莎士比亚《鲁克丽丝受辱记》

When at Collatium this false lord arrived,

Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame,

Within whose face Beauty and Virtue strived

Which of them both should underprop  her fame.

When Virtue bragged, Beauty would blush for shame,

When Beauty boasted blushes, in despite 

Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.

But Beauty, in that white intitulèd  ,

From Venus' doves  doth challenge that fair  field  .

Then Virtue claims from Beauty Beauty's red  ,

Which Virtue gave the golden age  to gild 

Their silver cheeks and called it then their shield  ,

Teaching them thus to use it in the fight:

When shame assailed  , the red should fence  the white.

This heraldry  in Lucrece' face was seen,

Argued  by Beauty's red and Virtue's white:

Of either's colour was the other queen,

Proving from world's minority  their right.

Yet their ambition makes them still  to fight,

The sov'reignty of either being so great

That oft they interchange each other's seat  .

This silent war of lilies and of roses,

Which Tarquin viewed in her fair face's field,

In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses  ,

Where, lest between them both it should be killed,

The coward captive vanquishèd doth yield

To those two armies that would let him go

Rather than triumph in  so false a foe.

Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue,

The niggard prodigal  that praised her so,

In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show.

Therefore that praise, which Collatine doth owe  ,

Enchanted Tarquin answers  with surmise  ,

In silent wonder of still-gazing  eyes.

This earthly saint, adorèd by this devil,

Little suspecteth the false worshipper:

For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil.

Birds never limed  no secret  bushes fear:

So guiltless she securely  gives good cheer 

And reverend  welcome to her princely guest,

Whose inward ill no outward harm expressed.

For that  he coloured  with his high estate,

Hiding base sin in pleats  of majesty,

That  nothing in him seemed inordinate  ,

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

Which, having all, all could not satisfy;

But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store 

That, cloyed with much, he pineth  still for more.

But she that never coped  with stranger  eyes

Could pick no meaning from their parling  looks,

Nor read the subtle shining secrecies 

Writ in the glassy margents  of such books:

She touched no  unknown baits, nor feared no hooks,

Nor could she moralize  his wanton sight 

More than his eyes were opened to the light  .

He stories  to her ears her husband's fame,

Won in the fields of fruitful Italy,

And decks  with praises Collatine's high name,

Made glorious by his manly chivalry

With bruisèd arms  and wreaths of victory.

Her joy with heaved-up  hand she doth express,

And wordless so greets  heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,

He makes excuses for his being there.

No cloudy show of stormy blust'ring weather

Doth yet in his fair  welkin  once appear

Till sable  night, mother of dread and fear,

Upon the world dim darkness doth display

And in her vaulty  prison stows  the day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,

Intending  weariness with heavy sprite  ,

For after supper long he questionèd 

With modest Lucrece and wore out  the night.

Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight

And everyone to rest themselves betake  ,

Save thieves and cares  and troubled minds that wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving 

The sundry  dangers of his will's obtaining  ,

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

Though weak-built hopes  persuade him to abstaining:

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining 

And when great treasure  is the meed  proposed,

Though death be adjunct  , there's no death supposed  .

Those that much covet are with gain so fond 

That what they have not, that which they possess

They scatter and unloose it from their bond  ,

And so by hoping  more they have but less,

Or gaining more, the profit of excess

Is but to surfeit  , and such griefs sustain 

That they prove bankrupt in this poor rich gain.

The aim of all is but to nurse the life

With honour, wealth and ease in waning age,

And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,

That one for all or all for one we gage  :

As  life for honour in fell  battle's rage,

Honour for wealth and oft that wealth doth cost

The death of all and all together lost.

So that in vent'ring ill  , we leave  to be

The things we are for that which we expect  :

And this ambitious foul infirmity  ,

In having much, torments us with defect 

Of that we have: so then we do neglect

The thing we have and, all for want of wit  ,

Make something nothing by augmenting  it.

Such hazard  now must doting  Tarquin make,

Pawning his honour to obtain his lust,

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

To sland'rous tongues and wretched hateful days?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,

When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes.

No comfortable  star did lend his light,

No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries  .

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 leapt from his bed,

Throwing his mantle  rudely  o'er his arm,

Is madly tossed between desire and dread:

Th'one sweetly flatters, th'other feareth harm,

But honest fear, bewitched with lust's foul charm,

Doth too too oft betake him to retire  ,

Beaten away by brainsick rude  desire.

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  ,

'As from this cold flint I enforced 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

What following sorrow may on this arise.

Then looking scornfully, he doth despise

His naked armour of still-slaughtered lust 

And justly  thus controls his thoughts unjust:

'Fair torch, burn out thy light and lend it not

To darken her whose light excelleth thine,

And die, unhallowed  thoughts, before you blot

With your uncleanness that which is divine.

Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine.

Let fair humanity abhor the deed

That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed  .

'O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!

O foul dishonour to my household's grave  !

O impious act, including all foul harms!

A martial man to be soft  fancy's  slave!

True valour still  a true respect should have,

Then my digression  is so vile, so base,

That it will live engraven in my face.

'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive

And be an eyesore in my golden coat  :

Some loathsome dash  the herald will contrive

To cipher me  how fondly  I did dote  ,

That my posterity, shamed with the note  ,

Shall curse my bones and hold it for  no sin

To wish that I their father had not been.

'What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?

A dream, a breath, a froth  of fleeting joy.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week?

Or sells eternity to get a toy  ?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?

Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,

Would with the sceptre straight  be strucken down?

'If Collatinus dream of my intent,

Will he not wake and in a desp'rate rage

Post  hither, this vile purpose to prevent?

This siege that hath engirt  his marriage,

This blur  to youth, this sorrow to the sage,

This dying virtue, this surviving shame,

Whose crime will bear an ever-during  blame?

'O, what excuse can my invention  make,

When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forgo their light  , my false heart bleed?

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed  ,

And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly  ,

But coward-like with trembling terror die.

'Had Collatinus killed my son or sire  ,

Or lain in ambush to betray my life,

Or were he not my dear friend, this desire

Might have excuse to work upon  his wife,

As in revenge or quittal  of such strife.

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,

The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

'Shameful it is: ay, if the fact  be known,

Hateful it is: there is no hate in loving.

I'll beg her love, but she is not her own  :

The worst is but denial and reproving.

My will  is strong, past reason's weak removing  :

Who  fears a sentence  or an old man's saw 

Shall by a painted cloth  be kept in awe.'

Thus, graceless  , holds he disputation 

'Tween frozen conscience and hot burning will,

And with good thoughts make dispensation  ,

Urging the worser sense for vantage still  ,

Which in a moment doth confound  and kill

All pure effects  , and doth so far proceed

That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

Quoth  he, 'She took me kindly by the hand

And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes,

Fearing some hard  news from the warlike band,

Where her belovèd Collatinus lies.

O, how her fear did make her colour rise!

First red as roses that on lawn  we lay,

Then white as lawn, the roses took  away.

'And how her hand, in my hand being locked,

Forced it  to tremble with her loyal fear!

Which  struck her sad and then it  faster rocked,

Until her husband's welfare she did hear,

Whereat she smilèd with so sweet a cheer

That, had Narcissus  seen her as she stood,

Self-love had never drowned him in the flood.

'Why hunt I then for colour  or excuses?

All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth,

Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses  ,

Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth:

Affection  is my captain and he leadeth,

And when his gaudy  banner is displayed,

The coward  fights and will not be dismayed  .

'Then, childish fear, avaunt  ! Debating, die! 

Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age!

My heart shall never countermand  mine eye;

Sad  pause and deep regard beseems  the sage:

My part is youth and beats these from the stage.

Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize:

Then who fears sinking  where such treasure lies?'

As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful  fear

Is almost choked by unresisted  lust:

Away he steals with open list'ning ear,

Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust  ,

Both which, as servitors  to the unjust,

So cross  him with their opposite persuasion 

That now he vows a league  and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,

And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine.

That eye which looks on her confounds his wits  ,

That eye which him beholds, as more divine  ,

Unto a view  so false will not incline  ,

But with a pure appeal seeks  to the heart,

Which once corrupted takes the worser part,

And therein heartens up  his servile powers   ,

Who, flattered by their leader's jocund  show,

Stuff up  his lust, as minutes fill up hours,

And as their captain, so their pride  doth grow,

Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

By reprobate  desire thus madly led,

The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed.

The locks between her chamber  and his will  ,

Each one by him enforced, retires his ward  ,

But as they open they all rate his ill  ,

Which drives the creeping thief to some regard  :

The threshold grates the door to have him heard  ,

Night-wand'ring weasels  shriek to see him there,

They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal  yields him way,

Through little vents and crannies of the place,

The wind wars with his torch to make him stay 

And blows the smoke of it into his face,

Extinguishing his conduct  in this case  .

But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,

Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch,

And, being lighted, by the light he spies

Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle  sticks.

He takes it from the rushes  where it lies,

And gripping it, the needle his finger pricks,

As who should  say, 'This glove to wanton tricks 

Is not inured  . Return again in haste,

Thou see'st our mistress' ornaments  are chaste.'

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him.

He in the worst sense consters  their denial  :

The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him,

He takes for accidental things of trial  ,

Or as those bars  which stop the hourly dial,

Who with a ling'ring stay his course doth let 

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

'So, so,' quoth he, 'these lets attend  the time,

Like little frosts that sometime threat  the spring

To add a more  rejoicing to the prime 

And give the sneapèd  birds more cause to sing.

Pain pays the income  of each precious thing:

Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves  and sands,

The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.'

Now is he come unto the chamber door

That shuts him from the heaven  of his thought  ,

Which with a yielding latch and with no more

Hath barred him from the blessèd thing  he sought.

So from  himself impiety hath wrought 

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,

Having solicited th'eternal power

That his foul  thoughts might compass  his fair fair,

And they  would stand auspicious  to the hour,

Even there he starts  . Quoth he, 'I must deflow'r.

The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact:

How can they then assist me in the act  ?

'Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide.

My will is backed with resolution:

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried,

The blackest sin is cleared  with absolution  ,

Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution  .

The eye of heaven  is out  , and misty night

Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.'

This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch,

And with his knee the door he opens wide  .

The dove sleeps fast  that this night owl will catch.

Thus treason works  ere traitors be espied.

Who  sees the lurking serpent steps aside,

But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,

Lies at the mercy of his mortal  sting  .

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks 

And gazeth on her yet unstainèd bed:

The curtains  being close  , about he walks,

Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head.

By their high treason  is his heart misled,

Which gives the watchword  to his hand full  soon

To draw the cloud  that hides the silver moon  .

Look as  the fair and fiery-pointed sun,

Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves  our sight,

Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun

To wink  , being blinded with a greater light.

Whether it is that she reflects so bright 

That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,

But blind they are and keep themselves enclosed  .

O, had they in that darksome prison  died

Then had they seen the period  of their ill:

Then Collatine again, by Lucrece' side,

In his clear  bed might have reposèd still.

But they must ope  this blessèd league  to kill,

And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight

Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

Coz'ning  the pillow of a lawful kiss,

Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder  ,

Swelling  on either side to want his  bliss,

Between whose hills her head entombèd is,

Where like a virtuous monument  she lies,

To be admired of  lewd  unhallowed  eyes.

Without  the bed her other fair hand was

On the green coverlet, whose perfect white

Showed like an April daisy on the grass

With pearly sweat resembling dew of night.

Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light 

And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay

Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair like golden threads played with her breath —

O modest wantons, wanton modesty! —

Showing life's triumph in the map  of death

And death's dim look in life's mortality  .

Each  in her sleep themselves so beautify,

As if between them twain  there were no strife,

But that life lived in death and death in life.

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,

A pair of maiden  worlds unconquerèd,

Save of their lord no bearing yoke  they knew,

And him by oath they truly honourèd.

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred,

Who like a foul usurper went about

From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see but mightily he noted?

What did he note but strongly he desired?

What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,

And in his will  his wilful eye he tired  .

With more than admiration he admired

Her azure  veins, her alabaster  skin,

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim  lion fawneth o'er his prey,

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay  ,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified  ,

Slaked  , not suppressed, for standing by her side,

His eye, which late  this mutiny restrains,

Unto a greater uproar  tempts his veins.

And they, like straggling slaves  for pillage  fighting,

Obdurate  vassals  fell  exploits effecting  ,

In bloody death and ravishment  delighting,

Nor children's tears nor  mothers' groans respecting  ,

Swell in their pride  , the onset  still expecting.

Anon  his beating heart, alarum  striking,

Gives the hot charge  and bids them do their liking  .

His drumming heart cheers up  his burning eye,

His eye commends  the leading to his hand,

His hand, as proud of such a dignity,

Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand 

On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,

Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale  ,

Left their round turrets destitute and pale.

They, must'ring  to the quiet cabinet 

Where their dear governess and lady lies,

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset 

And fright her with confusion of their cries.

She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes,

Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,

Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled.

Imagine her as one in dead of night

From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,

That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly  sprite  ,

Whose grim aspect  sets every joint a-shaking —

What terror 'tis! But she, in worser taking  ,

From sleep disturbèd, heedfully  doth view

The sight which makes supposèd  terror true.

Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears,

Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies:

She dares not look, yet winking  there appears

Quick-shifting  antics  , ugly in her eyes:

Such shadows  are the weak brain's forgeries  ,

Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,

In darkness daunts  them with more dreadful sights.

His hand that yet remains upon her breast —

Rude ram  to batter such an ivory wall —

May feel her heart (poor citizen  ) distressed,

Wounding itself to death  , rise up and fall,

Beating her bulk  that  his hand shakes withal  .

This moves in him more rage and lesser pity

To make the breach  and enter this sweet city.

First like a trumpet doth his tongue begin

To sound a parley  to his heartless  foe,

Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,

The reason of this rash alarm  to know,

Which he by dumb demeanour  seeks to show.

But she with vehement prayers urgeth  still

Under what colour  he commits this ill.

Thus he replies, 'The colour in thy face,

That even for anger makes the lily pale

And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,

Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale  .

Under that colour am I come to scale

Thy never-conquered fort: the fault is thine,

For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

'Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide  :

Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night,

Where thou with patience must my will  abide  ,

My will that marks thee for my earth's delight,

Which  I to conquer sought with all my might,

But as reproof and reason beat it dead,

By thy bright beauty was it newly bred  .

'I see what crosses  my attempt will bring,

I know what thorns the growing rose defends,

I think the honey  guarded with a sting:

All this beforehand counsel  comprehends.

But will is deaf and hears no heedful friends,

Only he hath  an eye to gaze on beauty,

And dotes on what he looks, gainst law or duty.

'I have debated, even in my soul,

What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed

But nothing can affection's course control

Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.

I know repentant tears ensue  the deed,

Reproach, disdain and deadly enmity,

Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy  .'

This said, he shakes  aloft his Roman blade  ,

Which, like a falcon  tow'ring in the skies,

Coucheth  the fowl below with his wings' shade,

Whose  crooked beak threats if he mount  he dies.

So under his insulting  falchion  lies

Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells

With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcons' bells  .

'Lucrece,' quoth he, 'this night I must enjoy thee.

If thou deny  , then force must work my way,

For in thy bed I purpose to destroy  thee.

That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay,

To kill thine honour with thy life's decay,

And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,

Swearing I slew him seeing thee embrace him.

'So thy surviving husband shall remain

The scornful mark  of every open eye,

Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,

Thy issue blurred  with nameless  bastardy;

And thou, the author of their obloquy  ,

Shalt have thy trespass  cited up in rhymes

And sung by children in succeeding times.

'But if thou yield, I rest  thy secret friend  :

The fault unknown is as a thought unacted,

A little harm done to a great good end

For lawful policy remains enacted  .

The poisonous simple  sometime is compacted 

In a pure compound, being so applied

His venom in effect is purified.

'Then, for thy husband and thy children's sake,

Tender my suit  , bequeath not to their lot

The shame that from them no device  can take,

The blemish that will never be forgot,

Worse than a slavish wipe  or birth-hour's blot  :

For marks descried  in men's nativity

Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.'

Here with a cockatrice  ' dead-killing eye

He rouseth up himself  and makes a pause,

While she, the picture of pure piety,

Like a white hind  under the gripe  's sharp claws,

Pleads  in a wilderness where are no laws

To the rough beast that knows no gentle  right

Nor aught  obeys but his foul appetite.

But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat,

In his dim mist th'aspiring mountains hiding,

From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get  ,

Which blows these pitchy  vapours from their biding  ,

Hind'ring their present fall  by this dividing,

So his unhallowed  haste her words delays,

And moody Pluto  winks  while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally  ,

While in his holdfast  foot the weak mouse panteth.

Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly  ,

A swallowing gulf  that even in plenty wanteth.

His ear her prayers admits  , but his heart granteth

No penetrable  entrance to her plaining  :

Tears harden  lust, though marble wear with raining.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed

In the remorseless wrinkles of his face.

Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed,

Which to her oratory adds more grace.

She puts the period  often from his place  ,

And midst the sentence so her accent  breaks

That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks.

She conjures him by  high almighty Jove  ,

By knighthood, gentry  and sweet friendship's oath,

By her untimely  tears, her husband's love,

By holy human law and common troth  ,

By heaven and earth and all the power of both,

That to his borrowed  bed he make retire 

And stoop  to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, 'Reward not hospitality

With such black payment as thou hast pretended  ,

Mud  not the fountain that gave drink to thee,

Mar  not the thing  that cannot be amended,

End thy ill aim  before thy shoot  be ended  .

He is no woodman  that doth bend his bow

To strike  a poor unseasonable  doe.

'My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me.

Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me:

Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me.

Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me.

My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave  thee.

If ever man were moved  with woman's moans,

Be movèd with my tears, my sighs, my groans,

'All which together, like a troubled ocean,

Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threat'ning  heart,

To soften it with their continual motion,

For stones dissolved to water do convert.

O, if no harder than a stone thou art,

Melt at my tears and be compassionate:

Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

'In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee:

Hast thou put on his shape  to do him shame?

To all the host of heaven I complain me.

Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely name:

Thou art not what thou seem'st, and if the same,

Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king,

For kings like gods should govern everything  .

'How will thy shame be seeded  in thine age

When thus thy vices bud before thy spring?

If in thy hope  thou dar'st do such outrage  ,

What dar'st thou not when once thou art a king?

O, be remembered, no outrageous thing

From vassal actors  can be wiped away,

Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay  .

'This deed will make thee only loved for  fear,

But happy  monarchs still  are feared  for love.

