Lucrece. Then make my name foul, keep my body pure. Oh, prince of princes, do but weigh your sin; Think how much I shall lose, how small you win. I lose the honour of my name and blood, Loss Rome’s imperial crown cannot make good; You win the world’s shame and all good men’s hate-- Oh, who would pleasure buy at such dear rate? Nor can you term it pleasure, for what’s sweet Where force and hate, jar and contention meet? Weigh but for what ’tis that you urge me still: To gain a woman’s love against her will. You’ll but repent such wrong done a chaste wife, And think that labour’s not worth all your strife, Curse your hot lust, and say you have wronged your friends; But all the world cannot make me amends. I took you for a friend; wrong not my trust, But let these chaste tears quench your fiery lust. Sextus. No; those moist tears, contending with my fire Quench not my heat, but make it climb much higher: I’ll drag thee hence. Lucrece. Oh! Sextus. If thou raise these cries, Lodged in thy slaughtered arms some base groom dies. And Rome, that hath admired thy name so long, Shall blot thy death with scandal from my tongue. Lucrece. Jove guard my innocence! Sextus. Lucrece, thou’rt mine, In spite of Jove and all the powers divine. [_He bears her out_. SCENE IV.--_An Anteroom in_ Collatine’s _House_. _Enter a_ Serving-man. Serving-man. What’s o’clock, trow? my lord bade me be early ready with my gelding, for he would ride betimes in the morning: now had I rather be up an hour before my time than a minute after, for my lord will be so infinitely angry if I but oversleep myself a moment that I had better be out of my life than in his displeasure: but soft, some of my Lord Collatine’s men lie in the next chamber; I care not if I call them up, for it grows towards day. What, Pompey, Pompey! _Enter_ Clown. Clown. Who is that calls? Serving-man. ’Tis I. Clown. Who’s that, my Lord Sextus his man?--what a pox make you up before day? Serving-man. I would have the key of the gate to come at my lord’s horse in the stable. Clown. I would my Lord Sextus and you were both in the hay-loft, for Pompey can take none of his natural rest among you; here’s e’en “Ostler, rise, and give my horse another peck of hay.” Serving-man. Nay, good Pompey, help me to the key of the stable. Clown. Well, Pompey was born to do Rome good in being so kind to the young prince’s gelding, but if for my kindness in giving him pease and oats he should kick me, I should scarce say “God-a-mercy, horse.” But come, I’ll go with thee to the stable. [_Exeunt_. SCENE V.--Sextus’s _Chamber in_ Collatine’s _House_. Sextus _and_ Lucrece _discovered_.