University of Virginia Library

Now mot I seyn the exilynge of kynges
Of Rome, for here horible doinges,
And of the laste kyng Tarquinius,
As seyth Ovyde and Titus Lyvius.
But for that cause telle I nat this storye,
But for to preyse and drawe to memorye
The verray wif, the verray trewe Lucresse,
That for hyre wifhod and hire stedefastnesse
Nat only that these payens hire comende,
But he that cleped is in oure legende
The grete Austyn hath gret compassioun
Of this Lucresse, that starf at Rome toun;
And in what wise, I wol but shortly trete,
And of this thyng I touche but the grete.

Whan Ardea beseged was aboute
With Romeyns, that ful sterne were and stoute,
Ful longe lay the sege and lytel wroughten,
So that they were half idel, as hem thoughten;
And in his pley Tarquinius the yonge
Gan for to ape, for he was lyght of tonge,
And seyde that it was an ydel lyf;
No man dide there no more than his wif.
"And lat us speke of wyves, that is best;
Preyse every man his owene as hym lest,
And with oure speche lat us ese oure herte."

A knyght that highte Colatyn up sterte,
And seyde thus: "Nay, sire, it is no nede
To trowen on the word, but on the dede.
I have a wif," quod he, "that, as I trowe,
Is holden good of alle that evere hire knowe.
Go we to-nyght to Rome, and we shal se."

Tarquinius answerde, "That liketh me."
To Rome be they come, and faste hem dyghte
To Colatynes hous and doun they lyghte,
Tarquinius and ek this Colatyn.
The husbonde knew the estris wel and fyn,
And prively into the hous they gon,
Nor at the yate porter nas there non,
And at the chambre-dore they abyde.
This noble wif sat by hire beddes side
Dischevele, for no malyce she ne thoughte;
And softe wolle oure bok seyth that she wroughte
To kepen hire from slouthe and idelnesse;
And bad hire servaunts don hire besynesse,
And axeth hem, "What tydyngs heren ye?
How seyth men of the sege, how shal it be?
God wolde the walles were falle adoun!
Myn husbonde is to longe out of this toun,
For which the drede doth me so to smerte
That with a swerd it stingeth to myn herte
Whan I thynke on the sege or on that place.
God save my lord, I preye hym for his grace!"
And therwithal ful tenderly she wep,
And of hire werk she tok no more kep,
And mekely she let hyre eyen falle;
And thilke semblaunt sat hire wel withalle.
And eek hire teres, ful of honeste,
Embelished hire wifly chastite;
Hyre contenaunce is to hire herte dygne,
For they acorde bothe in dede and sygne.
And with that word hire hushonde Colatyn,
Or she of him was war, com stertynge in
And seyde, "Drede the nat, for I am here!"
And she anon up ros with blysful chere
And kiste hym, as of wives is the wone.

Tarquinius, this proude kynges sone,
Conceyved hath hire beaute and hyre cheere,
Hire yelwe her, hire shap, and hire manere,
Hire hew, hire wordes, that she hath compleyned
(And by no craft hire beaute nas nat feyned),
And caughte to this lady swich desyr
That in his herte brende as any fyr,
So wodly that his wit was al forgeten.
For wel thoghte he she wolde nat ben geten;
And ay the more that he was in dispayr,
The more he coveyteth and thoughte hire fayr.
His blynde lust was al his coveytynge.