With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,

When they in thee the like offences prove  .

If but for fear of this, thy will remove  .

For princes are the glass  , the school, the book,

Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look.

'And wilt thou be the school where lust shall learn?

Must he in thee read lectures  of such shame?

Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern

Authority for sin, warrant  for blame,

To privilege  dishonour in thy name?

Thou back'st  reproach against long-living laud 

And mak'st fair reputation but a bawd  .

'Hast thou command  ? By him that gave it thee,

From a pure heart command thy rebel will:

Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity  ,

For it was lent thee all that brood  to kill.

Thy princely office  how canst thou fulfil,

When, patterned by  thy fault, foul sin may say,

He learned to sin and thou didst teach the way?

'Think but how vile a spectacle it were

To view thy present trespass in another.

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear:

Their own transgressions partially they smother.

This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother.

O, how are they wrapped in with infamies 

That from their own misdeeds askance  their eyes!

'To thee, to thee, my heaved-up  hands appeal,

Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier  .

I sue for exiled majesty's repeal  :

Let him return and flatt'ring  thoughts retire.

His true respect  will prison false desire

And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne  ,

That thou shalt see thy state  and pity mine.'

'Have done', quoth he. 'My uncontrollèd tide

Turns not, but swells  the higher by this let  .

Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide

And with the wind in greater fury fret:

The petty streams that pay a daily debt

To their salt sovereign  with their fresh falls' haste

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.'

'Thou art', quoth she, 'a sea, a sovereign king,

And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood

Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,

Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood  .

If all these petty ills shall change thy good,

Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hearsed  ,

And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed.

'So shall these slaves  be king and thou their slave,

Thou nobly base, they basely dignified,

Thou their fair life and they thy fouler grave,

Thou loathèd in their shame, they in thy pride.

The lesser thing should not the greater hide.

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,

But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.

'So let thy thoughts, low vassals  to thy state —'

'No more', quoth he, 'by heaven, I will not hear thee.

Yield to my love. If not, enforcèd hate

Instead of love's coy  touch shall rudely tear thee.

That done, despitefully  I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom 

To be thy partner in this shameful doom  .'

This said, he sets his foot upon the light,

For light and lust are deadly enemies:

Shame folded up in blind concealing night,

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.

The wolf hath seized  his prey, the poor lamb cries,

Till with her own white fleece  her voice controlled 

Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold  .

For with the nightly linen  that she wears

He pens her piteous clamours in her head,

Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.

O, that prone  lust should stain so pure a bed,

The spots whereof could weeping  purify,

Her tears should drop on them perpetually!

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life

And he hath won what he would lose again:

This forcèd league  doth force a further strife,

This momentary joy breeds months of pain,

This hot desire converts to cold disdain,

Pure chastity is rifled  of her store,

And lust, the thief, far poorer than before.

Look as the full-fed hound or gorgèd  hawk,

Unapt  for tender smell or speedy flight,

Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk 

The prey wherein by nature they delight:

So surfeit-taking  Tarquin fares this night:

His taste delicious, in digestion souring,

Devours his will that lived by foul devouring.

O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit 

Can comprehend in still imagination  !

Drunken desire must vomit his receipt  ,

Ere he can see his own abomination.

While lust is in his pride  , no exclamation 

Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire,

Till like a jade  self-will himself doth tire.

And then with lank and lean discoloured cheek,

With heavy eye, knit brow and strengthless pace,

Feeble desire, all recreant  , poor and meek,

Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case:

The flesh being proud  , desire doth fight with grace,

For there  it revels  and when that decays  ,

The guilty rebel for remission  prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,

Who this accomplishment so hotly chased,

For now against himself he sounds this doom  ,

That through the length of times he stands disgraced.

Besides, his soul's fair temple is defaced,

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,

To ask the spotted princess  how she fares.

She says her subjects  with foul insurrection

Have battered down her consecrated wall,

And by their mortal  fault brought in subjection

Her immortality and made her thrall 

To living death and pain perpetual,

Which in her prescience  she controllèd still  ,

But  her foresight could not forestall their will.

Ev'n in this thought through the dark night he stealeth,

A captive victor that hath lost in gain,

Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,

The scar that will, despite of cure, remain,

Leaving his spoil  perplexed  in greater pain.

She bears the load of lust  he left behind,

And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence,

She like a wearied lamb lies panting there.

He scowls and hates himself for his offence,

She, desperate  , with her nails her flesh doth tear.

He faintly flies  , sweating with guilty fear,

She stays, exclaiming on  the direful night.

He runs and chides his vanished, loathed delight.

He thence departs a heavy convertite  ,

She there remains a hopeless castaway  .

He in his speed looks for the morning light,

She prays she never may behold the day.

'For day', quoth she, 'Night's scapes  doth open lay  ,

And my true eyes have never practised how

To cloak offences with a cunning brow  .

'They think not but  that every eye can see

The same disgrace which they themselves behold,

And therefore would they still in darkness be  ,

To have their unseen sin remain untold.

For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,

And grave  , like water that doth eat in steel,

Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.'

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,

And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast

And bids it leap from thence, where it may find

Some purer chest to close  so pure a mind.

Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite 

Against the unseen secrecy of night:

'O comfort-killing Night! Image of hell!

Dim register  and notary  of shame!

Black stage  for tragedies and murders fell  !

Vast sin-concealing chaos  ! Nurse of blame  !

Blind, muffled bawd! Dark harbour for defame  !

Grim cave of death! Whisp'ring conspirator

With close-tongued  treason and the ravisher!

'O hateful, vaporous and foggy Night!

Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,

Muster  thy mists to meet the eastern light,

Make war against proportioned course of time  ,

Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb

His wonted  height, yet ere he go to bed,

Knit  poisonous clouds about his golden head.

'With rotten damps  ravish  the morning air,

Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick

The life  of purity, the supreme fair,

Ere he arrive  his weary noontide prick  ,

And let thy musty vapours march so thick

That in their smoky ranks his smothered light

May set at noon and make perpetual night.

'Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's child,

The silver-shining queen  he would distain  .

Her twinkling handmaids  too, by him defiled,

Through Night's black bosom should not peep again.

So should I have co-partners in my pain,

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,

As palmers  ' chat makes short their pilgrimage.

'Where now I have no one to blush with me,

To cross their arms  and hang their heads with mine,

To mask their brows and hide their infamy,

But I alone alone must sit and pine  ,

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine,

Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,

Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans  .

'O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking  smoke,

Let not the jealous day behold that face

Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak

Immodestly lies martyred with disgrace.

Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,

That all the faults which in thy reign are made

May likewise be sepulchred  in thy shade.

'Make me not object  to the tell-tale day:

The light will show, charactered in my brow,

The story of sweet chastity's decay,

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow.

Yea, the illiterate, that know not how

To cipher  what is writ in learnèd books,

Will quote  my loathsome trespass  in my looks.

'The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story

And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name.

The orator, to deck  his oratory,

Will couple  my reproach to Tarquin's shame.

Feast-finding minstrels  , tuning my defame  ,

Will tie  the hearers to attend each line,

How Tarquin wrongèd me, I Collatine  .

'Let my good name, that senseless reputation  ,

For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted.

If that be made a theme for disputation  ,

The branches of another root  are rotted,

And undeserved reproach to him allotted

That is as clear  from this attaint  of mine

As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.

'O unseen shame! Invisible disgrace!

O unfelt sore! Crest-wounding  , private scar!

Reproach is stamped in Collatinus' face,

And Tarquin's eye may read the mot  afar,

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.

Alas, how many bear such shameful blows,

Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows.

'If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

From me by strong assault it is bereft  :

My honey lost and I, a drone-like  bee,

Have no perfection  of my summer left,

But robbed and ransacked by injurious  theft.

In thy weak hive a wand'ring wasp hath crept

And sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

'Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack  ,

Yet for thy honour did I entertain him  :

Coming from thee, I could not put him back  ,

For it had been dishonour to disdain  him.

Besides, of weariness he did complain him

And talked of virtue — O unlooked-for evil

When virtue is profaned in such a devil!

'Why should the worm  intrude the maiden bud?

Or hateful cuckoos  hatch in sparrows' nests?

Or toads infect fair founts  with venom  mud?

Or tyrant folly  lurk in gentle  breasts?

Or kings be breakers of their own behests  ?

But no perfection is so absolute

That some impurity doth not pollute.

'The agèd man that coffers up  his gold

Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits

And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,

But like still-pining  Tantalus  he sits

And useless barns  the harvest of his wits,

Having no other pleasure of his gain

But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

'So then he hath it when he cannot use it

And leaves it to be mastered by his young,

Who in their pride do presently  abuse it:

Their father was too weak and they too strong

To hold their cursèd-blessèd fortune long.

The sweets we wish for turn to loathèd sours

Even in the moment that we call them ours.

'Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring,

Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers,

The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing,

What virtue breeds iniquity devours.

We have no good that we can say is ours,

But ill-annexèd Opportunity 

Or kills his life or  else his quality  .

'O Opportunity, thy guilt is great!

'Tis thou that execut'st  the traitor's treason:

Thou sets  the wolf where he the lamb may get.

Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st  the season  .

'Tis thou that spurn'st  at right, at law, at reason,

And in thy shady cell  , where none may spy him,

Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.

'Thou mak'st the vestal  violate her oath,

Thou blow'st the fire when temperance  is thawed,

Thou smother'st honesty  ; thou murd'rest troth  :

Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd,

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud  .

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,

Thy honey turns to gall  , thy joy to grief.

'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,

Thy private feasting to a public fast,

Thy smoothing  titles to a ragged name  ,

Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood  taste:

Thy violent vanities  can never last.

How comes it then, vile Opportunity,

Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's  friend

And bring him where his suit may be obtained?

When wilt thou sort  an hour great strifes to end?

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained?

Give physic  to the sick? Ease to the pained?

The poor, lame, blind, halt  , creep, cry out for thee,

But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.

'The patient dies while the physician sleeps,

The orphan pines  while the oppressor feeds.

Justice is feasting while the widow weeps,

Advice  is sporting  while infection breeds.

Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds.

Wrath, envy, treason, rape and murder's rages,

Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages  .

'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,

A thousand crosses  keep them from thy aid.

They buy thy help, but Sin ne'er gives a fee:

He gratis  comes and thou art well apaid 

As well to hear as grant what he hath said.

My Collatine would else  have come to me

When Tarquin did, but he was stayed  by thee.

'Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,

Guilty of perjury and subornation  ,

Guilty of treason, forgery and shift  ,

Guilty of incest, that abomination:

An accessary by thine inclination 

To all sins past and all that are to come,

From the creation to the general doom  .

'Misshapen Time, copesmate  of ugly Night,

Swift subtle post  , carrier  of grisly care,

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes  , sin's packhorse  , virtue's snare,

Thou nursest all and murd'rest all that are.

O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time,

Be guilty of my death, since of  my crime.

'Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,

Betrayed the hours thou gav'st me to repose?

Cancelled my fortunes and enchainèd me

To endless date  of never-ending woes?

Time's office  is to fine  the hate of foes,

To eat up errors by opinion  bred,

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

'Time's glory is to calm contending  kings,

To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,

To stamp the seal of time in agèd things,

To wake the morn and sentinel  the night,

To wrong the wronger till he render right,

To ruinate  proud buildings with thy hours

And smear with dust their glitt'ring golden towers,

'To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,

To feed oblivion with decay of things,

To blot old books and alter their contents,

To pluck the quills  from ancient ravens' wings,

To dry the old oak's sap and cherish springs  ,

To spoil antiquities of hammered steel

And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel  ,

'To show the beldame  daughters of her daughter,

To make the child a man, the man a child  ,

To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,

To tame the unicorn and lion wild,

To mock the subtle  in themselves beguiled  ,

To cheer the ploughman with increaseful  crops

And waste  huge stones with little water drops.

'Why work'st thou mischief  in thy pilgrimage,

Unless thou couldst return to make amends?

One poor retiring  minute in an age

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,

Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends  .

O, this dread Night, wouldst thou one hour come back,

I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack.

'Thou ceaseless lackey  to eternity,

With some mischance cross  Tarquin in his flight,

Devise extremes beyond extremity

To make him curse this cursèd crimeful night,

Let ghastly  shadows his lewd  eyes affright,

And the dire thought of his committed evil

Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.

'Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances  ,

Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans,

Let there bechance  him pitiful mischances

To make him moan, but pity not his moans.

Stone him with hardened hearts harder than stones,

And let mild women to him lose their mildness,

Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

'Let him have time to tear his curlèd hair,

Let him have time against himself to rave,

Let him have time of Time's help to despair,

Let him have time to live a loathèd slave,

Let him have time a beggar's orts  to crave,

And time to see one that by alms doth live 

Disdain to him disdainèd  scraps to give  .

'Let him have time to see his friends his foes

And merry fools to mock at him resort  ,

Let him have time to mark how slow time goes

In time of sorrow and how swift and short

His time of folly and his time of sport  .

And ever let his unrecalling  crime

Have time to wail th'abusing  of his time.

'O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,

Teach me to curse him that  thou taught'st this ill.

At his own shadow let the thief run mad,

Himself himself seek every hour to kill:

Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill,

For who so base would such an office have

As sland'rous deathsman  to so base a slave?

'The baser is he, coming  from a king,

To shame his hope  with deeds degenerate.

The mightier man, the mightier is the thing

That makes him honoured or begets him hate  :

For greatest scandal waits on  greatest state  .

The moon being clouded presently  is missed,

But little stars may hide them when they list.

'The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire 

And unperceived fly with the filth away,

But if the like  the snow-white swan desire,

The stain upon his silver down will stay.

Poor grooms  are sightless night, kings glorious day,

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,

But eagles gazed upon with every eye.

'Out  , idle  words, servants to shallow fools,

Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrator  s!

Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools  ,

Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters,

To trembling clients be you mediators.

For me, I force not argument a straw  ,

Since that my case  is past the help of law.

'In vain I rail  at Opportunity,

At Time, at Tarquin and uncheerful Night,

In vain I cavil  with mine infamy,

In vain I spurn  at my confirmed despite  :

This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.

The remedy indeed to do me good

Is to let forth my foul defilèd blood  .

'Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree?

Honour thyself to rid me of this shame,

For if I die my honour lives in thee,

But if I live thou liv'st in my defame.

Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame

And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe,

Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.'

This said, from her betumbled couch  she starteth,

To find some desp'rate instrument of death.

But this, no slaughterhouse, no tool imparteth 

To make more vent for passage of her breath,

Which thronging  through her lips, so vanisheth

As smoke from Aetna  that in air consumes 

Or that which from dischargèd cannon fumes  .

'In vain,' quoth she, 'I live and seek in vain

Some happy mean to end a hapless  life.

I feared by Tarquin's falchion  to be slain,

Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife;

But when I feared I was a loyal wife.

So am I now — O no, that cannot be!

Of that true type  hath Tarquin rifled me.

'O, that is gone for which I sought to live,

And therefore now I need not fear to die.

To clear this spot  by death, at least I give

A badge of fame to slander's livery   ,

A dying life to living infamy:

Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away,

To burn the guiltless casket where it lay.

'Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know

The stainèd taste of violated troth,

I will not wrong thy true affection so,

To flatter  thee with an infringèd  oath.

This bastard graff  shall never come to growth:

He shall not boast who did thy stock  pollute,

That thou art doting father of his fruit.

'Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,

Nor laugh with his companions at thy state,

But thou shalt know thy int'rest  was not bought

Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate.

For me, I am the mistress of my fate,

And with my trespass never will dispense 

Till life to death acquit my forced offence.

'I will not poison thee with my attaint 

Nor fold my fault in cleanly coined  excuses.

My sable ground  of sin I will not paint

To hide the truth of this false night's  abuses.

My tongue shall utter all, mine eyes like sluices,

As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale  ,

Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.'

By this  , lamenting Philomel  had ended

The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow,

And solemn night with slow, sad gait descended

To ugly hell, when, lo, the blushing morrow

Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow.

But cloudy  Lucrece shames herself to see,

And therefore still in night would cloistered be.

Revealing day through every cranny spies

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping,

To whom she sobbing speaks: 'O eye of eyes,

Why pry'st thou  through my window? Leave thy peeping,

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping,

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,

For day hath nought to do  what's done by night.'

Thus cavils she with everything she sees:

True grief is fond  and testy  as a child,

Who wayward  once, his mood with nought agrees:

Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild  ,

Continuance  tames the one, the other wild,

Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still,

With too much labour drowns for want of skill.

So she, deep-drenchèd  in a sea of care,

Holds disputation with each thing she views

And to herself all sorrow doth compare.

No object but her passion's strength renews  ,

And as one shifts, another straight  ensues.

Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words,

Sometime 'tis mad and too much talk affords.

The little birds that tune their morning's joy

Make her moans mad with their sweet melody,

For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy  .

Sad souls are slain in merry company,

Grief best is pleased with grief's society:

True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed 

When with like semblance it is sympathized  .

'Tis double death to drown in ken  of shore,

He ten times pines  that pines beholding food,

To see the salve  doth make the wound ache more,

Great grief grieves most at that  would do it good,

Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,

Who, being stopped, the bounding  banks o'erflows:

Grief dallied  with nor law nor  limit knows.

'You mocking-birds,' quoth she, 'your tunes entomb

Within your hollow-swelling feathered breasts,

And in my hearing be you mute and dumb,

My restless  discord loves no stops nor rests  :

A woeful hostess brooks  not merry guests.

Relish  your nimble notes to pleasing ears  :

Distress likes dumps  when time is kept with tears.

'Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,

Make thy sad grove in my dishevelled  hair.

As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment  ,

So I at each sad strain will strain  a tear

And with deep groans the diapason  bear:

For burden-wise  I'll hum on Tarquin still,

While thou on Tereus  descants  better skill  .

'And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,

To keep thy sharp woes waking  , wretched I,

To imitate thee well, against my heart

Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye,

Who, if it wink  , shall thereon fall and die.

These means, as frets  upon an instrument,

Shall tune our heartstrings to true languishment.

'And for  , poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day,

As shaming  any eye should thee behold,

Some dark deep desert  , seated from the way  ,

That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold

Will we find out, and there we will unfold

To creatures stern  , sad tunes to change their kinds  :

Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.'

As the poor frighted deer that stands at gaze  ,

Wildly determining which way to fly,

Or one encompassed  with a winding maze

That cannot tread the way out readily,

So with herself is she in mutiny:

To live or die which of the twain were better,

When life is shamed and death reproach's debtor  .

