Maid. What ails you, madam? truth, you make me weep To see you shed salt tears: what hath oppressed you? Why is your chamber hung with mourning black, Your habit sable, and your eyes thus swollen With ominous tears? Alas! what troubles you? Lucrece. I am not sad; thou didst deceive thyself; I did not weep, there’s nothing troubles me; But wherefore dost thou blush? Maid. Madam, not I. Lucrece. Indeed thou didst, And in that blush my guilt thou didst betray. How cam’st thou by the notice of my sin? Maid. What sin? Lucrece. My blot, my scandal, and my shame. O Tarquin, thou my honour didst betray; Disgrace no time, no age can wipe away! Oh! Maid. Sweet lady, cheer yourself; I’ll fetch my viol, And see if I can sing you fast asleep; A little rest would wear away this passion. Lucrece. Do what thou wilt, I can command no more. Being no more a woman, I am now Devote to death, and an inhabitant Of the other world: these eyes must ever weep Till fate hath closed them with eternal sleep. _Enter_ Brutus, Collatinus, Horatius, Scevola, _and_ Valerius _on one side_, Lucretius _on the other_. Lucretius. Brutus! Brutus. Lucretius! Lucrece. Father! Collatine. Lucrece! Lucrece. Collatine! Brutus. How cheer you, madam? how is’t with you, cousin? Why is your eye deject and drowned in sorrow? Why is this funeral black, and ornaments Of widowhood? resolve me, cousin Lucrece. Horatius. How fare you, lady? Lucretius. What’s the matter, girl? Collatine. Why, how is’t with you, Lucrece? tell me, sweet, Why dost thou hide thy face, and with thy hand Darken those eyes that were my suns of joy, To make my pleasures flourish in the spring? Lucrece. O me! Valerius. Whence are these sighs and tears? Scevola. How grows this passion? Brutus. Speak, lady; you are hemmed in with your friends. Girt in a pale of safety, and environed And circled in a fortress of your kindred. Let not those drops fall fruitless to the ground, Nor let your sighs add to the senseless wind. Speak, who hath wronged you? Lucrece. Ere I speak my woe, Swear you’ll revenge poor Lucrece on her foe. Brutus. Be his head arched with gold. Horatius. Be his hand armed With an imperial sceptre. Lucretius. Be he great As Tarquin, throned in an imperial seat. Brutus. Be he no more than mortal, he shall feel The vengeful edge of this victorious steel. Lucrece. Then seat you, lords, whilst I express my wrong. Father, dear husband, and my kinsmen lords, Hear me; I am dishonoured and disgraced, My reputation mangled, my renown Disparaged,--but my body, oh, my body! Collatine. What, Lucrece?