Lucrece. Dream I, or am I full awake? oh, no! I know I dream to see Prince Sextus so. Sweet lord, awake me, rid me from this terror. I know you for a prince, a gentleman, Royal and honest, one that loves my lord, And would not wreck a woman’s chastity For Rome’s imperial diadem. Oh, then, Pardon this dream; for, being awake, I know Prince Sextus, Rome’s great hope, would not for shame Havoc his own worth, or despoil my fame. Sextus. I’m bent on both; my thoughts are all on fire: Choose thee; thou must embrace death or desire. Yet do I love thee. Wilt thou accept it? Lucrece. No. Sextus. If not thy love, thou must enjoy thy foe. Where fair means cannot, force shall make my way: By Jove, I must enjoy thee! Lucrece. Sweet lord, stay. Sextus. I’m all impatience, violence and rage, And, save thy bed, nought can this fire assuage. Wilt love me? Lucrece. No, I cannot. Sextus. Tell me why? Lucrece. Hate me, and in that hate first let me die. Sextus. By Jove, I’ll force thee! Lucrece. By a god you swear To do a devil’s deed. Sweet lord, forbear. By the same Jove I swear, that made this soul, Never to yield unto an act so foul. Help, help! Sextus. These pillows first shall stop thy breath, If thou but shriekest: hark how I’ll frame thy death-- Lucrece. For death I care not, so I keep unstained The uncrazed[5.60] honour I have yet maintained. Sextus. Thou canst keep neither, for if thou but squeakest Or lett’st the least harsh noise jar in my ear, I’ll broach thee on my steel; that done, straight murder One of thy basest grooms, and lay you both, Grasped arm in arm, on thy adulterate bed, Then call in witness of that mechal[5.61] sin. So shalt thou die, thy death be scandalous, Thy name be odious, thy suspected body Denied all funeral rites, and loving Collatine Shall hate thee even in death: then save all this, And to thy fortunes add another friend, Give thy fears comfort, and these torments end. Lucrece. I’ll die first; and yet hear me. As you’re noble, If all your goodness and best generous thoughts Be not exiled your heart, pity, oh, pity The virtues of a woman; mar not that Cannot be made again; this once defiled, Not all the ocean waves can purify Or wash my stain away: you seek to soil That which the radiant splendour of the sun Cannot make bright again. Behold my tears; Oh, think them pearlèd drops, distilled from the heart Of soul-chaste Lucrece; think them orators, To plead the cause of absent Collatine, Your friend and kinsman. Sextus. Tush, I am obdure.