"O," quoth Lucretius, "I did give that life, "Which she too early and too late 57 hath spill'd." 66 Woe, woe," quoth Collatine," she was my wife, "I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.” My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd The dispers'd air, who, holding Lucrece' life, Answer'd their cries, my daughter and my wife. Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, But now he throws that shallow habit by, To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. "Thou wronged lord of Rome," quoth he, “arise, "Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, "Now set thy long-experienc'd 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? 57 late] i. e. recently. "Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds: 66 Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, "To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. "Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart 66 66 (Since Rome herself in them doth stand dis grac'd) [chas'd. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets "Now, by the Capitol that we adore, "And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd, 66 By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's store, "By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd, "And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complain'd "Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, “We will revenge the death of this true wife.” upon This said, he struck his hand his breast, Ed so to When they had sworn to this advised doom, 59 plausibly] i. e. with acclamations. |