'To kill myself,' quoth she, 'alack, what were it

But with my body my poor soul's pollution  ?

They that lose half with greater patience bear it

Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion  .

That mother tries  a merciless conclusion

Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,

Will slay the other and be nurse to none.

'My body or my soul, which was the dearer,

When the one pure, the other made divine  ?

Whose love of either to myself was nearer 

When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?

Ay me! The bark peeled from the lofty pine,

His leaves will wither and his sap decay,

So must my soul, her bark being peeled away.

'Her house is sacked  , her quiet interrupted,

Her mansion battered by the enemy,

Her sacred temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted,

Grossly engirt  with daring infamy.

Then let it not be called impiety,

If in this blemished fort  I make some hole

Through which I may convey this troubled soul.

'Yet die I will not till my Collatine

Have heard the cause of my untimely death,

That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,

Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.

My stainèd blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath,

Which by him tainted shall for him be spent  ,

And as his due writ in my testament  .

'My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife

That wounds my body so dishonourèd.

'Tis honour to deprive  dishonoured life:

The one will live, the other being dead.

So of shame's ashes shall my fame  be bred,

For in my death I murder shameful scorn:

My shame so dead, mine honour is newborn.

'Dear lord of that dear jewel  I have lost,

What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?

My resolution  , love, shall be thy boast,

By whose example thou revenged may'st be.

How Tarquin must be used  , read it in me:

Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,

And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.

'This brief abridgement of my will I make:

My soul and body to  the skies and ground,

My resolution, husband, do thou take,

Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound,

My shame be his that did my fame confound  ,

And all my fame that lives disbursèd  be

To those that live and think no shame of me.

'Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee  this will —

How was I overseen  that thou shalt see it!

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill,

My life's foul deed my life's fair end shall free it.

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say ''So be it.''

Yield to my hand, my hand shall conquer thee:

Thou dead, both die and both shall victors be.'

This plot of death when sadly she had laid

And wiped the brinish pearl  from her bright eyes,

With untuned  tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,

Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies  ,

For fleet-winged duty with thought's feathers  flies.

Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so

As winter meads  when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good morrow

With soft, slow tongue, true mark of modesty,

And sorts  a sad look to her lady's sorrow,

For why  her face wore sorrow's livery,

But durst not ask of her audaciously 

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsèd so,

Nor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe.

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,

Each flower moistened like a melting eye,

Even so the maid with swelling drops gan  wet

Her circled eyne  , enforced  by sympathy

Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky,

Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light,

Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,

Like ivory conduits coral cisterns  filling:

One justly  weeps, the other takes in hand

No cause, but company  , of her drops spilling.

Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,

Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts  ,

And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts.

For men have marble, women waxen minds,

And therefore are they formed as marble will  :

The weak oppressed, th'impression of strange kinds 

Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill  .

Then call them not the authors of their ill,

No more than wax shall be accounted evil

Wherein is stamped the semblance  of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign  plain,

Lays open  all the little worms that creep.

In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain

Cave-keeping  evils that obscurely  sleep.

Through crystal walls each little mote  will peep,

Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,

Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.

No man inveigh against  the withered flow'r,

But chide  rough winter that the flow'r hath killed:

Not that devoured, but that which doth devour,

Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild 

Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfilled

With men's abuses: those proud lords, to blame,

Make weak-made women tenants to their  shame.

The precedent  whereof in Lucrece' view,

Assailed  by night with circumstances strong

Of present death  and shame that might ensue

By that  her death, to do her husband wrong.

Such danger to resistance did belong

That dying fear  through all her body spread,

And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak

To the poor counterfeit  of her complaining:

'My girl,' quoth she, 'on what occasion break

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 stayed 

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 thus far can dispense  :

Myself was stirring ere the break of day,

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:

For more it is than I can well express,

And that deep torture may be called 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.

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.'

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  :

Much like a press of people at a door

Throng her inventions  which shall go before  .

At last she thus begins: 'Thou worthy lord

Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,

Health to thy person. Next vouchsafe t'afford  —

If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see —

Some present speed to come and visit me.

So I commend me  , from our house in grief:

My woes are tedious  though my words are brief.'

Here folds she up the tenor  of her woe,

Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

By this short schedule  Collatine may know

Her grief, but not her grief's true quality:

She dares not thereof make discovery  ,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse  .

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion 

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her,

When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her

From that suspicion which the world might bear her.

To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter

With words, till action  might become  them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told,

For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion  that it doth behold,

When every part a part of woe doth bear  .

'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear:

Deep sounds  make lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words  .

Her letter now is sealed and on it writ

'At Ardea to my lord with more than haste'.

The post  attends and she delivers it,

Charging  the sour-faced groom to hie as fast

As lagging  fowls before the northern blast.

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems  :

Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain  curtsies  to her low,

And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye

Receives the scroll without or yea  or no

And forth with bashful innocence doth hie.

But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie

Imagine every eye beholds their blame:

For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame,

When, silly  groom, God wot  , it was defect 

Of spirit, life and bold audacity.

Such harmless creatures have a true respect

To talk in deeds, while others saucily

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely.

Even so this pattern of the worn-out age 

Pawned  honest looks, but laid no words to gage  .

His kindled  duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blazed.

She thought he blushed, as knowing Tarquin's lust,

And, blushing with him, wistly  on him gazed.

Her earnest eye did make him more amazed  .

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,

The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks  till he return again,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.

The weary time she cannot entertain  ,

For now 'tis stale  to sigh, to weep and groan:

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tirèd moan,

That she her plaints  a little while doth stay  ,

Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece

Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy  ,

Before the which is drawn  the power  of Greece,

For Helen's rape  the city to destroy,

Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion  with annoy  ,

Which the conceited  painter drew so proud 

As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed.

A thousand lamentable objects there,

In scorn  of nature, art gave lifeless life  .

Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear

Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife.

The red blood reeked  , to show the painter's strife  ,

And dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer 

Begrimed with sweat and smearèd all with dust,

And from the towers of Troy there would appear

The very eyes of men through loopholes  thrust,

Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust  :

Such sweet observance  in this work was had

That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty

You might behold, triumphing in their faces.

In youth, quick  bearing and dexterity.

And here and there the painter interlaces 

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces,

Which heartless peasants did so well resemble

That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses  , O, what art

Of physiognomy  might one behold!

The face of either ciphered  either's  heart.

Their face their manners most expressly told:

In Ajax' eyes blunt  rage and rigour  rolled,

But the mild glance that sly  Ulysses lent

Showed deep regard  and smiling government  .

There pleading  might you see grave  Nestor  stand,

As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight,

Making such sober action  with his hand,

That it beguiled  attention, charmed the sight.

In speech, it seemed, his beard, all silver white,

Wagged up and down and from his lips did fly

Thin winding breath which purled  up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,

Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice,

All jointly list'ning, but with several graces  ,

As if some mermaid did their ears entice,

Some high, some low — the painter was so nice  .

The scalps of many, almost hid behind,

To jump up higher seemed, to mock the mind  .

Here one man's hand leaned on another's head,

His nose being shadowed by his neighbour's ear.

Here one, being thronged  , bears  back, all boll'n  and red.

Another smothered seems to pelt  and swear,

And in their rage such signs of rage they bear

As, but for loss of  Nestor's golden words,

It seemed they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there:

Conceit deceitful  , so compact  , so kind  ,

That for Achilles' image stood his spear  ,

Gripped in an armèd hand, himself behind

Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:

A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head

Stood for the whole to be imaginèd.

And from the walls of strong besiegèd Troy,

When their brave hope, bold Hector  , marched to field,

Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy

To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield,

And to their hope they such odd  action yield 

That through their light joy seemèd to appear,

Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear.

And from the strand of Dardan  , where they fought,

To Simois  ' reedy banks the red blood ran,

Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

With swelling ridges  and their ranks began

To break upon the gallèd  shore and then 

Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,

They join and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,

To find a face where all distress is stelled  .

Many she sees where cares have carvèd some  ,

But none where all distress and dolour  dwelled

Till she despairing Hecuba  beheld,

Staring on Priam's wounds, with her old eyes,

Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies.

In her the painter had anatomized 

Time's ruin, beauty's wrack and grim care's reign.

Her cheeks with chaps  and wrinkles were disguised:

Of what she was  no semblance did remain.

Her blue  blood changed to black  in every vein,

Wanting the spring  that those shrunk pipes  had fed,

Showed life imprisoned in a body dead.

On this sad shadow  Lucrece spends  her eyes

And shapes her sorrow to the beldame  's woes,

Who nothing wants to answer her  but cries

And bitter words to ban  her cruel foes.

The painter was no god to lend her those  ,

And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong

To give her so much grief and not a tongue.

'Poor instrument,' quoth she, 'without a sound,

I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,

And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound,

And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,

And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long,

And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes

Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

'Show me the strumpet  that began this stir,

That with my nails her beauty I may tear.

Thy heat of lust, fond  Paris, did incur

This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear.

Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here,

And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,

The sire, the son, the dame  , and daughter die.

'Why should the private pleasure of some one

Become the public plague of many moe  ?

Let sin, alone committed, light  alone

Upon his head that hath transgressèd so.

Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe.

For one's offence why should so many fall,

To plague a private sin in general  ?

'Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,

Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus  swoons  ,

Here friend by friend in bloody channel  lies,

And friend to friend gives unadvisèd  wounds,

And one man's lust these many lives confounds.

Had doting  Priam checked  his son's desire,

Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.'

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes,

For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,

Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes  ;

Then little strength rings out the doleful knell  .

So Lucrece, set a-work  , sad tales doth tell

To pencilled pensiveness and coloured sorrow  :

She lends them words and she their looks doth borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,

And whom she finds forlorn she doth lament.

At last she sees a wretched image bound  ,

That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent  .

His face, though full of cares, yet showed content.

Onward to Troy with the blunt swains  he goes,

So mild, that patience seemed to scorn his woes.

In him the painter laboured with his skill

To hide deceit and give the harmless show 

An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still  ,

A brow unbent  that seemed to welcome woe,

Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so

That blushing red no guilty instance  gave,

Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

But, like a constant and confirmèd devil,

He entertained a show  so seeming just,

And therein so ensconced  his secret evil,

That jealousy itself could not mistrust

False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust

Into so bright a day such black-faced storms

Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.

The well-skilled workman  this mild image drew

For perjured Sinon whose enchanting  story

The credulous old Priam after slew,

Whose words like wildfire  burnt the shining glory

Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,

And little stars shot from their fixèd places,

When their glass  fell wherein they viewed their faces.

This picture she advisedly  perused

And chid the painter for his wondrous skill,

Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abused  :

So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill.

And still on him she gazed, and gazing still,

Such signs of truth in his plain  face she spied

That she concludes the picture was belied  .

'It cannot be,' quoth she, 'that so much guile' —

She would have said 'can lurk in such a look,'

But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while

And from her tongue 'can lurk' from 'cannot' took.

'It cannot be' she in that sense forsook

And turned it  thus, 'It cannot be, I find,

But  such a face should bear a wicked mind.

'For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,

So sober-sad, so weary and so mild,

As if with grief or travail  he had fainted,

To me came Tarquin armèd to beguild 

With outward honesty but yet defiled

With inward vice: as Priam him  did cherish,

So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.

'Look, look, how list'ning Priam wets his eyes

To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds!

Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise?

For every tear he falls  a Trojan bleeds:

His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds.

Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity

Are balls of quenchless fire  to burn thy city.

'Such devils steal effects  from lightless hell,

For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold

And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell.

These contraries such unity do hold

Only to flatter fools and make them bold:

So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter,

That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.'

Here, all enraged, such passion her assails

That patience is quite beaten from her breast.

She tears the senseless  Sinon with her nails,

Comparing him to that unhappy  guest

Whose deed hath made herself herself detest.

At last she smilingly with this gives o'er  :

'Fool, fool!' quoth she, 'His wounds will not be sore.'

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,

And time doth weary time with her complaining.

She looks for night and then she longs for morrow,

And both she thinks too long with her remaining.

Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining  :

Though woe be heavy  , yet it seldom sleeps,

And they that watch  see time how slow it creeps.

Which all this time hath overslipped  her thought

That she with painted images hath spent,

Being from  the feeling of her own grief brought

By deep surmise of others' detriment  ,

Losing her woes in shows  of discontent.

It easeth some, though none it ever cured,

To think their dolour others have endured.

But now the mindful  messenger come back

Brings home his lord and other company,

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black,

And round about her tear-distainèd  eye

Blue circles streamed  , like rainbows in the sky.

These water-galls  in her dim element 

Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,

Amazedly in her sad face he stares.

Her eyes, though sod  in tears, looked red and raw,

Her lively colour killed with deadly cares.

He hath no power to ask her how she fares.

Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance,

Met far from home, wond'ring each other's chance  .

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand

And thus begins: 'What uncouth  ill event

Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand?

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent?

Why art thou thus attired in discontent  ?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.'

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire  ,

Ere once she can discharge one word of woe.

At length addressed  to answer his desire,

She modestly prepares to let them know

Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe,

While Collatine and his consorted  lords

With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her wat'ry nest

Begins the sad dirge  of her certain ending  :

'Few words,' quoth she, 'shall fit the trespass best,

Where no excuse can give the fault amending.

In me more woes than words are now depending  ,

And my laments would be drawn out too long

To tell them all with one poor tirèd tongue.

'Then be this all the task it hath to say:

Dear husband, in the interest of  thy bed

A stranger came and on that pillow lay

Where thou was wont  to rest thy weary head,

And what wrong else may be imaginèd

By foul enforcement might be done to me,

From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free.

'For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight

With shining falchion  in my chamber came

A creeping creature with a flaming light

And softly cried, ''Awake, thou Roman dame,

And entertain  my love, else lasting shame

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,

If thou my love's desire do contradict.

'''For some hard-favoured groom  of thine,'' quoth he,

''Unless thou yoke thy liking  to my will,

I'll murder straight and then I'll slaughter thee

And swear I found you where you did fulfil

The loathsome act of lust and so did kill

The lechers in their deed: this act will be

My fame and thy perpetual infamy.''

'With this I did begin to start and cry,

And then against my heart he sets his sword,

Swearing, unless I took all patiently,

I should not live to speak another word.

So should my shame still rest upon record 

And never be forgot in mighty Rome

Th'adulterate  death of Lucrece and her groom.

'Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,

And far the weaker with so strong a fear.

My bloody  judge forbade my tongue to speak,

No rightful plea might plead for justice there.

His scarlet  lust came evidence to swear 

That my poor beauty had purloined  his eyes,

And when the judge is robbed the prisoner dies.

'O, teach me how to make mine own excuse,

Or at the least this refuge let me find:

Though my gross  blood be stained with this abuse,

Immaculate and spotless is my mind:

That was not forced, that never was inclined

To accessary yieldings  , but still pure

Doth in her poisoned closet  yet endure.'

Lo, here, the hopeless merchant  of this loss,

With head declined  , and voice dammed up with woe,

With sad set eyes and wretched arms across  ,

From lips new-waxen  pale begins to blow

The grief away that stops his answer so.

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain:

What he breathes out his breath drinks up again  .

As through an arch the violent roaring tide

Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,

Yet in the eddy  boundeth in  his pride

Back to the strait  that forced him on so fast,

In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past:

Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw  ,

To push grief on and back the same grief draw.

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth  ,

And his untimely frenzy  thus awaketh:

'Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth

Another power  , no flood by raining slaketh.

My woe too sensible  thy passion maketh

More feeling-painful. Let it then suffice

To drown on  woe, one pair of weeping eyes.

'And for my sake, when I might charm thee so,

For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend  me:

Be suddenly  revengèd on my foe,

Thine, mine, his own  . Suppose thou dost defend me

From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me

Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die,

For sparing justice feeds iniquity.

'But ere I name him, you fair lords,' quoth she,

Speaking to those that came with Collatine,

'Shall plight your honourable faiths  to me,

With swift pursuit to venge  this wrong of mine,

For 'tis a meritorious fair design

To chase injustice with revengeful arms:

Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms.'

At this request, with noble disposition

Each present lord began to promise aid,

As bound in knighthood to her imposition  ,

Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed  .

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said  ,

The protestation  stops. 'O, speak,' quoth she,

'How may this forcèd stain be wiped from me?

'What is the quality  of my offence,

Being constrained with dreadful circumstance?

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense  ,

My low-declinèd honour to advance  ?

May any terms  acquit me from this chance  ?

The poisoned fountain clears itself again,

And why not I from this compellèd stain?'

With this, they all at once began to say,

Her body's stain her mind untainted clears,

While with a joyless smile she turns away

The face, that map which deep impression bears

Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears.

'No, no,' quoth she, 'no dame, hereafter living,

By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving  .'

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,

She throws forth Tarquin's name. 'He, he,' she says,

But more than 'he' her poor tongue could not speak,

Till after many accents and delays,

Untimely  breathings, sick and short assays  ,

She utters this, 'He, he, fair lords, 'tis he,

That guides this hand to give this wound to me.'

Even here she sheathèd in her harmless breast

A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed.

That blow did bail  it from the deep unrest

Of that polluted prison  where it breathed.

Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed

Her wingèd sprite  , and through her wounds doth fly

Life's lasting date from cancelled destiny  .

Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed,

Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew  ,

Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,

Himself on her self-slaughtered body threw,

And from the purple fountain Brutus  drew

The murd'rous knife and, as it left the place,

Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase  ,

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide

In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood

Circles her body in on every side,

Who, like a late-sacked  island, vastly  stood

Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.

Some of her blood still pure and red remained,

And some looked black and that false Tarquin stained.

About the mourning and congealèd face

Of that black blood a wat'ry rigol  goes,

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place,

And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,

Corrupted blood some watery token shows,

And blood untainted still doth red abide,

Blushing at that which is so putrefied.

'Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius  cries,

'That life was mine which thou hast here deprived.

If in the child the father's image lies,

Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived?

Thou wast not to this end from me derived.

If children predecease progenitors  ,

We are their offspring and they none of ours.

'Poor broken glass  , I often did behold

In thy sweet semblance my old age new born,

But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,

Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn.

O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,

And shivered  all the beauty of my glass,

That I no more can see what once I was.

'O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer,

If they surcease  to be that should survive.

Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger

And leave the falt'ring feeble souls alive?

The old bees die, the young possess their hive.

Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see

Thy father die and not thy father thee.'

