1680 |
Now moot I seyn the exiling of kinges
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Of Rome, for hir horrible doinges,
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And of the laste king Tarquinius,
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As saith Ovyde and Titus Livius.
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But for that cause telle I nat this storie,
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But for to preise and drawen to memorie
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The verray wyf, the verray trewe Lucressel,
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That, for her wyfhood and her stedfastnesse,
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Nat only that thise payens her comende,
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But he, that cleped is in our legende
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1690 |
The grete Austin, hath greet compassioun
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Of this Lucresse, that starf at Rome toun;
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And it what wyse, I wol but shortly trete,
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And of this thing I touche but the grete.
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Whan Ardea beseged was aboute
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With Romains, that ful sterne were and stoute,
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Ful longe lay the sege, and litel wroghte,
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So that they were half ydel, as hem thoghte;
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And in his pley Tarquinius the yonge
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Gan for to iape, for he was light of tonge,
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1700 |
And seyde, that "it was an ydel lyf;
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No man did ther no more that his wyf;
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And lat us speke of wyves, that is best;
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Praise every man his owne, as him lest,
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And with our speche lat us ese our herte."
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A knight, that highte Colatyne, up sterte,
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And seyde thus, "nay, for hit is no nede
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To trowen on the word, but on the dede.
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I have a wyf," quod he, "that, as I trowe,
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Is holden good of alle that ever her knowe;
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1710 |
Go we to-night to Rome, and we shul see."
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Tarquinius answerde, "that lyketh me."
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To Rome be they come, and faste hem dighte
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To Colatynes hous, and doun they lighte,
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Tarquinius, and eek this Colatyne.
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The husbond knew the estres wel and fyne,
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And privly into the hous they goon;
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Nor at the gate porter was ther noon;
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And at the chambre-dore they abyde.
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This noble wyf sat by her beddes syde
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1720 |
Dischevele, for no malice she ne thoghte;
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And softe wolle our book seith that she wroghte
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To kepen her fro slouthe and ydelnesse;
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And bad her servants doon hir businesse,
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And axeth hem, "what tydings heren ye?
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How seith men of the sege, how shal hit be?
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God wolde the walles weren falle adoun;
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Myn husbond is so longe out of this toun,
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For which the dreed doth me so sore smerte,
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Right as a swerd hit stingeth to myn herte
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1730 |
What I think on the sege or of that place;
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God save my lord, I preye him for his grace:" --
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And ther-with-al ful tenderly she weep,
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And of her werk she took no more keep,
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But mekely she leet her eyen falle;
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And thilke semblant sat her wel with-alle.
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And eek her teres, ful of honestee,
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Embelisshed her wyfly chastitee;
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Her countenaunce is to her herte digne,
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For they acordeden in dede and signe.
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1740 |
And with that word her husbond Colatyn,
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Or she of him was war, com sterting in,
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And seide, "dreed thee noght, for I am here!"
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And she anoon up roos, with blisful chere,
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And kiste him, as of wyves is the wone.
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Tarquinius, this proude kinges sone,
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Conceived hath her beautee and her chere,
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Her yelow heer, her shap, and manere,
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Her hew, her wordes that she hath compleynded,
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And by no crafte her beautee nas nat feyned;
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1750 |
And caughte to this lady swich desyr,
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That in his herte brende as any fyr
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So woodly, that his wit was al forgeten.
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For wel, thoghte he, she sholde nat be geten
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And ay the more that he was in dispair,
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The more he coveteth and thoghte her fair.
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His blinde lust was al his covetinge.
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A-morwe, whan the brid bragan to singe,
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Unto the sege he comth ful privily,
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And by himself he walketh sobrely,
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1760 |
Thimage of her recording alwey newe;
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"Thus lay her heer, and thus fresh was her hewe;
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Thus sat, thus spak, thus span; this was her chere,
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Thus fair she was, and this was her manere."
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Al this conceit his herte hath now y-take.
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And, as the see, with tempest al to-shake,
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That, after whan the storm is al ago,
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Yet wol the water quappe a day or two,
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Right so, thogh that her forme wer absent,
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The plesaunce of her forme was present;
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1770 |
But natheles, nat plesaunce, but delyt,
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Or an unrightful talent with despyt;
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"For, maugre her, she shal my lemman be;
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Hap helpeth hardy man alday," quod he;
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"What ende that I make, hit shal be so;"
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And girt him with his swerde, and gan to go;
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And forth he rit til he to Rome is come,
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And al aloon his wey than hath he nome.
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Unto the house of Colatyn ful right.
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Doun was the sonne, and day hath lost his light;
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1780 |
And in he com un-to privy halke,
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And in the night ful theefly gan he stalke,
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Whan every night was to his reste broght,
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Ne no wight had of tresoun swich a thoght.
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Were hit by window or by other gin,
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With swerde y-drawe, shortly he comth in
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Ther as she lay, this noble wyf Lucresse.
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And, as she wook, her bed she felte presse.
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"What beste is that," quod she, "that weyeth thus?"
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"I am the kinges sone, Tarquinius,"
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1790 |
Quod he, "but and thou crye, or noise make,
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Or if thou any creature awake,
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By thilke god that formed man on lyve,
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This swerd through-out thyn herte shal I ryve."
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And ther-withal unto her throte he sterte,
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And sette the point al sharp upon her herte.
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No word she spak, she hath no might therto.
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What shal she sayn? her wit is al ago.
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Right as a wolf that fynt a lomb aloon,
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To whom shal she compleyne, or make moon?
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1800 |
What! shal she fighte with an hardy knight?
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Wel wot men that a woman hath no might.
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What! shal she crye, or how shal she asterte
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That hath her by the throte, with swerde at herte?
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She axeth grace, and seith al that she can.
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"Ne wolt thou nat," quod he, this cruel man,
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"As wisly Iupiter my soule save,
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As I shal in the stable slee thy knave,
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And leye him in thy bed, and loude crye,
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That I thee finde in suche avouterye;
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1810 |
And thus thou shalt be deed, and also lese
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Thy name, for thou shalt non other chese."
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Thise Romain wyves loveden so hir name
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At thilke tyme, and dredden so the shame,
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That, what for fere of slaundre and drede of deeth,
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She loste bothe at-ones wit and breeth,
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And in a swough she lay and wex so deed,
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Men mighte smyten of her arm or heed;
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She feleth no-thing, neither foul ne fair.
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Tarquinas, that art a kinges eyr,
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1820 |
And sholdest, as by linage and by right,
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Doon as a lord and as a verray knight,
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Why hastow doon dispyt to chivalrye?
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Why hastow doon this lady vilanye?
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Allas! of thee this was a vileins dede!
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But now to purpos; in the story I rede,
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Whan he was goon, al this mischaunce is falle.
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This lady sente after her frendes alle,
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Fader, moder, husbond, al y-fere;
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And al dischevele, with her heres clere,
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1830 |
In habit swich as women used tho
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Unto the burying of her frendes go,
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She sit in halle with a sorweful sighte.
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Her frendes axen what her aylen mighte,
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And who was deed? And she sit ay wepinge,
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A word for shame ne may she forth out-bringe,
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Ne upon hem she dorste nat beholde.
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But atte laste of Tarquiny she hem tolde,
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This rewful cas, and al this thing horrible.
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The wo to tellen hit were impossible,
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1840 |
That she and alle her frendes made atones.
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Al hadde folkes hertes been of stones,
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Hit mighte have maked hem upon her rewe,
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Her herte was so wyfly and so trewe.
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She seide, that, for her gilt ne for her blame,
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He husbond sholde nat have the foule name,
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That wolde she nat suffre, by no wey.
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And they answerden alle, upon hir fey,
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That they foryeve hit her, for hit was right;
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Hit was no gilt, hit lay nat in her might;
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1850 |
And seiden her ensamples many oon.
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But al for noght; for thus she seide anoon,
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"Be as be may," quod she, "of forgiving,
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I wol nat have no forgift for no-thing."
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But prively she caughte forth a knyf,
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And therwith-al she rafte her-self her lyf;
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And as she fel adoun, she caste her look,
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And of her clothes yit she hede took;
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For in her falling yit she hadde care
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Lest that her feet or swiche thing lay bare;
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1860 |
So wel she loved clennesse and eek trouthe.
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Of her had al the toun of Rome routhe,
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And Brutus by her chaste blode hath swore
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That Tarquin sholde y-banisht be ther-fore,
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And al his kin; and let the peple calle,
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And openly the tale he tolde hem alle,
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And openly let carie her on a bere
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Through al the toun, that men may see and here
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The horrible deed of her oppressioun.
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Ne never was ther king in Rome toun
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1870 |
Sin thilke day; and she was holden there
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A seint, and ever her day y-halwed dere
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As in hir lawe: and thus endeth Lucresse,
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The noble wyf, as Titus bereth witnesse.
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I tell hit, for she was of love so trewe,
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Ne in her wille she chaunged for no newe.
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And for the stable herte, sad and kinde,
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That in these women men may alday finde;
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Ther as they caste hir herte, ther hit dwelleth.
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For wel I wot, that Crist him-selve telleth,
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1880 |
That in Israel, as wyd as is the lond,
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That so gret feith in al the lond he ne fond
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As in a woman; and this is no lye.
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And as of men, loketh which tirannye
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They doon alday; assay hem who so liste,
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The trewest is ful brotel for to triste.
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Explicit Legenda Lucrecie Rome, Martiris.
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