SCENE I.--_A Room in the House of_ Collatine.

_A table and a chair covered with black. Enter_ Lucrece _and her_ Maid.

Lucrece. Mirable.

Maid. Madam.

Lucrece. Is not my father, old Lucretius, come yet?

Maid. Not yet.

Lucrece. Nor any from the camp?

Maid. Neither, madam.

Lucrece. Go, begone, And leave me to the truest grief of heart That ever entered any matron’s breast: Oh!

Maid. Why weep you, lady? alas! why do you stain Your modest cheeks with these offensive tears?

Lucrece. Nothing, nay, nothing. O you powerful gods, That should have angels guardants on your throne, To protect innocence and chastity! oh, why Suffer you such inhuman massacre On harmless virtue? wherefore take you charge On sinless souls, to see them wounded thus With rape or violence? or give white innocence Armour of proof ’gainst sin, or by oppression Kill virtue quite, and guerdon base transgression. Is it my fate above all other women, Or is my sin more heinous than the rest, That amongst thousands, millions, infinites, I, only I, should to this shame be born, To be a stain to women, nature’s scorn? Oh!

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?

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.

Valerius. Oh, see yet, lords, if there be hope of life.

Brutus. She’s dead: then turn your funeral tears to fire And indignation; let us now redeem Our misspent time, and overtake our sloth With hostile expedition. This, great lords, This bloody knife, on which her chaste blood flowed, Shall not from Brutus till some strange revenge Fall on the heads of Tarquins.

Horatius. Now’s the time To call their pride to count. Brutus, lead on; We’ll follow thee to their confusion.

Valerius. By Jove, we will! the sprightful youth of Rome, Tricked up in plumèd harness, shall attend The march of Brutus, whom we here create Our general against the Tarquins.

Scevola. Be it so.

Brutus. We embrace it. Now, to stir the wrath of Rome, You, Collatine and good Lucretius, With eyes yet drowned in tears, bear that chaste body Into the market-place; that horrid object Shall kindle them with a most just revenge.

Horatius. To see the father and the husband mourn O’er this chaste dame, that have so well deserved Of Rome and them; then to infer the pride, The wrongs and the perpetual tyranny Of all the Tarquins, Servius Tullius’ death, And his unnatural usage by that monster Tullia, the queen; all these shall well concur In a combined revenge.

Brutus. Lucrece, thy death we’ll mourn in glittering arms And plumèd casques. Some bear that reverend load Unto the Forum, where our force shall meet To set upon the palace, and expel This viperous brood from Rome: I know the people Will gladly embrace our fortunes. Scevola, Go you and muster powers in Brutus’ name. Valerius, you assist him instantly, And to the ’mazèd people speak The cause of this concourse.

Valerius. We go.

[_Exeunt_ Valerius _and_ Scevola.

Brutus. And you, dear lords, whose speechless grief is boundless, Turn all your tears, with ours, to wrath and rage. The hearts of all the Tarquins shall weep blood Upon the funeral hearse, with whose chaste body Honour your arms, and to the assembled people Disclose her innocent wounds. Gramercies, lords! [_A great shout and a flourish with drums and trumpets within_.] That universal shout tells me their words Are gracious with the people, and their troops Are ready embattled, and expect but us To lead them on. Jove give our fortunes speed! We’ll murder murder, and base rape shall bleed.

[_Exeunt_.