Poesias

‘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 mistock 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,

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