Page 2314 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining.
«My girl», quoth she, «on what occasion break [1270]
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining?

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

«But tell me, girl, when went» − and there she stay’d, [1275]

Till after a deep groan − «Tarquin from hence?»
«Madam, ere I was up», replied the maid,
«The more to blame my sluggard negligence.
Yet with the fault I can thus far dispense:
Myself was stirring ere the break of day, [1280]

And ere I rose was Tarquin gone away.

«But lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness».
«O peace», quoth Lucrece, «if it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less; [1285]

For more it is than I can well express,
And that deep torture may be call’d a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

«Go get me hither paper, ink and pen;

Yet save that labour, for I have them here. [1290]
− What should I say? − One of my husband’s men
Bid thou be ready by and by to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear:

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;
The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ». [1295]

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o’er the paper with her quill;
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight,

What wit sets down is blotted straight with will:
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill. [1300]