Read it through once

“O,” quoth Lucretius, “I did give that life Which she too early and too late hath spilled.” “Woe, woe,” quoth Collatine, “she was my wife, I owed her, and ’tis mine that she hath killed.” “My daughter” and “my wife” with clamours filled The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece’ life, Answered their cries, “my daughter” and “my wife”.