By this, starts Collatine as from a dream

And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place  ,

And then in key-cold  Lucrece' bleeding stream

He falls and bathes the pale fear in his face,

And counterfeits  to die with her a space,

Till manly shame bids him possess his breath

And live to be revengèd on her death.

The deep vexation  of his inward soul

Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue,

Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,

Begins to talk, but through his lips do throng

Weak words, so thick come  in his poor heart's aid,

That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime 'Tarquin' was pronouncèd plain,

But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.

This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,

Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more.

At last it rains and busy winds give o'er  .

Then son and father weep with equal strife 

Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.

The one doth call her his, the other his,

Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.

The father says, 'She's mine'. 'O, mine she is,'

Replies her husband. 'Do not take away

My sorrow's interest  , let no mourner say

He weeps for her, for she was only mine,

And only must be wailed by Collatine.'

'O,' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life

Which she too early and too late hath spilled.'

'Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife,

I owed  her and 'tis mine that she hath killed.'

'My daughter' and 'my wife' with clamours filled

The dispersed  air, who, holding Lucrece' life,

Answered their cries, 'my daughter' and 'my wife'.

Brutus  , who plucked the knife from Lucrece' side,

Seeing such emulation  in their woe,

Began to clothe his wit  in state and pride,

Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show  .

He with the Romans was esteemèd so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,

For sportive words and utt'ring foolish things,

But now he throws that shallow habit  by,

Wherein deep policy  did him disguise,

And armed his long-hid wits advisedly,

To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.

'Thou wrongèd lord of Rome,' quoth he, 'arise!

Let my unsounded  self, supposed a fool,

Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.

'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?

Such childish humour  from weak minds proceeds.

Thy wretched  wife mistook the matter so,

To slay herself that should have slain her foe.

'Courageous Roman, do not steep  thy heart

In such relenting  dew of lamentations,

But kneel with me and help to bear thy part

To rouse our Roman gods with invocations  ,

That they will suffer  these abominations —

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced —

By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.

'Now, by the Capitol  that we adore,

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,

By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat  earth's store,

By all our country rights in Rome maintained,

And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complained

Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife

We will revenge the death of this true wife.'

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,

And kissed the fatal knife, to end his vow,

And to his protestation  urged the rest,

Who, wond'ring  at him, did his words allow  .

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,

And that deep vow, which Brutus made before,

He doth again repeat and that they swore.

When they had sworn to this advisèd doom  ,

They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence,

To show her bleeding body thorough  Rome,

And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence;

Which being done with speedy diligence,

The Romans plausibly  did give consent

To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

情节概要 

卢修斯·塔奎尼乌斯，即那位因狂傲而被冠以“高傲王”之名的暴君  ，在导致其岳父塞尔维乌斯·图利乌斯被残忍谋害，继而违背罗马法典及惯例不经人民选举而篡夺王位之后，率诸王子和若干贵族将领前去围攻阿尔代亚  。围城期间某夜，罗马众将领聚会于六王子塔奎帐内。晚宴后的闲聊中，众将领各自夸耀自家夫人的贞操，其中科拉丁  赞美其妻鲁克丽丝贞洁无比。众人乘兴驰返罗马，以秘密突查之方式验证各自之赞誉是否属实。结果发现唯独科拉丁的妻子在夜深时仍率众侍女纺纱，而其他贵妇都在跳舞狂欢，纵情作乐。于是众将领承认科拉丁获胜，承认其妻无愧于贞洁之名。其时六王子塔奎已对鲁克丽丝的美貌动心，但他暂压欲念，随众人一道回营。不久后他溜出营房，独自前往科拉丁堡  ，凭其王子的身份，受到鲁克丽丝的盛情款待，并留宿城堡。他当晚卑鄙地潜入鲁克丽丝的卧房将其奸污，并于翌日凌晨匆匆遁去。鲁克丽丝悲恸欲绝，速遣两名信使分头去罗马和军营，向她父亲和科拉丁报信。二人闻讯而至，分别由尤尼乌斯·布鲁图  和帕布琉斯·瓦勒里乌斯  陪同。他们发现鲁克丽丝身着丧服，便问其缘由。她先请四人立誓为之复仇，然后揭露了罪犯及其罪行，言毕举剑自尽。目睹惨剧的四人一致发誓要推翻不共戴天的塔奎家族。他们送鲁克丽丝的遗体至罗马，布鲁图将凶手及其罪恶行径昭示民众，并强烈谴责国王的暴虐。罗马民众群情激愤，一致赞成并拥护将塔奎家族逐出罗马，罗马遂从由国王统治的王政时代变为由执政官掌权的共和时代。

离开了正被围攻的阿尔代亚城，

离开了罗马众将领和围城大军，

凭借情欲和淫念虚幻的翅膀，

塔奎正挥鞭策马朝科拉丁堡狂奔。

压抑的欲火像灰烬潜埋在心底，

正伺机用火焰去拥抱鲁克丽丝，

拥抱科拉丁那位美丽贞洁的妻子。

或许正是那被赞誉的“纤尘不染”

不幸使他淫荡的本性走向极端，

都怪科拉丁一时糊涂，轻率出言，

夸她的雪肤凝脂红唇无比美艳，

夸她的粉面桃腮就是他的九霄，

夸她的眼睛灿若星斗煌煌皓皓，

而那皓洁星光只能把他一人照耀。

只怨前个夜晚在塔奎王子的营帐，

他当众显露了他幸福王国的珍藏：

上天竟慷慨地赐予他无价之宝，

让他拥有这风致韵绝的国色天香。

他认为自己的幸运无人比得上，

说君王虽能取得至高无上的声誉，

但却娶不到这等美艳无双的娇娘。

哎，世间有几多人能尽情享福？

福分一到手便很快变成过眼云雾，

就像清晨那些晶亮如银的露珠

一遇到太阳的金光就化为虚无，

尚未真正开始，就因期满而结束。

人所拥有的荣誉美貌是如此脆弱，

很难不被形形色色的邪恶玷污。

美自然会吸引男人爱美的目光，

无需用雄辩的言词来为它捧场。

那么科拉丁又何必向众人解说

他那位娇妻鲁克丽丝美貌无双？

既然这稀世珍宝只归他个人所有，

那他为何不避人耳目，什袭而藏，

反倒让爱偷听的耳朵知其端详？

也许是他夸鲁克丽丝百媚千娇

才激起这位王子心底的倨傲，

因为心底邪念常来自鬓边耳角。

也许王子就羡慕这奇珍异宝，

居高临下的对比令他妒火中烧：

微臣末将居然敢这般大出风头，

自夸连主子也没有的机缘运道。

如果以上臆测都不是真正原因，

也肯定有某种非分之念催他疾行；

忘了荣誉、军务、朋友和身份，

他怀着急切的心情策马飞奔，

一心只想去发泄胸中燃烧的欲情。

轻率的情欲哟，你将陷入悔恨，

树苗早萌会枯萎，不会长大成林！

当虚伪的王子终于来到科拉丁家，

当那位罗马名媛给他以热情欢迎，

美艳与德性便在她脸上交相辉映，

好像在争论该由谁来维护她的名声。

当德性一展露，美艳便羞得绯红，

而当美艳自诩那娇羞红润的容颜，

德性又会用一层银白色将它涂染。

不过美艳以维纳斯的银鸽  为凭证，

说那白皙的盾面  本有权拥有白银。

于是德性声称也拥有美艳的殷红，

而且早把红给了正值妙龄的女人，

教她们为银白的盾面镀一抹红金， 

教她们在战斗中使用红白相间的盾，

当遭羞辱进犯，红金应保护白银。 

鲁克丽丝脸上就呈现出这种纹章，

美艳之红和德性之白更迭于她脸上，

两种颜色都想成为另一种的女王，

都试图证明其权力来自远古洪荒。

但各自怀有的抱负使它俩纷争不已，

而双方又可谓势均力敌，旗鼓相当，

结果便常常轮流在位，交替称王。

这场百合与玫瑰之间的无声战斗

塔奎王子看在眼里，记在心头。

他奸诈的目光被纯洁的军队封堵，

怕在两军轮番围堵中一命呜呼，

这胆小的俘虏暂且低头表示让步，

而红白两军也宁愿让他自行开溜，

不愿得意于击退这种虚伪的敌寇。

这时塔奎想起她丈夫的拙舌笨嘴，

从中吐出的颂词不啻是对她的诋毁，

那吝啬的浪子居然那样把美赞颂！

其贫词拙句难与这崇高的使命相配。

于是心醉神迷的塔奎用他的想象

来弥补科拉丁那挂一漏万的赞美，

直勾勾的目光正沉浸于想入非非。

那位被邪恶目光仰慕的人间圣女

对这虚伪的仰慕者丝毫没有怀疑，

因为无瑕的心灵很少梦见邪恶，

未曾落网的小鸟对密林从不畏惧。

她那么天真无邪，自然毫无戒心，

他虽心怀鬼胎，却显得彬彬有礼，

于是这尊贵的客人受到她的礼遇。

他以高贵的身份隐匿其心头诡谲，

用王家尊严掩饰潜于胸中的罪孽，

除他眼中隐约有过分好奇的神情，

无任何迹象可显示他居心叵测。

那双眼睛已饱餐秀色但仍显饥渴。

可怜的富豪哟，永远都不知足，

早已撑肠拄腹，还依然那么饕餮。

但她从不曾见过这种陌生的眼光，

因此看不出那眼神中的意味深长，

对这种写在书页边的眉批旁注，

她也不解其闪烁其词的深奥比方。 

她不曾吞过诱饵，不知有钓钩秘藏，

只觉他两眼炯炯有神，熠熠闪亮，

却读不出那种眼神中的淫荡轻狂。

他讲起她丈夫在丰饶的意大利原野

赢得的鼎鼎威名，立下的赫赫战功；

他用绚丽的赞词把科拉丁称颂，

说他凭受创的铠甲和武士的英勇

才获得凯旋的花冠，无上的光荣。

她禁不住挥舞双手表达心中的喜悦，

并默默感谢天神保佑她丈夫成功。

塔奎王子隐藏了此行的真实缘由，

为他登门造访胡乱编造了一些借口。

他那张灿烂得像无云晴空的脸上

丝毫没显出暴风雨将来临的征候；

直到恐惧之母——那幽幽夤夜

展开它黑黢黢的大幕把世界笼罩，

用它有穹顶的监狱把白昼拘囚。

饭后他与谦恭的女主人对烛夜话，

海阔天空几乎把整个夜晚打发，

这时候塔奎故作慵状，假装困乏，

于是被送至为他安排的客房卧榻；

值此浓浓睡意与勃勃生机相争之时，

若非为了行窃，或者是担惊受怕，

天下人谁不想一觉睡到满天朝霞？

而塔奎此时却在卧榻上辗转反侧，

设想满足欲望会面临的危险与坎坷；

虽希望之渺茫规劝他放弃冒险，

欲望却极力怂恿他去把猎物俘获；

而希望之渺茫常使欲望更炽热，

尤当要夺的是这样一件稀世宝贝，

纵然可能送命，也甘愿赴汤蹈火。

那些贪得无厌者往往神魂颠倒，

为追求他们尚未拥有的珍宝，

每每贪小失大，把家资全都消耗，

结果想要的越多，得到的越少；

或所得多如牛毛，富得流油滴膏，

但却会像暴饮暴食者腹胀难消，

到头来终成金银散尽的破产富豪。

芸芸众生都一心只想人生受用，

既要追名逐利，又想长寿善终，

但熊掌和鱼往往都不能兼而得之，

结果或因小失大，或全盘落空：

如追求功名却在疆场上丢掉性命，

或舍名逐财，而逐财的代价最重，

到头来鸡飞蛋打，枉做一场春梦。

所以我们若为欲望去冒险投机，

我们就不再是我们所认为的自己；

贪得无厌可谓人类的致命弱点，

使人富贵不知乐业，反痛苦不已；

于是我们每每会忽略我们之所有，

而由于缺乏人生应该有的智慧，

贪多使已经拥有的财富也失去。

糊涂的塔奎此时就非要孤注一掷，

为纵淫欲不惜毁掉自己的名声，

或者说非要为了自己而毁掉自己。

人无自信自尊，还指望什么信任？

当他自己把自己抛给无底深渊，

抛给身后的长舌和日后的苦境，

难道还指望别人对他有恻隐之心？

现在夜深人静的时刻已悄悄降临，

沉沉睡意早已合上世人的眼睛。

天上没有使人感到慰藉的星光，

地上只有鸱鸮和野狼不祥的叫声，

这时候正是它们偷袭羔羊的时辰。

纯洁善良的心灵都已安然入睡，

而欲念和杀气却醒着，伺机害人。

这时欲火中烧的塔奎从床上跃起，

将华丽的斗篷往臂上草草一搭，

欲望和担忧使他既兴奋又犹豫，

欲望怂恿他向前，担忧令他害怕，

虽说担忧也一再劝主人悬崖勒马，

但终因受惑于情欲邪恶的魔法，

被欲望打得落花流水，流水落花。

他用佩剑剑头轻轻敲一块燧石，

冰冷的燧石飞溅出点点火星，

他随即用火星点燃一根蜡烛，

烛光定会像北极星指引他前行。

他对着这团烛光胸有成竹地说：

“我能逼这冰冷的顽石冒出火花，

也一定能逼鲁克丽丝就范委身。”

忽而担忧又开始让他脸色发白，

他又开始对面临的危险东想西猜，

他的内心深处进行着一场争论：

这事会带来什么样的悔恨和悲哀？

继而他轻蔑地嘲笑可怜的铠甲 

居然想保护已多次自杀的性欲  。

善恶之争就这样在他心底展开：

“快收敛你的烛光吧，荧荧蜡烛，

别让她那更灿烂的光芒变得模糊！

别再胡思乱想了，邪恶的念头，

趁你的邪恶尚未把那圣女玷污！

把纯洁的焚香献给那纯洁的圣殿，

让清白的世人都痛恨对爱的亵渎，

让玷污爱之贞洁者遭众人憎恶。

“啊，这是武士和纹章的奇耻大辱！

这是对我祖先陵寝的亵渎和玷污！

这是将招灾致祸的不敬神明的行为！

一名堂堂武士竟成为情欲的奴仆！

真的勇士永远都该有真正的敬畏，

而我的离经叛道是如此丑陋低俗，

这丑行将会铭刻进我家的盾面饰图。

“对，这丑行在我死后也将流传，

将成为我王家纹章上的一个污点；

纹章官会把某一笔添进纹章图案，

暗示我当年如何为情欲铤而走险；

我的子孙将把这一笔视为耻辱，

将会理直气壮地诅咒我的尸骨，

并希望不曾有过我这样一个祖先。

“就算天从人愿，我又能得到什么？

一场梦？一阵风？或片刻的快乐？

谁会为一粒芝麻丢掉一个西瓜？

谁肯为一颗葡萄而把葡萄藤砍伐？

谁愿为一时高兴而终生伴着泪花？

或哪个愚蠢的乞丐为了摸一下王冠，

竟甘愿被君王的权杖劈头打翻？

“要是科拉丁料到了我之所欲所慕，

他会不会如大梦初醒，勃然大怒？

并急匆匆赶回来阻止我的企图？

阻止这场对他美满婚姻的偷袭——

这种对圣贤的冒犯，对青春的玷污？

阻止这不仁不义、无羞无耻的歹徒，

其滔天大罪永远都不会被世人饶恕。

“若有朝一日我被指控闯此大祸，

我的想象力会找什么借口为我开脱？

我会不会四肢发抖，张口结舌？

会不会两眼发黑，心中血流成河？

这罪孽是这般大，而恐惧则更多，

极度恐惧既不能迎战，也没法逃脱，

只能像束手待毙的懦夫徒唤奈何。

“如果科拉丁杀了我的儿子或父亲，

或是曾设下埋伏，想要我的性命，

要么他压根儿就不是我的朋友，

那我夺妻之欲好歹也算事出有因，

因为这叫以牙还牙，报仇雪恨。

可他是我的朋友，是我的族人，

这罪过无由，其耻辱就永无穷尽。

“这是耻辱——不过要昭以世人；

这事可恨——但爱中不该有恨；

她虽名花有主，但我会向她求爱，

大不了就是被她拒绝，被她教训；

理智别再规劝了，我决意已定。

谁要是信奉前人格言或道德箴铭，

他见到墙头寓意画  也会肃然起敬。”

在这场良知与欲望的争论之中，

他就这样无耻地让欲望占了上风，

摈弃了所有羞恶之心，仁义之念，

让邪念占据制高点，肆意称雄；

邪念顷刻间就完全颠倒了是非，

完全扼杀了纯洁应该起的作用，

甚至让恶行听起来也像善行阴功。

他说：“她刚才友善地握我的手，

望着我热切的双眼把消息探究，

唯恐有什么噩耗从战场上传来，

因为她心爱的科拉丁在那里战斗。

啊，担忧是怎样使她的双颊变红！

起初红得好像绣在白绸的玫瑰，

后来又白得像没绣玫瑰的白绸。

“当时她的手被紧紧攥在我手里，

她忠贞的惊恐使我的手也战栗！

担忧使她伤感，伤感加速她手抖，

直到听见丈夫平安无恙的消息，

她脸上才显出一种甜美的笑意，

那喀索斯若看见她迷人的笑脸，

就决不会顾影自怜，溺水而死。 

“那我为何要编造些饰言假话？

美人一开口，连雄辩家也哑巴；

俗民才会因有失检点而良心不安，

疑神疑鬼心中之爱就不会发芽；

爱情是我的统帅，我听从于它，

而只要它鲜艳的旌旗挥舞招展，

懦夫也敢参战，而不会心生惧怕。

“幼稚的担忧和争论哟，给我滚开！

尊严和理性哟，去服侍耆翁耋汉！

我的心绝不会撤销眼睛发出的命令，

瞻前顾后和深思熟虑只适合圣贤，

我正青春年少，这些都与我无关。

指引我的是欲望，我探求的是红颜，

探这样的金潭玉窝谁还惧怕深陷？

像翠绿的禾苗被疯长的野草覆盖，

谨慎担忧几乎被强烈的欲望窒息。

于是塔奎又竖起耳朵偷偷前行，

满怀非分之想，但也满腹猜疑；

妄想和猜疑就像无耻之徒的随从，

二者相左的规劝使他拿不定主意，

他忽而想退兵，忽而又想出击。

他脑海中浮现出她仙女般的形象，

但科拉丁也不知趣地坐在她身旁。

看她的那只眼睛令他心旌飘荡，

看他的那只眼睛却使他心境安详，

这只眼不赞成那只眼看朱成碧，

便怀着纯洁的意愿请心灵帮忙，

可心已经堕落，站在淫荡的一方。

见身为统帅的心这样欣然表态，

其他感官也受到激励，亢奋起来，

像紧发条似的使性欲坚挺不衰；

而作为感官之首，膨胀勃然加快，

对部下的谬奖也让它们难以还债。

这罗马王子就这样被欲望引领，

疯狂地走向鲁克丽丝的内宅。

在他的欲望和女主人的内宅之间，

一把把守门的铜锁被他强行开启，

但铜锁离岗前都对他厉声呵斥，

呵斥声迫使这小偷更加小心翼翼：

开门的吱嘎声会引起主人警觉，

鼬鼠  见他时的尖叫会暴露其踪迹，

这些都令他心惊，但他仍不放弃。

随着一个个入口被迫为他让路，

风却挺身而出，设法把他拦阻，

从小小孔穴和窄窄缝隙飕飕吹出，

吹得烛光摇曳，烛烟迎面直扑，

直到吹灭为他引路的那支蜡烛。

但他那颗早被熊熊欲火烧焦的心

喷出一股热风，又让烛光恢复。

借着复燃的烛光，他四下一瞧，

发现了女主人一只插着针的手套，

他从铺在地面的草垫上将它拾起，

攥手套的手突然痛得像被火烧，

刺破他手指的针仿佛在把他警告：

“回去吧，连这手套也不愿受辱，

你该明白它主人的用品都洁身自好。”

