Page 2280 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

And for himself himself he must forsake.
Then where is truth if there be no self-trust?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays [160]

To sland’rous tongues and wretched hateful days?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had clos’d up mortal eyes.
No comfortable star did lend his light,

No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries; [165]
Now serves the season that they may surprise
The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still,
While lust and murder wakes to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed,

Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; [170]
Is madly toss’d between desire and dread:
Th’one sweetly flatters, th’other feareth harm.
But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm,
Doth too too oft betake him to retire,

Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. [175]

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly;
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,

Which must be lodestar to his lustful eye:
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly: [180]
«As from this cold flint I enforc’d this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire».

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate

The dangers of his loathsome enterprise;
And in his inward mind he doth debate [185]
What following sorrow may on this arise.
When looking scornfully, he doth despise

His naked armour of still slaughter’d lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: