Now moot I seyn the exiling of kinges
Of Rome, for hir horrible doinges, And of the laste king Tarquinius, As saith Ovyde and Titus Livius. But for that cause telle I nat this storie, But for to preise and drawen to memorie The verray wyf, the verray trewe Lucresse, That, for her wyfhood and her stedfastnesse, Nat only that thise payens her comende, But he, that cleped is in our legende The grete Austin, hath greet compassioun Of this Lucresse, that starf at Rome toun; And in what wyse, I wol but shortly trete, And of this thing I touche but the grete. Whan Ardea beseged was aboute With Romains, that ful sterne were and stoute, Ful longe lay the sege, and litel wroghte, So that they were half ydel, as hem thoghte; And in his pley Tarquinius the yonge Gan for to iape, for he was light of tonge, And seyde, that 'it was an ydel lyf; No man did ther no more than his wyf; And lat us speke of wyves, that is best; Praise every man his owne, as him lest, And with our speche lat us ese our herte.' A knight, that highte Colatyne, up sterte, And seyde thus, 'nay, for hit is no nede To trowen on the word, but on the dede. I have a wyf,' quod he, 'that, as I trowe, Is holden good of alle that ever her knowe; Go we to-night to Rome, and we shul see.' Tarquinius answerde, 'that lyketh me.' To Rome be they come, and faste hem dighte To Colatynes hous, and doun they lighte, Tarquinius, and eek this Colatyne. The husbond knew the estres wel and fyne, And prively into the hous they goon; Nor at the gate porter was ther noon; And at the chambre-dore they abyde. This noble wyf sat by her beddes syde Dischevele, for no malice she ne thoghte; And softe wolle our book seith that she wroghte To kepen her fro slouthe and ydelnesse; And bad her servants doon hir businesse, And axeth hem, 'what tydings heren ye? How seith men of the sege, how shal hit be? God wolde the walles weren falle adoun; Myn husbond is so longe out of this toun, For which the dreed doth me so sore smerte, Right as a swerd hit stingeth to myn herte Whan I think on the sege or of that place; God save my lord, I preye him for his grace:'— And ther-with-al ful tenderly she weep, And of her werk she took no more keep, But mekely she leet her eyen falle; And thilke semblant sat her wel with-alle. And eek her teres, ful of honestee, Embelisshed her wyfly chastitee; Her countenaunce is to her herte digne, For they acordeden in dede and signe. And with that word her husbond Colatyn, Or she of him was war, com sterting in, And seide, 'dreed thee noght, for I am here!' And she anoon up roos, with blisful chere, And kiste him, as of wyves is the wone. Tarquinius, this proude kinges sone, Conceived hath her beautee and her chere, Her yelow heer, her shap, and her manere, Her hew, her wordes that she hath compleyned, And by no crafte her beautee nas nat feyned; And caughte to this lady swich desyr, That in his herte brende as any fyr So woodly, that his wit was al forgeten. For wel, thoghte he, she sholde nat be geten And ay the more that he was in dispair, The more he coveteth and thoghte her fair. His blinde lust was al his covetinge. A-morwe, whan the brid began to singe, Unto the sege he comth ful privily, And by himself he walketh sobrely, Thimage of her recording alwey newe; 'Thus lay her heer, and thus fresh was her hewe; Thus sat, thus spak, thus span; this was her chere, Thus fair she was, and this was her manere.' Al this conceit his herte hath now y-take. And, as the see, with tempest al to-shake, That, after whan the storm is al ago, Yet wol the water quappe a day or two, Right so, thogh that her forme wer absent, The plesaunce of her forme was present; But natheles, nat plesaunce, but delyt, Or an unrightful talent with despyt; 'For, maugre her, she shal my lemman be; Hap helpeth hardy man alday,' quod he; 'What ende that I make, hit shal be so;' And girt him with his swerde, and gan to go; And forth he rit til he to Rome is come, And al aloon his wey than hath he nome Unto the house of Colatyn ful right. Doun was the sonne, and day hath lost his light; And in he com un-to a privy halke, And in the night ful theefly gan he stalke, Whan every night was to his reste broght, Ne no wight had of tresoun swich a thoght. Were hit by window or by other gin, With swerde y-drawe, shortly he comth in Ther as she lay, this noble wyf Lucresse. And, as she wook, her bed she felte presse. 'What beste is that,' quod she, 'that weyeth thus?' 'I am the kinges sone, Tarquinius,' Quod he, 'but and thou crye, or noise make, Or if thou any creature awake, By thilke god that formed man on lyve, This swerd through-out thyn herte shal I ryve.' And ther-withal unto her throte he sterte, And sette the point al sharp upon her herte. No word she spak, she hath no might therto.