Lucrece. Stained, polluted, and defiled. Strange steps are found in my adulterate bed, And, though my thoughts be white as innocence, Yet is my body soiled with lust-burnt sin, And by a stranger I am strumpeted, Ravished, enforced, and am no more to rank Among the Roman matrons. Brutus. Yet cheer you, lady, and restrain these tears. If you were forced the sin concerns not you; A woman’s born but with a woman’s strength. Who was the ravisher? Horatius. Ay, name him, lady: Our love to you shall only thus appear, In the revenge that we will take on him. Lucrece. I hope so, lords. ’Twas Sextus, the king’s son. All. How! Sextus Tarquin! Lucrece. That unprincely prince, Who guest-wise entered with my husband’s ring. This ring, O Collatine! this ring you sent Is cause of all my woe, your discontent. I feasted him, then lodged him, and bestowed My choicest welcome; but in dead of night My traitorous guest came armed unto my bed, Frighted my silent sleep, threatened, and prayed For entertainment: I despisèd both. Which hearing, his sharp-pointed scimitar The tyrant bent against my naked breast. Alas! I begged my death; but note his tyranny: He brought with him a torment worse than death, For, having murdered me, he swore to kill One of my basest grooms, and lodge him dead In my dead arms, then call in testimony Of my adultery, to make me hated, Even in my death, of husband, father, friends, Of Rome, and all the world. This, this, O princes, Ravished and killed me at once. Collatine. Yet comfort, lady; I quit thy guilt, for what could Lucrece do More than a woman? hadst thou died polluted By this base scandal, thou hadst wronged thy fame: And hindered us of a most just revenge. All. What shall we do, lords? Brutus. Lay your resolute hands Upon the sword of Brutus; vow and swear, As you hope meed for merit from the gods, Or fear reward for sin from devils below, As you are Romans, and esteem your fame More than your lives, all humorous toys set off, Of madding, singing, smiling, and what else, Revive your native valours, be yourselves, And join with Brutus in the just revenge Of this chaste ravished lady;--swear! All. We do. Lucrece. Then with your humours here my grief ends too: My stain I thus wipe off, call in my sighs, And in the hope of this revenge, forbear Even to my death to fall[5.64] one passionate tear; Yet, lords, that you may crown my innocence With your best thoughts, that you may henceforth know We are the same in heart we seem in show, And though I quit my soul of all such sin, [_The_ Lords _whisper_. I’ll not debar my body punishment. Let all the world learn of a Roman dame, To prize her life less than her honoured fame. [_Stabs herself_. Lucretius. Lucrece! Collatine. Wife! Brutus. Lady! Scevola. She hath slain herself.