但这些区区小事不可能把他阻拦，

他用他邪恶的心思来解释这些事件：

那些阻拦他脚步的门、风和手套，

都不过是对他的一些意外考验，

好比那似乎是停滞在钟面上的时针，

虽看上去磨磨蹭蹭，故意拖延时间，

但最终还得把拖欠的分秒都偿还。

“所以哟，”他暗想，“这些个波折

就像初春时偶尔会有的露凝霜落，

露霜只会让春天平添几分欣然，

微寒只会让小鸟更有理由唱歌。

有言道佳期难逢，好事历来多磨，

怕完巨岩、疾风、海盗、暗礁和沙洲，

满载珍宝的商船方能进港靠岸停泊。”

此时他已经溜到那间卧室的门边，

他和他心中的天堂只有一门之隔，

如今能阻拦他的只有那根门闩，

门闩后就是他想象中的销魂荡魄。

心中的邪念已让他这般走火入魔，

他竟开始求上天让他如愿以偿，

仿佛上天应该保佑他的这种罪过。

他向天上所有永恒的神灵祈祷：

求众神让他今宵良辰有多多幸运，

让他肮脏的欲望拥抱净洁的美人，

可他即便在徒然的祈祷中也惊悟：

“这不是窃玉偷香，而肯定是奸淫！

我所求助的众神定憎恶这等恶行，

他们怎么会帮我去把娇花蹂躏？

“那就让爱神和幸运女神把我引领！

我的欲望需要决心来做坚强后盾，

因为心愿不付诸行动终归是梦幻。

恐惧的严霜终将被爱的火焰融尽，

滔天大罪一经赦免也清白无辜，

当杲杲白昼隐去，冥冥黑夜降临，

交欢后的羞耻会被遮得干干净净。”

想到此塔奎伸手拨开了那道门闩，

用膝盖悄悄顶开了紧闭的门扇。

这只鸱鸮要捕捉的鸽子正在沉睡。

罪行常发生在罪犯被发现之前，

谁发现有潜伏的毒蛇都会躲避，

可熟睡中的她做梦也没想到危险，

只能任凭那致命的毒牙随心所愿。

他心怀邪念悄悄溜进了她的闺房，

开始凝视那张尚未被玷污的卧床，

此时卧床被幔帐围得严严实实，

他绕床瞻顾，用他贪婪的目光。

他的心被这不忠的目光误导方向，

被误导的心立即对手发出指令：

撩开那道遮蔽浩浩明月的云障。

啊，正如灿灿灼灼的烈日骄阳

破云而出时常令我们睁不开眼睛，

当幔帐被撩开时他的眼睛也一样，

被更加灿烂的光辉耀得瞬间失明。

不管是她的明艳亮丽使他眼花，

还是他自己心中的羞愧令他目眩，

反正他紧闭双眼，久久都不再睁。

唉，要是那双眼就在那黑牢中死去，

它们也就看见了它们行恶的终止！

那样科拉丁还会在鲁克丽丝身边，

会继续在这张净洁的床上休息。

但它们定会睁开，来害这对伉俪，

圣洁的鲁克丽丝一遇见它们的目光，

就必定失去她拥有的生命和欢愉。

此时她红润的脸正枕着白皙的手，

手把属于枕头的合法亲吻遮挡，

所以生气的枕头似乎要分成两截，

用高高翘起的两端去亲她的面庞。

她的头埋在那高高翘起的两山之间，

她躺卧的姿势宛若一尊圣女雕像，

只是这圣女却被淫荡的目光瞻仰。

她另一只舒展的纤手探出床沿，

白如凝脂的手衬着绿色的床单，

像一朵绽放在草地上的四月雏菊，

手上的汗珠像花瓣上的露珠一般。

她的眼睛像万寿菊，已收敛光艳， 

此时在黑暗的笼罩下静静安眠，

待等第二天再绽开去装点白天。

她金丝般的秀发挑逗着她的呼吸，

真可谓放肆的端庄，端庄的放肆！

在这幅死亡画中可看见勃勃生机，

生的喜悦中又可见死亡的影子。

生和死在她的睡眠中都那么美丽，

好像是一对没有阋墙的孪生兄弟，

仿佛是死中有生，生中有死。

她的乳房像有蓝纹交错的象牙圆球，

像两座未被征服过的圆形堡垒，

除主人之外，它们对谁也不屈服，

它们曾发誓要把主人的荣誉捍卫。

这两座堡垒令塔奎越发大旱望水，

他像个觊觎王位的野心家迫不及待

要把宝座上的合法君王赶下王位。

有什么他能看见的他不瞩目凝睇？

有什么他所看见的他不觊觎不已？

面对眼前这令他疯狂的秀色美餐，

欲火中烧的他先给眼睛一顿饱食。

他心醉神迷地细细品赏她的玉体：

蓝幽幽的青脉，红殷殷的嘴唇，

脸若三月桃花，肤如无瑕白玉。

如同凶残的狮子欣赏它的猎物，

饥饿感已在征服中得到些许满足，

塔奎就这样望着那位沉睡的美人，

凝望使他沸腾的欲望稍稍平复，

但只是稍稍平复，而非彻底压服，

他刚刚才制止了这场叛乱的双目，

又煽动他的欲念去把王位颠覆。

欲念就像群心肠冷酷的游勇散兵，

只顾沿途打家劫舍，烧杀奸淫，

在血腥的屠杀和死亡中寻欢作乐，

哪管孩子的眼泪和母亲的呻吟，

骄纵得头脑膨胀，只盼进攻命令。

于是他的心猛击战鼓，下令进攻，

让欲念去做它一直想做的事情。

心头的怦怦鼓声使眼睛感到振奋，

眼睛命令他的手挂先锋印出征，

手为获得如此尊贵的头衔而得意，

便得意忘形，趾高气扬地进军，

先占领胸脯，她全部疆土的中心，

手到之处那些蓝幽幽的青脉都撤退，

丢下两座洁白的圆塔，冷冷清清。

撤退的血脉在宁静的心房汇合，

那儿是它们女主人心灵之寓所，

它们报告说她正受到可怕的侵犯，

她猛然惊醒，只听它们七嘴八舌，

睁开紧闭的双眼，双眼惊惶失色，

想看一看到底发生了什么灾祸，

但却晕眩于面前明晃晃的烛火。

请想象一个女人在死沉沉的黑夜

突然被可怕的幻象从沉睡中惊醒，

她必然会以为自己看见了妖魔鬼怪，

狰狞的面目定会吓得她抖个不停——

那景象真恐怖！可她的境遇更糟，

猛然被惊醒，拼命想看个究竟，

却发现梦幻中的恐怖原来是实情。

被万千恐惧包裹，她全然不知所措，

像只刚受伤的小鸟只会瑟瑟哆嗦；

她不敢再睁开眼睛，但却仿佛看见

飞来窜去的魑魅魍魉，鬼怪妖魔，

这些幽灵原来是大脑凭空臆造，

因大脑怒于眼睛不履行自己的职责，

所以用更恐怖的景象把它们恐吓。

塔奎的手还停在鲁克丽丝胸上，

像攻城巨槌要撞破那道象牙城墙。

他的手感觉到她的心悲痛欲绝，

因那心跳之剧烈像是要自戕而亡，

撞城墙的手也随那心跳而颤抖，

这使他更加狂暴，更不惜玉怜香，

只想撞破城墙，进入那甜蜜之邦。

这时他的舌头开始扮演号角，

用号音向他的敌人发出谈判信号；

她从雪白的被褥下露出惨白的脸，

想把这场突然袭击的缘由知道，

他试图用无言的表情来说明原因，

可她仍一再追问，不停地哀求，

他如此为非作歹到底有何理道。

于是他回答：“这理道就在你脸上！

它变白时会让百合感到自惭形秽，

红起来会让玫瑰觉得颜面无光，

它将为我辩护，讲述我爱的渴望；

我为此来攻你这座未被征服的堡垒，

这都是你的错，责任在你一方，

因为把你出卖给我的是你的目光。

“如果你想谴责，那么让我先说：

你的美貌已让你陷入今宵网罗，

今宵你必须忍受我对你发泄欲望，

与你交欢是我在人世间的极乐，

我也曾竭尽全力抑制这熊熊欲火，

但每当我的理性和自责将其扑灭，

你光彩照人的美貌又让它复活。

“我知道我的企图会有什么结局：

知道玫瑰有什么样的锐刺护花，

也知道蜜蜂有什么样的螫针守蜜，

这一切我在事前都已熟虑深思。

但欲望没耳朵，听不进任何忠告，

它只有眼睛，就爱看美颜风姿，

而一旦看上就不管什么责任或法律。

“我也曾思量，甚至在灵魂深处，

这将造成何等的罪恶、悲哀与耻辱？

但没什么能抑制贪欢求爱的激情，

也没什么能阻止纵欲狂心的脚步。

我知道纵欲后会有悔恨的眼泪，

会遭谴责和白眼，结下冤家对头，

但我却力求拥抱这样的臭名昭著。”

塔奎说完便扬起他那柄罗马利剑，

那利剑像一只恶鹰在空中盘旋，

罩在鹰翅阴影下的鸽子瑟瑟退缩，

弯钩鹰喙威胁说你一飞就会完蛋。

鲁克丽丝就这样躺在利剑之下，

颤抖着密切注意他的一行一言，

像鸽子听见猎鹰脚环  预示的灾难。

他说：“你我免不掉今宵这场云雨。

你要是拒绝，我就只能使用暴力，

那样我就会在这张床上把你杀死，

杀你之后我还要杀你家一名奴隶，

这样既要了你的命又毁了你的声誉，

因为我会把那名奴隶放在你怀中，

并发誓说我杀人是因看见你俩同居。

“这样你那位还活在世上的丈夫

将会遭千人白眼，被万人责咎，

你的族人在人前将会抬不起头，

你的子女将因私生混血而蒙羞，

而你，这些奇耻大辱的罪魁祸首，

你的风流事将被骚人墨客引用，

并被孩子们传唱，代代传诵不休。

“但你若依从，这事我不会张扬，

过错未经暴露就好比邪念没曝光，

为成就大事而犯下的区区小错，

连法律也视其为计谋而加以原谅。

有毒的药草有时候也用来攻毒，

只要配制得法，用量用法适当，

病人体内的毒素将被祛除一光。

“那么，请认真考虑我的求爱，

为了你丈夫和你的子孙后代，

别让他们蒙上无法洗刷的耻辱，

这污垢永远也不会被世人忘怀，

它比奴隶的烙印和胎记都更糟，

因奴隶的烙印和胎记是与生俱来，

是上天的错，不该把他们责怪。”

说到此他停住话头，亢奋激昂，

像蛇怪  一样射出令人致死的目光，

这时候纯洁而虔诚的鲁克丽丝

像一只白色母鹿落入怪兽的魔掌，

在无法无天的荒野向怪兽告怜，

可残暴的野兽不知何谓天道公理，

只知道服从他邪恶卑鄙的欲望。

但当一团预示要遮蔽大地的乌云

刚用蒙蒙迷雾掩匿高耸的山巅，

从大地深处便会生出一阵清风，

把漆黑的云雾从弥漫之处吹散，

从而把黑云压城的时刻向后推延，

她的哀诉就这样推延了他的恶行，

因奥菲斯一弹琴冥王也会闭眼。 

然而夜出的恶猫爱与猎物玩游戏，

落入它利爪的老鼠只能气喘吁吁。

她的哀告更激起他邪恶的欲望，

填不满的欲望如深渊，深不见底。

他的耳朵听见了她的声声哀诉，

他的心却不允许那声音进入心里；

虽雨能穿石，但泪只会增强情欲。

她那悲痛欲绝、乞哀告怜的眼睛

死死盯住塔奎脸上冷酷的皱纹。

她谦恭而雄辩的言词伴随着悲叹，

使她动情的哀告更加优雅动人。

但悲愤使她断断续续，言不成语，

往往话刚说到一半就泣不成声，

每每数次张口却一句话也没说成。

她求他看在主神朱庇特的面上，

求他顾及朋友的誓言和贵族身份，

求他可怜她的眼泪和她丈夫的爱，

求他尊重神圣的法律和相互诚信，

求他看在天地和天地诸神的面上，

速速回到他借宿的客房好好安寝，

求他服从荣誉，不要顺从淫性。

她求他“别无信无义，以怨报德，

别用这种恶行回报主人的好客；

别把供你饮用的清清泉水弄脏，

别把不能修补的皎皎器皿打破，

停止你罪恶的瞄准，趁还没发射，

不合时宜地拈弓搭箭射杀小鹿，

那不是猎手的荣耀，而是罪恶。

“我丈夫是你朋友，所以请放我。

你自己是王子，所以请离开我。

我只是个弱女子，所以别陷害我。

你不像个骗子，所以请别骗我。

我旋风般的哀叹努力要把你吹开，

只要有男人可怜女人的悲酸苦涩，

就请可怜我吧，为我这叹风泪河。

“愿这叹风泪河汇成汹涌的巨浪，

冲刷你想为非作歹的铁石心肠，

愿巨浪的不断冲刷使你的心变软，

岩石经不断冲刷也会变成泥浆。

啊，如果你的心并不比石头坚硬，

就溶于我的泪水吧，变得仁慈善良！

恻隐欲进入心扉，铁门也该开敞。

“看你像塔奎，我才把你款待，

难道你是扮他的模样要把他陷害？

我要向天上的众神控告你的恶行，

你败坏了塔奎王室的名誉和光彩。

你并非看上去的你，如果你是，

那你似乎并无神祇或君王的风采，

因神祇和君王都应该自制自爱。

“你年纪轻轻就这般任罪恶萌生，

成年后不知你会怎样远扬臭名？

身为王子你就敢这般恣意妄为，

加冕后你还有什么不敢做的事情？

啊，请你务必记住，务必记住，

既然臣民的恶行不能一笔勾销，

帝王犯下的罪孽也不能入土封尘。

“此行只能使臣民对你畏而生敬，

而臣民对明君永远是敬而生畏。

当罪犯证明你与他们是一丘之貉，

你也就只能容许他们胡作非为。

仅为避免这点，你也该痛改前非。

帝王是臣民的书本、学校和明镜，

臣民会依样阅读，学习，比对。

“你可想成为一所教淫欲的学校？

臣民都必须学习这可耻的课程？

你可想成为一面没廉耻的镜子，

照出行恶的理由，犯罪的凭证，

从而以你的名义赦免所有恶行？

你不以行恶为耻，反以之为荣，

让清白也沾上妓院老鸨的名声。

“你有权发令？那就凭授权与你的神，

从纯洁的心向你反叛的欲望发令：

别用你的剑去维护不公正行为，

授剑与你是要你去斩除罪恶行径。

若是别人都以你为榜样为非作歹，

说是你教会他们怎样违法犯罪，

那你如何能履行王子高贵的使命？

“若是你看见别人像你这样犯罪，

想想那犯罪场面该是多么污秽！

人总是很少看清自己身上的污点，

总爱偏袒或掩盖自己的不端行为。

须知此罪若是别人犯下就是死罪。

啊，对自己的罪孽视而不见的人，

将怎样恶名缠身，被其丑行所累！

“我举双手迎的是你，是你本身，

而不是把你诱入歧途的性欲。

我恳求你迎回被你放逐的尊严，

我恳求你让阿谀奉承的妄念退职，

尊严一旦复位，将把妄念抑制。

请从你痴迷的眼前拂开蒙蒙迷雾，

你会看清自己并同情我的遭遇。”

“住嘴，”他说，“你这番拒推

只能使我的欲潮高涨，而非消退。

微光易吹灭，但大火会继续燃烧，

风刮得越猛火焰越会高扬高飞；

小河小溪每天为大海注入淡水，

却只能使它的波涛更加浩浩汤汤，

而不能改变它滔滔海水的咸味。”

“你是大海，”她说，“是高贵的君王，

可你瞧，往你无边波涛中注入的是

卑鄙、耻辱、妄行和肮脏的欲望，

它们正试图污染你王家血脉的海洋。

若这些狡诈的邪恶改变了你的善性，

你这片大海将被埋葬于污泥浊浆，

而不是污泥浊浆在你的大海中消亡。

“恶性一旦称王，你将变成奴仆，

它的卑鄙变高贵，你的高贵变卑污，

你是它的天堂，而它是你的坟墓，

它享你的荣光，你背负它的耻辱。

天地间自来邪不压正，恶不胜德，

巍巍雪松从不向低矮的灌木低头，

只有灌木匍匐在雪松脚下干枯。

“所以请将你麾下那些卑鄙的奴仆……”

“够了，”他说，“我不再听你倾诉。

顺从我的爱吧，不然我的愤怒

将用致命的手段取代情人的轻抚。

完事后我还要故意把你当作淫妇，

放到某个下贱男仆肮脏的床上，

把他作为这不体面死亡中的奸夫。”