A-morwe, whan the brid began to synge,
Unto the sege he cometh ful privily,
And by hymself he walketh soberly,
Th'ymage of hire recordynge alwey newe:
"Thus lay hire her, and thus fresh was hyre hewe;
Thus sat, thus spak, thus span; this was hire chere;
Thus fayr she was, and this was hire manere."
Al this conseit hys herte hath newe ytake.
And as the se, with tempest al toshake,
That after, whan the storm is al ago,
Yit wol the water quappe a day or two,
Ryght so, thogh that hire forme were absent,
The plesaunce of hire forme was present;
But natheles, nat plesaunce but delit,
Or an unrightful talent, with dispit —
"For, maugre hyre, she shal my leman be!
Hap helpeth hardy man alday," quod he;
"What ende that I make, it shal be so."
And girte hym with his swerd and gan to go,
And forth he rit til he to Rome is come,
And al alone his wey than hath he nome
Unto the hous of Colatyn ful ryght.
Doun was the sonne and day hath lost his lyght;
And in he cometh into a prive halke,
And in the nyght ful thefly gan he stalke,
Whan every wight was to his reste brought,
Ne no wight hadde of tresoun swich a thought.
Were it by wyndow or by other gyn,
With swerd ydrawe shortly he com in
There as she lay, this noble wif Lucresse.
And as she wok, hire bed she felte presse.
"What beste is that," quod she, "that weyeth thus?"
"I am the kynges sone, Tarquinius,"
Quod he, "but, and thow crye or noyse make,
Or if there any creature awake,
By thilke God that formed man alyve,
This swerd thourghout thyn herte shal I ryve."
And therwithal unto hire throte he sterte,
And sette the poynt al sharp upon hire herte.
No word she spak, she hath no myght therto.
What shal she seyn? Hire wit is al ago.
Ryght as a wolf that fynt a lomb alone,
To whom shal she compleyne or make mone?
What, shal she fyghte with an hardy knyght?
Wel wot men that a woman hath no myght.
What, shal she crye, or how shal she asterte
That hath hire by the throte with swerd at herte?
She axeth grace, and seyth al that she can.
"Ne wilt thow nat," quod he, this crewel man,
"As wisly Jupiter my soule save,
As I shal in the stable slen thy knave,
And ley hym in thy bed, and loude crye
That I the fynde in swich avouterye.
And thus thow shalt be ded and also lese
Thy name, for thow shalt non other chese."

These Romeyns wyves lovede so here name
At thilke tyme, and dredde so the shame,
That, what for fer of sclaunder and drede of deth
She loste bothe at ones wit and breth,
And in a swogh she lay, and wex so ded
Men myghte smyten of hire arm or hed;
She feleth no thyng, neyther foul ne fayr.

Tarquinius, that art a kynges eyr,
And sholdest, as by lynage and by ryght,
Don as a lord and as a verray knyght,
Whi hastow don dispit to chivalrye?
Whi hastow don this lady vilanye?
Allas, of the this was a vileyns dede!

But now to purpos; in the story I rede,
Whan he was gon and this myschaunce is falle,
This lady sente after hire frendes alle,
Fader, moder, husbonde, alle yfeere;
And al dischevele, with hire heres cleere,
In habit swich as women used tho
Unto the buryinge of hire frendes go,
She sit in halle with a sorweful sighte.
Hyre frendes axen what hire eylen myghte,
And who was ded; and she sit ay wepynge;
A word, for shame, forth ne myght she brynge,
Ne upon hem she durste nat beholde.
But atte last of Tarquyny she hem tolde
This rewful cas and al thys thing horryble.
The woo to tellen were an impossible,
That she and al hir frendes made attones.
Al hadde folkes hertes ben of stones,
Hyt myght have maked hem upon hir rewe,
Hir herte was so wyfly and so trewe.
She sayde that, for hir gylt ne for hir blame,
Hir husbonde shulde nat have the foule name,
That wolde she nat suffre by no wey.
And they answerden alle, upon hir fey,
That they forgave yt hyr, for yt was ryght;
It was no gilt, it lay not in hir myght;
And seyden hir ensamples many oon.
But al for noght; for thus she seyde anoon:
"Be as be may," quod she, "of forgyvyng,
I wol not have noo forgyft for nothing."
But pryvely she kaughte forth a knyf,
And therwithal she rafte hirself hir lyf;
And as she fel adoun, she kaste hir lok,
And of hir clothes yet she hede tok.
For in hir fallynge yet she had a care,
Lest that hir fet or suche thyng lay bare;
So wel she loved clennesse and eke trouthe.
Of hir had al the toun of Rome routhe,
And Brutus by hir chaste blood hath swore
That Tarquyn shulde ybanysshed be therfore,
And al hys kyn; and let the peple calle,
And openly the tale he tolde hem alle,
And openly let cary her on a bere
Thurgh al the toun, that men may see and here
The horryble dede of hir oppressyoun,
Ne never was ther kyng in Rome toun
Syn thilke day; and she was holden there
A seynt, and ever hir day yhalwed dere
As in hir lawe; and thus endeth Lucresse,
The noble wyf, as Tytus bereth witnesse.

I telle hyt for she was of love so trewe,
Ne in hir wille she chaunged for no newe;
And for the stable herte, sadde and kynde,
That in these wymmen men may alday fynde.
Ther as they kaste hir herte, there it dwelleth.
For wel I wot that Crist himselve telleth
That in Israel, as wyd as is the lond,
That so gret feyth in al that he ne fond
As in a woman; and this is no lye.
And as of men, loke ye which tirannye
They doon alday; assay hem whoso lyste,
The trewest ys ful brotel for to triste.