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THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.TXT-Part5_WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE(1564-1616)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st the season;



'Tis thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason;

And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,



Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.

'Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath;



Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thawed;

Thou smother'st honesty, thou murd'rest troth;



Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!

Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud.



Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!



'Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame,

Thy private feasting to a public fast,



Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,

Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood taste;



Thy violent vanities can never last;

How comes it then, vile Opportunity,



Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee?

'When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,



And bring him where his suit may be obtained?

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end?



Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained?

Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained?



The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;

But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.



'The patient dies while the physician sleeps;

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds;



Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;

Advice is sporting while infection breeds;



Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds;

Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages,



Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.

'When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,



A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid;

They buy thy help, but Sin ne'er gives a fee;



He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid

As well to hear as grant what he hath said.



My Collatine would else have come to me

When Tarquin did, but he was stayed by thee.



'Guilty thou art of murder and of theft,

Guilty of perjury and subornation,



Guilty of treason, forgery and shift,

Guilty of incest, that abomination;



An accessary by thine inclination

To all sins past and all that are to come,



From the creation to the general doom.

'Misshapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night,



Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care,

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,



Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare;

Thou nursest all and murd'rest all that are.



O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time!

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.



'Why hath thy servant Opportunity

Betrayed the hours thou gavest me to repose,



Cancelled my fortunes and enchained me

To endless date of never-ending woes?



Time's office is to fine the hate of foes,

To eat up errors by opinion bred,



Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

'Time's glory is to calm contending kings,



To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light,

To stamp the seal of time in aged things,



To wake the morn and sentinel the night,

To wrong the wronger till he render right,



To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours

And smear with dust their glitt'ring golden towers;



'To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,

To feed oblivion with decay of things,



To blot old books and alter their contents,

To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings,






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