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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,

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