塔奎说完这话便伸脚踩灭了烛灯，

因光明和淫欲是不共戴天的敌人，

羞恶之心在漆黑之夜会化为乌有，

恶人在黑暗之中最敢实施暴行。

饿狼扑住了猎物，羊羔在哀鸣，

直到被自己雪白的羊毛所窒息，

声声哀鸣被封堵进她甜蜜的芳唇。

因为塔奎顺手用她穿的亚麻睡衣

活生生堵住了她的哀号和呼喊；

她贞洁的眼里流出贞洁的悲泪，

这悲泪冷却了塔奎那张滚烫的脸。

啊，那邪欲竟玷污如此纯洁的床单！

如果眼泪能洗净由此而生的污点，

她的眼泪将永生永世洒在上面。

但她已失去了比生命珍贵的东西，

而他所得到的将会再一次失去：

这种强迫交欢会招致未来的纷争，

这种片刻快乐会孕育长久的悲戚，

这种火热欲望会变成冷淡的鄙弃，

纯洁的贞操被窃贼掠去了宝藏，

淫欲这个窃贼却比窃掠前更拮据。

瞧，像喂足的猎犬不想再嗅猎味，

像餍饱的山鹰不愿再振翅疾飞，

扑食猎物本是它们的乐趣和天性，

如今却慢慢尾随，或停下不追。

宣淫纵欲的塔奎今宵也这般贪嘴，

靠窃玉偷香为生的淫欲狼吞虎咽，

淫时津津有香，欲毕却翻肠倒胃。

啊，纵令无限的想象力沉思冥想，

也不可能理解如此深重的罪孽！

喝得烂醉的淫欲必须要倒胃呕吐，

才可能看清他自己的丑陋卑劣。

当淫欲欲火中烧，大发其淫威，

很难将其狂热抑制，把欲火浇灭，

只有等它像任性老马精疲力竭。

然后淫欲便形容憔悴，面无血色，

两眼无神，双腿乏力，皱眉蹙额，

战战兢兢，可怜巴巴，唯唯诺诺，

像个无钱的乞丐哭诉他遭的灾祸。

肉体膨胀时，欲望与情理相搏，

因为欲望从肉体中感到无比快活，

快乐一逝这逆贼便求宽恕其罪恶。

这位行恶的罗马王子结果就这样，

他此前疯狂追求的这一夜狂欢

如今却把末日审判的钟声敲响，

宣告他将身败名裂，臭名远扬。

他清白的灵魂圣殿如今已被毁损，

绵绵不断的忧思涌到废墟之上，

叩问蒙污含垢的灵魂是否安康。

灵魂说它卑鄙的属下集体叛变，

已经捣毁了它那道神圣的墙垣，

叛贼的滔天大罪毁了它的名声，

把它变成奴隶，受叛贼看管，

现在它是生不如死，痛苦绵绵，

对此它早有预见，并试图控制，

但它的远见没能抑制叛贼的邪念。

塔奎就这样沉思着趁黑夜开溜，

一名失败的胜利者，得羊亡牛，

把损坏的战利品丢在困惑中痛苦，

却带走了难以治愈的心灵伤口，

即便伤口能愈合伤疤也会永留。

她承受的是淫欲的污渍留在身上，

他承受的是负罪感永远压在心头。

他像条做贼的狗灰溜溜悄悄离去，

她像只疲惫的羊躺在那儿喘息。

他皱着眉头悔恨自己犯下的罪孽，

她绝望地用指甲抓破自己的肉体。

他做贼心虚，慌不择路地潜逃，

她躺那儿诅咒今晚可怕的遭遇。

他一边跑一边责骂他一时的欢愉。

离开的他从此将会痛苦地忏悔，

留下的她则被抛进了绝望的深渊。

匆匆而逃的他想早点看见曙光，

绝望的她却祈求永远不再见白天：

“因为白天将把夜间的丑事暴露，

而我这双揉不进半点沙子的眼睛

又不会用狡诈眼神把丑事隐瞒。

“这双眼睛认为天下所有的明目

都能把它俩看见的耻辱看清楚，

所以它们愿永远都呆在黑暗之中，

让别人没看见的罪恶永不暴露。

因为眼睛落泪就会把隐情泄出，

泪水会像镪水在钢铁上留下蚀痕，

在我脸上刻下我感觉到的耻辱。”

此时她开始责备睡眠和憩息，

唯愿她那双眼睛从此永远紧闭。

她使劲捶胸把她的心儿唤醒，

要心儿离开这心房，另觅居室，

纯洁心灵应在纯洁的肉体安居。 

她就这样疯狂地发泄满腔悲愤，

诅咒那桩尚未暴露的夜的秘密。

“毁灭安适的夜哟，地狱的象征！

耻辱的登记员，污垢的公证处！

罪恶的温床，隐匿罪行的混沌！

悲剧上演和杀手行凶的黑幕！

瞎眼的老鸨，丑行的藏身之屋！

死亡的黑洞，嚼舌的阴谋家，

专与隐秘的叛贼和劫掠者为伍！

“啊，气雾迷蒙的可恨的夜哟！

你对我洗不掉的耻辱负有责任，

所以请积聚你的迷雾去阻挡黎明，

向昼夜交替的规律发动一场战争，

如果你允许太阳爬到通常的高度，

也请你设法在它西坠落山之前，

编织毒云去罩住它金色的头顶。

“而且还要趁太阳赶到正午之前，

用腐臭的湿气把清晨的空气驱散，

让乌烟瘴气散发出致命的气息，

使人厌恶那生命之精华的金盘， 

让你的湿气乌烟云瘴越集越厚，

直到把它的万丈光芒窒息，遮掩，

让它正午就坠落，让长夜绵绵。

“如果只是夜之子的塔奎是黑夜，

他会把银光四溢的月神也强奸，

并玷污她那些星光闪烁的侍女， 

她们就不会再透过夜幕向下窥看。

这样也许会有人与我同病相怜，

正如朝圣者聊天会缩短朝圣路程，

伤心人同病相怜会使悲伤减半。 

“可现在我身边没有人陪我含羞，

陪我一起搂胸蜷缩，黯然垂首，

陪我一起佯装镇静，把丑事遮掩，

我只能孤零零呆坐，独自悲愁，

任凭晶莹的咸泪花溅落在地上，

任泪水掺进自责，呻吟伴着幽忧，

悲泪悲叹会消失，悲痛却会永久。

“夜哟，你这座乌烟瘴气的熔炉，

别让猜疑的白天看见我这副面孔！

让它藏在你遮掩一切的黑幕之下，

默默地忍受折磨、羞耻和悲痛！

请继续占领你昏暗的领地和领空！

让所有在你的黑暗中发生的罪行

全都被埋进你阴暗的坟墓之中！

“别让我成为白天泄露的秘密！

别让阳光照耀我藏着秘密的眉宇！

别让它们透露贞节如何被玷污，

神圣的婚姻誓言是怎样被毁弃！

须知就连那些不识字的文盲，

虽读不懂书本上那些高深文词，

也能从我眉宇间看出我的过失。

“保姆将用我的故事来吓唬孩子，

用塔奎的名字来止住孩子的哭声。

演说家为了修饰他们的词章，

将把我和塔奎的耻辱相提并论。

欢宴上的歌手会弹唱这段丑闻，

引听众对每一句唱词都侧耳倾听，

听塔奎怎样害我，我怎样负科拉丁。

“为了我对科拉丁最深切的爱，

请让我贞洁的名声保持清白。

若我的贞节成了人们争论的话题，

另一棵树的枝丫也会受到伤害，

他就会蒙受他不该蒙受的耻辱，

而正如此前我对他的忠贞一样，

我的污点也与他没有丝毫干碍。

“啊，无形的羞哟，看不见的耻！

没感觉的痛哟，藏在头顶的疤！ 

耻辱的痕迹已印在科拉丁脸上，

塔奎的眼睛从老远就能看见它——

那和平时的挂彩，非战时的挂花。

哎，多少人遭受这种飞灾横祸，

自己浑然不知，只有肇祸者明察。

“科拉丁哟，你的荣誉若在我身上，

那它已遭到凶悍盗贼的入室掠抢。

失去了蜂蜜，我就像一只雄蜂，

整个夏季的辛勤劳作竟是白忙  ，

花蜜都被无情的盗贼一扫而光。

一只浪荡的黄蜂溜进了你的蜂房，

吮了贞洁的工蜂为你珍藏的蜜浆。

“啊，你名誉扫地都因我的过失，

可我款待他也是为了你的名誉，

他来自你身边，我不能拒他于门外，

因为对他那样怠慢也是失礼。

而且他口口声声说他人困马疲，

还满口德性仁义——真是亵渎啊，

德性仁义竟出自一个魔鬼嘴里！

“为什么蛀虫要侵入纯洁的花蕾？

为什么可恶的杜鹃  产卵在雀巢内？

为什么蟾蜍要用其毒液污染清泉？

为什么狂野淫欲会潜入娴雅心扉？

为什么帝王要违反自己颁布的法规？

天下事从不尽如人意，十全十美，

白璧有瑕，皎者易污，峣者易摧。

“把积攒的金银装进箱箧的老人

到头来往往受抽筋痛风的折磨，

还来不及把他的财富多看上几眼，

就已像坦塔罗斯那样又饥又渴  ，

才智的收成如今成了无用的摆设。

除了因无法治愈的伤痛而痛苦，

他的财富没给他带来任何快乐。

“这样到不能享受时方金银满库，

所以只好把钱留给儿孙去享福，

正值绮年的儿孙随即就挥霍无度，

父辈奄奄一息，儿孙又血气方刚，

这亦福亦祸的钱财很难久留常驻。

甚至在世人以为幸福已来临的时候，

那久久追求的幸福也会变成痛苦。

“嫩枝幼芽会遭受狂风暴雨的袭击，

奇花异卉会遇到衰草莠苴来傍依，

莺雀啁啾之处会有毒蛇咝咝作声，

德性的产物有可能会被邪恶吞噬。

美好之物世人都不能夸口说拥有，

易沾邪附恶的天时也常光顾美好，

或将其毁灭，或改变其美好品质。

“哦，机遇哟，你真是罪大恶极！

正是你让叛贼的叛逆得以实行。

是你把恶狼引进羊羔栖身的羊圈。

无论谁策划犯罪，你都安排日程。

是你在践踏天道公理、纲纪法令，

罪孽在你黑暗的洞中隐迹藏身，

伺机侵袭从它跟前路过的生灵。

“你使贞洁的修女也违背其誓言，

节制稍有松懈你就来煽风点火，

你谋害忠贞不渝，扼杀刚正不阿，

你这邪恶的教唆犯，可耻的皮条客！

你爱散播谣言，用诽谤偷换赞歌，

你这个无耻的叛徒、强盗、小偷，

你的蜜浆会变胆汁，幸福变灾祸！

“你隐秘的快乐会变成公开耻辱，

你私下的盛宴会变成公众持斋，

你悦耳的声望会变成难听的恶名，

你裹糖的舌头会尝到涩口的苦艾，

你的狂热虚幻不可能长存永在。

可恶的机遇哟，既然你这般有害，

为何那么多人还对你企足而待？

“你何时才肯与卑贱的乞求者为友，

把他们带到能实现其愿望的路口？

你何时才肯让激烈的纷争消停片刻？

让戴着镣铐的可怜生灵获得自由？

让病者有医药，让痛者能忍受？

贫者弱者盲者跛者都在向你求救，

可机遇对他们既不可遇也不可求。

“病人死去时医生却在呼呼安眠，

孤儿挨饿时压迫者却在大张盛宴，

寡妇流泪时法官却在纵酒狂欢，

瘟疫流行时当局却在娱乐消遣  。

你从来都不给善行义举半点时间，

因每时每刻你都像个恭顺的奴仆

侍候着狂暴嫉妒凶杀强奸和叛变。

“当真诚和德性前来与你交往，

对它们的求助你却设下千道屏障。

真诚和德性花钱也难买你相助，

罪恶空手而来，你却满心欢畅，

对它言听计从，乐于白白帮忙。

塔奎来访时科拉丁本也可以回家，

可是你却偏偏把他留在了远方。

“你犯了谋杀之罪和偷窃之罪，

你犯了伪证之罪和唆使之罪，

你犯了叛逆罪、伪造罪和欺骗罪，

还犯了最令人深恶痛绝的乱伦罪，

因为对所有已犯之罪和将犯之罪，

从创世之初到世界末日所犯的罪，

你都乐于当帮凶，故你难逃其罪。

“丑陋的时间哟，你这丑夜的同伙，

你这迅疾、狡诈、专报凶信的使者，

金迷纸醉的奴仆，吞噬青春的饕餮，

悲的更夫，罪的脚夫，德行的网罗，

你照料一切，而你又谋害一切。

听我说吧，害人骗人的时间哟：

既然你害我犯罪，你也难辞罪责！

“为什么你那位名叫机遇的仆人

竟然出卖你给予我睡眠的时辰？

为什么要取消你给我安排的好运，

把我锁进绵绵无期漫漫无涯的悲境？

时间的职责是消弭仇敌间的仇恨，

消除偏见恶念引发的过失罪行，

而不是消灭神圣而合法的婚姻。

“时间的荣耀是平息帝王的争战，

把谎言谬论揭穿，让真理彰显，

给旧物古董盖上时间的印章，

唤醒黎明，为夜晚放哨值班，

惩罚行恶者，直到其洗心革面，

用你的悠悠岁月使大楼坍塌，

用尘埃使金碧辉煌的高塔黯淡，

“让巍巍纪念碑布满虫洞蛀孔，

用万物的腐烂衰朽去喂养遗忘，

涂污古籍史册，更改其内容，

把长命乌鸦  翅膀上的羽毛拔光，

耗干老树的汁液，育新苗成长，

毁坏钢铁锻铸的古老的器物，

把命运飞轮  转得让人晕头转向，

“让老妇人看见自己女儿的女儿，

让童稚变丁壮，丁壮又变老耆，

杀死以残杀为生的凶猛的老虎，

驯服生性狂野的独角兽和狮子，

捉弄那些自欺欺人的奸诈小人，

用年复一年的丰收让耕作者欢喜，

用小小水珠慢慢磨损巉岩巨石。

“你既然不可能回头把过错避开，

为何还要一路上不断为非作歹？

若一百年中能有区区一分钟重来，

你就会赢得千千万万朋友的喜爱，

就会让做决定的人学会畏祸避灾；

若这可怕的夜晚能倒退一个时辰，

我就能躲开你这场风暴的祸害！

“你这个时刻服侍着永恒的奴仆，

请你用飞灾横祸阻拦塔奎的逃路，

请设计出超越极端的极端手段

叫他把这该诅咒的可怕之夜咒诅，

用恐怖的阴影惊吓他淫荡的双目，

让他一想到他的罪行就胆战心惊，

每一株草木都像无形的精灵怪物。

“请用忧惧折磨得他夜不成寐，

让他在床上辗转反侧，呻吟懊悔，

让可怕的灾难都降临到他的头上，

让他哀号悲叹但不怜悯他的伤悲。

让他碰上比石头还硬的铁石心肠，

让温柔的女人遇见他也竖眼横眉，

变得比凶残的母老虎更悍戾恣睢。

“让他有时间去撕扯他的头发，

让他有时间去对自己破口大骂，

让他有时间因时乖命蹇感到绝望，

让他有时间去生活在贱奴之家，

让他有时间去讨乞丐吃剩的残渣，

并有时间发现靠施舍度日的贫民

也不屑于把残羹剩饭施舍给他。

“让他有时间看见朋友变成敌人，

看见快乐的白痴聚拢来把他调侃，

让他有时间感觉到在悲伤之时

时间是多么难挨，真是度日如年，

而在欢愉之时又怎样飞逝如箭。

还要永远让他无法洗刷的罪行

有时间为他虚度的年华而悲叹。

“时间哟，是非善恶都由你教训，

请教我诅咒那个你教他行恶的人！

让他被自己的影子吓得精神错乱，

每时每刻都想结束自己的生命！

那脏血应该由他那双脏手去放尽，

因为谁会愿意干这么卑鄙的事——

去处决这么一个卑鄙的恶棍？

“既然出身王家，他就更加卑鄙，

竟用这种秽行令他的未来蒙耻。

居位越高者，其行为越招人眼目，

不管给他招来的是仇恨还是荣誉，

因最大的丑闻总陪伴最高的位置。

月亮一被云遮掩就会被人发现，

但星星却能随心所欲地隐藏自己。

“乌鸦可在泥潭濯其乌黑的翅膀，

带着污秽飞走却不会招人目光，

但若是雪白的天鹅也想出自污泥，

雪白羽毛上的污点则众目昭彰。

臣民是夜晚冥冥，帝王是白昼煌煌，

蠓虫飞到哪里都很少惹人注意，

但每一只眼睛都会盯着雄鹰翱翔。

“滚吧，难断是非的无用的废话！

你这种仲裁者只配侍候浅薄的傻瓜！

去口才学校参加你的演讲比赛，

去找那些无聊而迟钝的辩护专家，

一起为胆小的委托人斡旋劝架。

我不会把对簿公堂当成救命稻草，

因为对我这案子法律也没有办法。

“我徒费口舌抱怨机缘和时间，

我白费力气责骂塔奎和凄凄夜晚，

我枉费心机地挑剔我自己的丑行，

我无济于事地撇开我注定的悲冤，

因为这些废话都不能给我公道，

能替我伸冤雪耻的真正妙方

是让我这腔被污染的鲜血迸溅。

“可怜的手哟，为何听这话就发抖？

你的荣耀就在于要替我雪耻除垢，

我若死去，我的名誉将活在你掌中，

我若活着，你将和我一道蒙耻含羞。

既然你未能保护你忠贞的女主人，

又害怕去找那位邪恶的敌人报仇，

那就请和女主人一道殉节在这床头。”

