, as servitors to the unjust, So cross him with their opposite persuasion That now he vows a league, and now invasion. Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the self-same seat sits Collatine. That eye which looks on her confounds his wits; That eye which him beholds, as more divine, Unto a view so false will not incline, But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which once corrupted takes the worser part; And therein heartens up his servile powers, Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund show, Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours; And as their captain, so their pride doth grow, Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led, The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforced, retires his ward; But, as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping thief to some regard. The threshold grates the door to have him heard; Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay, And blows the smoke of it into his face, Extinguishing his conduct in this case; But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch, Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch.