Read it through once

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin’s name: “He, he,” she says, But more than “he” her poor tongue could not speak; Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, She utters this: “He, he, fair lords, ’tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me.”