说完这话她从凌乱的床上坐起，

开始寻找一件能致人于死的武器，

可这温馨的卧室里没有任何物件

能为她再开个孔窍发泄一腔怨气，

她满腔怨愤再次涌到双唇之间，

像埃特纳火山的烟雾向空中腾起，

或是像大炮发射后冒出的烟气。

“我活着已无意义，只能徒然探寻，

想用某种方式来结束这不幸的生命。

我刚才害怕死在塔奎的利剑之下，

可现在却为寻死而寻找一柄利刃；

不过我害怕的时候是个忠贞的妻子，

现在依然是——哦，不，这不可能！

可恶的塔奎已夺走了我忠贞的名声。

“啊，既然我已失去生活的欲望，

那么我现在也无须再惧怕死亡。

用死亡洗涤污点，这样我至少

可为耻辱的衣服佩上名誉的证章；

让活着的耻辱随生命一道消失，

珠玉被窃，补牢也救不回亡羊，

那就烧掉这存放珠玉的无辜宝箱！

“好吧，好吧，我亲爱的科拉丁，

你不会体验到已经被亵渎的婚姻，

我不会用已毁弃的誓言把你欺骗，

决不会那样辜负你的一片真情。

这杂交的孽种绝不会出世成长，

那个玷污了你家族血缘的恶棍

不可能夸口说你是他儿子的父亲。

“他也休想在心里暗暗把你嘲笑，

休想和同伴一起对你热讽冷嘲；

不过你应该知道，你珍藏的宝物

不是被出卖，而是从大门被盗。

至于我自己，我会做命运的主人，

对自己的罪过，我绝不会宽饶，

直到死亡把这强加之罪一笔勾销。

“我不会让我的污点使你蒙羞，

也不会为自己的过失找什么借口。

我不会涂饰盾面代表罪孽的黑底， 

不会隐瞒这不义之夜真实的丑陋。

我的舌头会把一切都和盘托出，

为洗刷我的不白之冤，我的眼睛

会开闸让眼泪像清澈的山泉涌流。”

悲伤的菲洛墨拉此时强压悲忧，

止住了她夜莺般如泣如诉的歌喉， 

肃穆而悲哀的黑夜缓缓步入冥界，

看哟，这时候披着红霞的白昼

把光亮借给双双欲借光亮的明眸。

但伤心的鲁克丽丝羞于见光亮，

而情愿让自己继续被黑夜拘囚。

暴露秘密的白昼透过缝隙偷窥，

仿佛要探明她是坐在哪儿哭泣，

鲁克丽丝抽噎着说：“哦，太阳，

为何在窗口探头探脑，东窥西觑？

用你撩人的光芒去撩拨惺忪睡眼，

别用灼热的光芒灼伤我的眉宇，

因为夜晚造的孽与白天没有关系。”

她就这样对什么都吹毛求疵，

大恸大悲者易怒就像任性的稚童，

一旦任起性来看什么都不顺眼；

新悲不似旧痛，旧痛会隐悲忍痛，

因岁月早已教会它要饮恨吞声，

可新悲却像不善水者坠入深水，

虽拼命挣扎也难免会溺于水中。

她就这样在一片苦海中浮沉，

与她所见的每一景物都发生争论，

把天下所有悲痛都与自己的相比，

眼前景物无一不令她越发伤心，

一阵悲痛刚消，另一阵又涌起，

她忽而暗自悲伤，默不作声，

忽而又情绪激动，说个不停。

清晨时小鸟开始把歌喉调试，

欢快的啁啾更使她悲伤不已，

因为欢乐总会把悲伤探究，

伤心人在欢乐人群中生不如死；

须知悲哀最乐于同悲哀做伴，

忧伤也更甘愿与忧伤为伍，

同病相怜者都乐于聚在一起。

望见海岸才被淹死不啻死上两回，

守着食物挨饿更觉得饥饿十倍，

看见药膏不能敷更感到伤口疼痛，

伤心人听到暖心话心中最伤悲；

深深的悲哀汹涌翻滚像滔滔洪水，

洪水若遭遇阻拦会冲毁堤坝，

悲哀若遭遇嘲弄也会逾矩违规。

“你们这群嘲鸫哟，”鲁克丽丝说，

“把歌声吞回你们羽毛下的胸窝。

请别在我耳边发出任何声音，

我纷乱的心此时不爱听声韵谐和；

悲伤的女主人受不了客人欢愉，

把你们悦耳的音符送进开心的耳朵，

流泪的伤心人喜欢听悲歌哀乐。

“声声哀鸣的夜莺哟，菲洛墨拉， 

请在我这头乱发中筑你的窝吧！

当潮润的大地为你的遭遇而哭泣，

我也会伴着声声哭泣把泪抛洒，

用低沉的叹息为你的啼泣帮腔；

当你高声控诉忒柔斯暴虐无耻，

我会用低音哼出塔奎的卑鄙奸诈。

“你为了夜半也清醒地啼诉悲苦，

不惜让胸膛时时迎着尖棘锐楛，

我会学你让胸膛时时对着尖刀，

让那柄尖刀时时令我惊心怵目；

眼一打盹刀就会叫心一命呜呼。

这荆棘尖刀就好比提琴上的指板，

会使我们的心弦奏出真实的凄楚。

“可怜的夜莺哟，你白天不歌唱，

因你羞于见到任何窥觑的目光，

那就让我们去觅一个荒僻之处，

那里没有酷暑，也没有严寒冰霜；

去那儿为飞禽走兽唱悲伤的歌，

既然这世间的男人都变成了禽兽，

那就让禽兽都变得有慈善心肠。”

惶惶然呆立，像头受惊的小鹿，

为选一条逃生之路而迟疑踌躇，

或像位旅行者迷途于曲径弯道，

反复兜圈也难以找到一条出路；

鲁克丽丝也就这样犹豫不决，

不知该忍辱偷生还是以血洗污，

活下去则蒙羞，自戕也会遭责辱。

“自杀！”她失声道，“那算什么？

玷污我身体之外再玷污我的灵魂？

比起国土在战乱中尽悉沦丧者

剩有半壁江山者会有更多的韧性。

若两个可爱的孩子中有一个夭亡，

母亲便把另外一个也一并杀死，

这样的尝试无论如何也太残忍。

“当我的肉体和灵魂都还纯洁无瑕，

二者中哪一个对我来说更为珍贵？

当二者都还只留给上天和科拉丁，

谁的爱更应该与我形影相随？

唉！若高洁的青松被剥掉树皮，

其液汁会干枯，针叶会凋零，

我的灵魂被剥去了躯壳也会枯萎。

“这寓所已被洗劫，安宁已失去，

富丽堂皇的宅所已被敌人偷袭；

其神圣的庙堂被毁，蒙污含垢，

被弄得声名狼藉，为人所不齿；

所以要是我在这残垣上凿个小孔，

把我不安的灵魂送出这躯壳，

请千万别认为这是亵渎神明之举。

“但我要等到我的科拉丁回来

亲耳听到我兰摧玉折的缘由，

要让科拉丁在我绝命之时发誓，

发誓向那个摧兰折玉者报仇。

我要把我被玷污的血留给塔奎，

我要在遗嘱中记下这笔血债，

被他玷污的鲜血会因他而流。

“我要把我的名誉留给这刀刃，

用它来刺穿这失去名誉的肉身。

剥夺不名誉的生命乃名誉之举，

这生命被剥夺，其名誉会永存；

我的名誉将在耻辱的灰烬中涅槃，

因为我自戕也会消除我的耻辱，

耻辱一消除，我的名誉将重生。

“夫君哟，你那份珍宝我已经失去，

这遗产中还有什么可遗留给你？

我的决心和我的爱将是你的骄傲，

你应该以我为范去报仇雪耻。

该如何处置塔奎，请体察我的决定：

我自杀就是你的朋友杀死你的敌人，

为我报仇你得把虚伪的塔奎杀死。

“我在此对我的遗嘱作简要说明：

给苍天大地我留下我的肉体和灵魂，

夫君哟，我留给你的是我的坚贞，

我的名誉留给这柄刀，我将用它自尽，

我的耻辱将留给玷污我名声的仇敌，

而我将在这世上流传的全部名声

则留给那些不会以我为耻的后人。

“科拉丁哟，你将执行这份遗嘱，

让你做这事皆因我昨晚太糊涂！

但我的鲜血会洗净我身上的污秽，

我这一死将把我生命的污点消除。

心儿哟，别怕，勇敢地说‘就这样’，

顺从我的手吧，手将把您征服，

你俩将双双作为胜利者一并作古。”

她强忍悲痛拟定了自杀的计划，

拭干了遮掩明眸的珍珠般的泪花，

用沙哑的嗓音呼唤她的侍女，

双脚像插上了翅膀，忠心可嘉，

恭顺的侍女应声来到主人的卧榻；

见可怜的女主人脸上泪痕隐约，

像冬日阳光下的草地积雪刚融化。

侍女毕恭毕敬地向女主人问候，

神态端庄娴静，语调缓慢轻柔，

她神情语调中也透出些许忧郁，

因她见主人眼神哀痛，满脸悲忧；

可是她不敢贸然向女主人询问：

为何愁云惨雾笼罩她的灿灿明眸，

为何她美丽的脸上曾悲泪长流。

但就像太阳落山，大地雨露弥漫，

承露淋雨的朵朵花儿像只只泪眼，

见女主人脸上的那对恒星黯然陨落，

在咸浪汹涌的大海里把光芒收敛，

侍女不禁心生怜意，满怀同情，

她圆圆的双眼也止不住泪流潸潸，

哭得就像降雨洒露的冥冥夜晚。

一时间这两个美人儿呆呆伫立，

像一对往珊瑚池喷水的牙雕玉女；

一位泪如泉涌自有其洒泪的原因，

另一位却只是为了陪同伴哭泣；

女人伤心溅泪每每都心甘情愿，

以为同伴伤心，自己就悲从中来，

结果便惨怛于心，泫然流涕。

男人心如燧石，女儿心若蜡泥，

因此她们也希望能显得坚如磐石；

纤弱的女性强压出男性的印记，

或是因受骗上当，或因迫不得已；

所以别以为女人就是红颜祸水，

当她们真被压成魔鬼的形象，

那也不过是被认为邪恶的蜡泥。

女人毫无遮蔽，像空旷的平原，

平原上小小的爬虫都毫发可鉴。

男人则像座枝蔓丛生的树林，

种种邪恶都藏匿在幽幽林间。

女人的脸就像其过失登记簿，

每点瑕疵都透过那水晶墙显现，

可男人却能绷着脸把罪行遮掩。

谁也不应该责备残花落红，

而应该谴责那掠红摧花的严冬。

当罚的应是施暴者，而非受害者，

哎，当可怜的女人被男人妄用，

千万别以为这是她们不贞不忠。

请谴责那些骄狂的公子王孙，

是他们带给弱女子耻辱和悲痛。

鲁克丽丝受辱就是这样的事例：

她深夜遭袭，面临死亡的威胁，

还面临死后接踵而至的耻辱，

丈夫同样会蒙冤，被恶人攻讦，

她以死相拼也不能消除这危险，

恐惧会令她四肢瘫痪，头脑昏厥，

而谁不能对一具艳尸奸污猥亵？

这时美丽的鲁克丽丝忍不住开口，

问她可怜的侍女为何满脸悲忧：

“姑娘哟，是什么使你伤心，

是什么使你的脸颊上悲泪长流？

你要是为我承受的悲痛而哭泣，

须知这只是贼去关门，于事无补，

若流泪有用，我自己会流个够。

“可是哟，好姑娘，”她一声长吁；

“塔奎是什么时候离开这宅第？”

“在我起床之前，夫人，”侍女回答，

“都怪我偷懒贪睡，粗心大意。

不过我犯下的过失也情有可原：

因为我没等天光放亮就已起床，

但塔奎在我起床之前就已离去。

“可是，夫人，请恕小女冒昧，

敢问我是否可知你悲伤的原委？”

“啊，请别问！”鲁克丽丝回答，

“我告诉你也不能减轻我的伤悲，

再说那番遭遇我也很难说清，

那种痛苦折磨可以说是下地狱，

我所遭受的磨难非语言能描绘。

“你快去，去取来纸笔墨伺候，

喔，别去了，我这屋里就有。

我想说什么？哦，你去叫人准备，

叫我丈夫的一名男仆在外等候，

等着给我亲爱的丈夫送一急信。

叫他准备好要一路策马奔走，

此事十万火急，信立刻就写就。”

侍女遵命离去，她欲提笔修书，

开始不知从何下笔，颇费踌躇。

万千思绪和悲情都涌向笔端，

理智命她写下的随即被感情删除。

这太矫揉造作，这又过于露骨；

千言万语像人群把大门拥堵，

争先恐后要通过她的笔抢着上路。

最后她写道：“我尊贵的夫君，

你无才无德的妻子谨致问讯，

倘若你还想看见你的鲁克丽丝，

祝你安康之余妻有个不情之请：

请你即刻上路，速速返家门。

我在家里伤心欲绝地等你回来，

这寥寥数语难表我的悲哀之心。”

她往信中折叠进满腹的悲伤，

悲伤的缘由在信中却依稀迷茫。

科拉丁从字里行间可知她的悲苦，

但却不知其悲苦后面的真相，

因为她不敢把一切都和盘托出，

唯恐在她用鲜血洗刷耻辱之前，

他会误以为是她自己红杏出墙。

再说她把满腔悲痛积压在心底，

是要等科拉丁回家后当面倾诉；

因为伴随着声声悲叹、串串泪水，

她更容易说清她是如何被玷污，

更容易把世人对她的猜疑消除。

为避这种猜疑，她书未尽言，

只等最后用行动把心里话说出。

眼观悲剧比耳闻更令人伤感，

因为等眼睛把悲惨的一幕看完

再对耳朵把悲情细细讲述，

眼睛和耳朵早已把痛苦分担，

我们耳闻的悲痛就只剩一半；

深深的海峡比浅滩更为沉默，

悲哀一经言辞倾诉便会消减。

她用蜡将信封讫并写好抬头：

“急送阿尔代亚呈科拉丁亲收。”

她把信交给一旁恭候的男仆，

命神情沉重的信差赶紧上路，

像北风紧逼的落伍雁兼程疾走。

可即便他逐日追风她也会嫌慢，

人陷绝境时的偏激无需理由。

忠厚的男仆向女主人俯首鞠躬，

两眼盯着她，满脸涨得通红，

局促不安地接过了那封书信，

一声没吭就转身登程去把信送。

但胸藏隐情者往往都会心虚，

鲁克丽丝也以为那是责备的目光，

以为他因看出了她的羞惭而脸红。

可上天知晓，这位忠厚的仆役

只是少点胆量，不懂得厚颜无耻。

这等善良之辈只知用行动说话，

不像有些无耻之徒善于言辞，

当面满口答应，背后却敷衍了事。

这位旧时代的楷模就如此这般，

其保证并非言辞，而是满脸诚实。

他的忠厚本分引起她重重疑心，

主仆二人脸上都腾起两片红云；

她以为他脸红是知道了昨夜之事，

于是红着脸看他，目不转睛。

她热切的目光使得他更加迷惑，

而她越看他他就越发面红耳赤，

他越脸红她越认为他看出了隐情。

她觉得那尽职的信差刚刚离开，

要等很久很久才能够回来。

眼下哭泣悲叹呻吟都无济于事，

呻吟烦了呻吟，悲哀厌了悲哀，

这令人厌烦的时间实在难挨；

于是她稍稍止住心头的哀怨，

寻思另辟蹊径抒一腔愁怀。

最后她想到一幅精美的绘画，

画面上是普里阿摩斯  的特洛亚  ，

特洛亚城前是围城的希腊大军，

因海伦被诱拐来把特洛亚讨伐， 

要把高耸入云的城头踩在脚下；

那城头被画师画得巍峨壮丽，

像是苍天正俯身亲吻崇楼高塔。

画上有成百上千可悲可叹的人物，

艺术巧夺天工，使之呼之欲出。

许多干笔  点缀似泪珠纷纷落下，

像妻子在哭她们战死沙场的丈夫。

画师的神笔使鲜血散发出腥味，

使黯淡微光从垂死者眼中闪出，

犹如漫漫长夜即将燃尽的火烛。

你可以看见掘壕排障的尖兵，

一个个汗流浃背，满身土尘；

透过特洛亚城头的一个个箭孔，

你可见向外窥视的一双双眼睛

充满敌意地注视着城外的敌人；

这画真是笔法精湛，神乎其技，

连远方眼睛流露的悲怅都能看清。

你可从那些显赫的将领脸上

看见威风凛凛，得意洋洋，

从小伙子身上看见雄健敏捷，

而画师也没忘记在队伍中添上

一些面如土色的懦夫步履踉跄，

这些胆小鬼被画得惟妙惟肖，

你能感觉到他们抖得左偏右晃。

哦，你看埃阿斯和尤利西斯， 

从他俩脸上更显出画师的技艺。

各自的相貌揭示了各自的性格，

两种神情表露了不同的心思：

埃阿斯眼中翻滚着严厉和愤怒，

而尤利西斯目光柔和的眼里

却闪出雍容自持和深谋远虑。

再看站立的涅斯托耳正在讲演， 

仿佛在激励希腊人奋勇作战，

他挥舞的双手是那么从容，

吸引了全军的注意力和视线。

他银色的胡须仿佛在上下摆动，

演讲时似乎有气息逸出唇间，

丝丝气息盘旋飘浮，袅袅上天。

他周围的听众一个个大张着嘴，

像要一口吞下他的谆谆教诲，

众人都仔细聆听，但神态各异，

仿佛美人鱼的歌声使他们沉醉；

高矮胖瘦都被画得栩栩欲活，

人群后排的人头几乎隐入人堆，

令观画者想踮起脚尖鸟瞰俯睽。

这边有人把手搭在别人头上，

别人的耳朵把他的鼻子遮挡；

那边有人面红耳赤地挤在后面，

还有位被挤者似乎肝火正旺；

看他们那种情绪激动的模样，

若非怕听漏了涅斯托耳的良言，

他们恐怕会怒目相争，拔剑相向。

画师的想象力展现得淋漓高超，

虚实简繁都安排得自然精妙，

如画阿喀琉斯  却不见其尊容，

只见其披甲的手紧握的长矛，

除非用心灵的眼睛去近观远眺；

只需见一手一足，一耳一目，

想象便可见微知著，窥其全貌。

当特洛亚人的希望赫克托耳

勇敢地冲出围城与希腊人对阵， 

特洛亚人的母亲纷纷登上城头，

欣喜地观看其儿郎迎击敌人，

她们反常的欣喜来自她们的希望，

所以那欣喜中又透出恐惧忧愤，

犹如锃亮的刀剑上有斑斑锈痕。

鲜血从两军鏖战的达尔丹海滩 

直流到芦苇丛生的西摩伊河畔， 

西摩伊河水也想模仿这场战斗，

它涌起的波浪就像进攻的兵团，

气势汹汹地扑向遭毁损的河边，

然后向后退，直到遇到援军，

再合力把泡沫射向西摩伊河岸。

鲁克丽丝向那幅精美的画靠拢，

想找一幅刻画了所有悲哀的面容，

此前她发现许多面孔都充满悲伤，

但都没包含人世间所有的悲痛，

直到她看见悲痛欲绝的赫卡柏 

正盯着丈夫普里阿摩斯一动不动，

丈夫躺在皮洛斯脚下血流如涌。 

岁无情，美易逝，人生多难，

画师都细细刻在她眉宇之间。

她双颊早已布满深深皱纹，

昔日美貌风韵已成过眼云烟。

她蓝色的血浆  早已变成黑色  ，

萎缩的血管缺乏血液浇灌，

预示囚于躯壳的生命已近终点。

鲁克丽丝凝视着这悲惨的场景，

使自己的悲痛与这妇人的相称，

赫卡柏的一切都与她的相同，

但缺少哭声和对仇敌的骂声。

画师非神，不能画她的舌头，

所以鲁克丽丝认为画师不公允，

画她这般悲痛却没画她的声音。

于是她说：“可怜的无声琴哟，

我要用我的舌头奏出你的悲苦，

为普里阿摩斯的伤口敷上药膏，

责骂凶残的皮洛斯伤害你丈夫，

用我的泪浇灭特洛亚久燃的大火，

而对你的仇敌，所有希腊人，

我要用我的刀剜掉他们的眼珠。

“至于招致了这场灾祸的淫女  ，

我要用指甲撕碎她的美丽面目。

愚蠢的帕里斯哟，你的淫欲

使特洛亚全城遭受烈火的愤怒；

是你的眼睛点燃了这熊熊烈火，

看这特洛亚，就因你有眼无珠，

死去了多少兄弟姐妹、严父慈母。

“为何一人偷香窃玉、寻欢作乐

竟会使那么多无辜者遭受折磨？

既然是一人为非作歹，作奸犯科，

就该让他独受惩罚，自吞苦果。

别让无辜的灵魂因负罪而悲伤！

因为一个人私下里犯下的罪

为何要株连全城，让众生罹祸？

“普里阿摩斯崩徂，赫卡柏哭号，

赫克托耳和特洛伊罗斯  双双栽倒，

浸血的壕沟里朋友们尸陈纵横，

兄弟阋墙，自相残杀，同室操刀， 

一个人的欲望让千百万人丧生。

若普里阿摩斯能抑制儿子的欲望，

特洛亚该享荣耀而不该被火烧。”

鲁克丽丝对画哀叹特洛亚的悲痛，

因为悲哀就像钟楼悬吊的巨钟，

一旦鸣响就会凭自身重量摆动，

钟舌轻轻一碰便碰出幽咽钟声。

鲁克丽丝就这样对着画中人物，

借画中人神态，假画中人声音，

幽幽咽咽地倾诉自己心中的哀恸。

她的目光缓缓扫视那幅绘画，

一看到谁可怜她就为谁伤心。

最后她看见一个被缚的可怜汉

骗取了一群牧羊人对他的同情。

他满脸忧虑中又透出默然顺从，

随那群牧羊人走向特洛亚城，

看上去他的耐性战胜了悲愤。

画师对此人之用笔尤为巧妙，

用无辜的面孔掩盖了他的奸狡，

步履卑谦，神情安然，两眼含泪，

舒展着眉头似乎乐于受煎熬，

脸色不是太红，也不是太白，

双颊泛红时不像是胸中有鬼，

面有土色时也看不出心惊肉跳。

他就像一条毋庸置疑的恶棍，

表面上却显得那么善良真诚，

连最有疑心的人也不会怀疑

他那副胸襟里包裹有叵测之心，

谁也想不到诡计和虚伪的誓言

会让黑云暴雨闯入朗朗晴空，

或让这样一个圣徒担魔鬼罪名。

那高明画师画的这副温顺面孔

便是发尽假誓、巧舌如簧的西农， 

其花言巧语令普里阿摩斯丧命，

又像烈火烧掉了特洛亚的光荣；

特洛亚之毁连上天也感到心痛，

群星见映其星容的宝镜被打破，

也纷纷迸离其星位，各自西东。

她若有所思地对画慢品细揣，

开始把画师高超的画技责怪，

认为西农的形象有点儿不对劲，

这么正派的人不可能心怀鬼胎。

她对那坦然的面孔越仔细端详，

越觉得真诚的迹象显现出来，

于是她断定这形象画得太失败。

“这不可能，”她想说“此等奸妄

不可能潜藏于这么真诚的面庞”，

可这时她脑际闪过塔奎的影子，

“不能潜藏”变成了“能够潜藏”。

于是她改了“这不可能”的下文，

接着说，“奸妄不能潜于真诚，

除非善良面孔有一副邪恶心肠。

“当一身戎装的塔奎前来造访，

就和这画中狡猾的西农一模一样，

也这般忧郁疲惫，这般和善温良，

仿佛辛劳把他的精力全都耗光；

表面那么真诚，却把祸心包藏，

恰如普里阿摩斯把西农款待，

我款待塔奎，使我的特洛亚灭亡。

“看哟，当西农任其鳄鱼泪倾泻，

特洛亚国王是怎样含泪哽咽！

普里阿摩斯老王你为何老不开窍？

他流眼泪可是要特洛亚人流血！

他眼中是在冒火，不是在流泪，

因那些触你恻隐之心的滴滴泪珠

是团团火球要把你的城池焚灭。

“这种恶棍从地狱偷来魔鬼技艺：

炽热的熊熊烈火在寒冷中寓居，

西农这般在其火中冷得发抖，

互不相容的水火这般融为一体，

只为了骗得受骗者鲁莽行事；

西农能设法用水烧毁特洛亚城，

是因为他用泪骗了普里阿摩斯。”

此时她胸中不禁腾起熊熊怒火，

怒火使她失去自制，更怒不可遏，

于是她用指甲戳破了画上的西农，

把他比作那位卑鄙的不速之客——

那个使得她憎恶自己的恶魔；

随后她说“真傻！他被戳也不知痛”，

于是苦笑着缩回手指恢复了沉默。

她的悲伤像潮水不停地潮起潮落，

时间就这样在她的哀怨中消磨。

她刚盼来了黎明，又渴望夜晚，

可不管是白天黑夜她都觉得难过。

人到伤心时总觉得度日如年，

悲哀也会疲竭，但却不会入睡，

不眠之人方知时间是老牛破车。

但她陪那些画中人消磨的时间

早已不知不觉地从她心头溜过；

当她细细揣度那些人经历的痛苦，

自己的悲痛也在无意间减弱；

把自己的悲哀融进画中人物，

想到别人也遭受过同样的折磨，

虽不能治愈伤痛，但能使其缓和。

此时那位尽职的信差回家复命，

带回了主人科拉丁和一干贵人；

科拉丁发现鲁克丽丝身披丧服，

而且围绕着她泪水未干的眼睛

像彩虹的内弧拖曳着两圈蓝影。

这样的虹挂在她阴云密布的脸上，

预示着新的暴风骤雨又在临近。

当神情忧虑的科拉丁见此情状，

不禁诧异地细看妻子的脸庞，

只见她还噙着泪花的眼睛红肿，

脸上的灿烂已变成极度悲伤。

他一时间不敢问她何以如此。

夫妻俩恍若老朋友在异乡邂逅，

都站着发呆，彼此揣度着对方。

最后他握住她没有血色的手，

关切地问：“你为何浑身发抖？

有什么不幸之事发生在你身上？

褪尽你脸上红颜的是什么烦忧？

你为何身披丧服，满脸悲愁？

亲爱的，亲爱的，揭开这愁云，

说出你的忧伤，让我们替你解忧。”

在她哭诉强压在心的悲痛之前，

难以说出的哀伤使她声声悲叹，

最后她终于准备好回应她丈夫，

含辱忍羞让丈夫和亲友了然，

她的名誉已经成了敌人的囚犯；

科拉丁和众亲友怀着沉重心情，

仔细地聆听她那番悲诉哀叹。

现在这只在其水巢的苍白天鹅

开始为她必然的死亡唱出挽歌：

“这样的过失很难用语言说清，

任何借口都不能为此罪行开脱，

我心中的悲苦多于我的言辞，

若用这疲惫的舌头把一切述说，

只恐我悲伤的故事会太长太多。

“那我就长话短说，繁事简述：

我的主人哟，我亲爱的丈夫，

一个陌生人半夜闯到这张床上，

霸占了本属于你的枕席被褥；

接下来发生的罪孽不难想象，

他凭着威胁和暴力把我奸污，

天哪，你的鲁克丽丝无力抗阻。

“因为在那个死沉沉的可怕夜晚，

那个陌生人悄悄溜进我的房间，

他一手举烛灯，一手持利剑，

轻声唤道：‘醒来吧，罗马名媛，

来接受我的爱，满足我的情，

如果你敢抗拒我对你爱的欲望，

我会让你蒙耻，让你的族人含冤。

“他说：‘今宵你若不依我意，

我就杀死你家一名丑陋的奴隶，

然后我会让你殒命在这张床上，

并发誓说我是因为看见你俩同居

才拔出利剑将奸夫淫妇杀死，

此举将为我赢得锄奸的美名，

而你付出的代价是声名狼藉。’

“惊于这番话我开始哭着求他，

可他却把我的胸膛置于利剑之下，

说除非我忍气吞声，逆来顺受，

不然就休想再活命，休想再说话，

那样史册中将记载下我的耻辱，

这耻辱将永远流传在伟大的罗马：

鲁克丽丝与男仆通奸而被诛杀。

“敌人那么强壮，而我这般单薄，

面对那强烈的恐惧我更加软弱，

当时由不得申诉人替公正辩护，

血腥的法官偏心眼不容我分说，

那红袍法官自己当证人发誓作证，

说我可怜的美貌把他的眼睛抢夺，

而当法官被抢，犯人必遭冤祸。

“啊，请教我如何为自己开脱！

或至少让我有这样的台阶可下：

虽然我的肉体被这罪行玷污，

可我心依然纯洁，依然忠贞无他，

它不曾被强暴，也不曾想过

要顺从强人欲望，水性杨花，

在这被污的躯壳里它依然无瑕。”

这时且看那遭窃的绝望店主，

他垂着脑袋，喉头被悲哀梗阻，

双臂交叉胸前，悲哀在眼中凝固，

悲哀从刚刚变白的嘴唇间呼出；

他似乎想止住悲哀，开口说话，

但可怜他竭尽全力也于事无补，

他发出的声音都被悲哀堵住。

像咆哮的激流加速穿过桥洞，

观水的目光会觉得它快如飞鸟，

但桥下漩涡会抑制它奔淌的速度，

使其又旋回使它加速的狭窄水道，

过桥前得反复回旋，汹涌咆哮；

科拉丁的叹息悲愤就这样拉锯，

叹出一口悲苦，又吸入一口苦恼。

鲁克丽丝注意到丈夫无言的悲苦，

便把他从不适时的狂怒中唤醒：

“亲爱的，你的悲苦令我悲上加悲，

雨水难消洪水，只会使其更汹涌。

你的悲苦令我的悲痛愈发剧烈，

那干脆让我的悲痛剧烈得足以

淹没这双泪眼，淹没我的悲痛。

“但为我之故，若我曾令你喜欢，

为曾经的鲁克丽丝，请听我言：

那个人是你我和他自己的敌人，

你要为我向他报复，刻不容缓，

就当你是在保护我免受那人凌辱，

虽这保护来迟，但定要叫他完蛋，

因对敌人的仁慈就是姑息养奸。

“但在我说出他之前，各位大人，”

她转向随科拉丁一道来的亲友，

“你们要以你们的名誉向我发誓，

一定要从速设法替我雪恨报仇；

用复仇的刀剑去追求公平正义，

因这是建立功勋，有正当理由，

骑士就应该为可怜的妇女出头。” 

闻此请求，出于高贵的天性，

在场众人纷纷发誓表明决心，

替她报仇是武士应尽的责任，

都急于听她说出那仇敌的姓名。

但她说出那名字之前还有话说，

于是她话锋一转，询问众人：

“强加于我的污点该如何洗清？

“既然我是在暴力下被迫犯罪，

那我此罪的罪名该如何判定？

我纯洁的心可否抵消这肮脏的罪过？

从而恢复我被人贬低的名声？

有没有任何说法能替我开脱？

被弄浑的泉水都能够自己澄清，

我为何不能洗清强加于我的罪名？”

众人对此异口同声地做出回答，

说她灵魂之纯洁可洗清肉体污瑕；

她凄然一笑，随之背过脸去——

那张脸犹如一幅饱经风霜的绘画，

苦难掺和着泪水已深刻在脸颊。

“不，不行，”她说，“今后的贵妇，

谁也不会以我这辩辞要求免罚。”

随着一声似要炸开她胸膛的长叹，

她说出了塔奎的名字，“是他，是他，”

但除了这个“他”字挂在她舌尖，

她可怜的舌头一时间不能说话；

经过好一阵哽咽、嗫嚅和挣扎，

她终于说出，“是他，就是他，

是他支配我这只手把我自己诛杀。”

言毕她向无辜的心插入致命的刀，

她的灵魂即从尖刀入鞘处出窍。

这一刀使灵魂摆脱了惶惶不安，

使其逃离了那座已被污染的囚牢。

悔恨叹息送一缕香魂直上云霄，

永恒的生命穿过她的伤口飞离，

把尘世的荣耀与耻辱一笔勾销。

眼睁睁看着鲁克丽丝举刀自尽，

科拉丁与众人都惊得呆若木鸡，

直到看见鲜血，鲁克丽丝的父亲

才猛然一头扑向女儿的尸体，

布鲁图  从血泉中拔出那柄尖刀，

她的鲜血似乎也想报仇雪耻，

刀一拔出就追着尖刀喷涌不息。

从她胸前刀口汩汩涌出的鲜血

随之像缓缓流动的河分为两道，

两条河渐渐延伸把她的尸体环绕，

尸体像刚刚遭受过洗劫的小岛

在那可怕的洪水中，景象萧条。

她一部分血浆依然鲜红而纯净，

一部分发黑，那是因塔奎强暴。

发黑的血液凝固成悲伤的脸型，

周围渗出一圈水珠清澄晶莹，

水珠好像是为污点哭泣的泪珠；

从此为了对鲁克丽丝表示同情，

凝固的污血都会渗出澄液晶晶； 

而未被玷污的血液会依然鲜红，

像是为被玷污的血感到难为情。

“女儿哟，女儿！”卢克莱修  哭道，

“你剥夺的生命本是我的珍宝。

既然父亲的翻版刻在孩子身上，

你这一死我的影子上哪儿去找？

我赋予你的生命不该这样结束，

如果孩子们都让白发人送黑发人，

那父母与儿女的辈分就会颠倒。

“可怜的破镜，从你皎洁的镜面

我曾常看到我返老还童的容颜；

可皎洁的镜面如今已黯淡无光，

只会照出一张岁月磨蚀的老脸；

啊，你从你脸上抹去了我的影子，

打碎了我这面明镜所有的美艳，

我再也看不到我有过的韶华绮年。

“若应该活下去的人反而早逝，

时间哟，你也终止吧，别再延长！

既然死神把青春少壮者征服，

又岂该让年迈老弱者苟活世上？

老蜂该死去，为幼蜂让出蜂房，

所以醒来吧，我可爱的鲁克丽丝，

醒来看父亲死，别让父亲看你早亡！”

此时科拉丁仿佛才从梦中惊醒，

求卢克莱修让开，让他来哭爱人；

他扑进鲁克丽丝身边冷却的血河，

要用那血红把他脸上的苍白洗净，

一时间他似乎像是要为她而殉情，

但男人的耻辱之心叫他活下去，

活下去为他爱妻之死报仇雪恨。

他灵魂深处极度的悲哀苦涩

使得他有口难言，张口结舌；

舌头怒于悲哀竟限制它的功能，

竟久久不让它说话使痛苦缓和，

于是挣扎着说话，可声音微弱，

微弱的声音难以倾诉心中悱恻，

因为谁也听不清他在说些什么。

可有时“塔奎”二字发音清晰，

他咬牙切齿像要撕碎这名字。

这阵狂风在化为汹怒暴雨之前，

抑制着他的悲潮，令其更恣肆。

最后狂风终于减弱，暴雨骤至，

于是女婿和岳父开始了恸哭比赛，

看谁哭得伤心，为爱女或为爱妻。

两个男人都声称拥有鲁克丽丝，

但谁也不能独享他所声称的权利。

父亲说“她是我的”，丈夫则说：

“她只属于我，她只是我的，

请不要剥夺我为她哀伤的专利，

请垂泪者都不要说是为她而垂泪，

因为只能由科拉丁来为她哭泣。”

卢克莱修说：“是我赋予她生命，

可她把这生命结束得太早太急。” 

科拉丁悲呼：“天哪，她是我妻，

她结束的宝贵生命是属于我的。”

“我的女儿”“我的妻”声声交错，

声称拥有她生命的喊声震动空气，

空气回应道“我的女儿”“我的妻”。

从鲁克丽丝胸间拔出刀的布鲁图，

眼见二人只顾表达其悲伤痛苦，

便把愚拙的伪装埋进死者的创口，

开始恢复他睿智而庄重的面目。

长久以来他在罗马人的心目中

不过是逗国王开心的弄臣玩物，

只会插科打诨，看上去稀里糊涂。 

可现在他揭开掩饰他才智的伪装，

那伪装曾把他的深谋远虑深藏；

这时他用他已久藏不露的智慧

去止住科拉丁眼中的泪水流淌。

“起来吧！”他说，“蒙冤的罗马人，

让我这个公认的不知深浅的傻瓜

来为你这有经验的智者把课上上。

“科拉丁哟，谁见过以愁消愁？

又有谁见过以伤治伤，以忧解忧？

你美丽的妻子被那条恶棍残害，

你自己捅自己一刀就算是报仇？

这种孩子气的行为乃弱者所为，

你可怜的妻子就不应该自杀，

因为她该杀的是她的冤家对头。

“罗马的勇士，别让你的雄心

在这种悲哀软弱的泪水中消泯；

担当起你的责任，与我一道跪下，

用祈祷把我们罗马的诸神唤醒，

既然罗马因这些恶人而被玷污，

那就祈求诸神允许我们用刀枪

将这些污秽从罗马街头清除干净。

“凭着我们崇拜的卡皮托尔山， 

凭着这滩被恶棍玷污的血迹，

凭着哺育大地万物的杲杲太阳，

凭着我们罗马人神圣的权利，

凭着鲁克丽丝蒙冤含屈的灵魂，

凭着这柄还沾满她鲜血的利刀，

为这贞女烈妇报仇，我们宣誓。”

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