{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/vaa/vaa.htm","path":"sks/vaa/vaa.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/vaa/vaa.htm","text":"VENUS AND ADONIS\n'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo\nPocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'\nTO THE\nRIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,\nEARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.\nRIGHT HONORABLE,\nI KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my\nunpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will\ncensure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a\nburden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account\nmyself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle\nhours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if\nthe first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be\nsorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so\nbarren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest.\nI leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your\nheart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish\nand the world's hopeful expectation.\nYour honour's in all duty,\nWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.\nEVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face\nHad ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,\nRose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;\nHunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;\nSick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,\nAnd like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.\n'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,\n'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,\nStain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,\nMore white and red than doves or roses are;\nNature that made thee, with herself at strife,\nSaith that the world hath ending with thy life.\n'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,\nAnd rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;\nIf thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed\nA thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:\nHere come and sit, where never serpent hisses,\nAnd being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;\n'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,\nBut rather famish them amid their plenty,\nMaking them red and pale with fresh variety,\nTen kisses short as one, one long as twenty:\nA summer's day will seem an hour but short,\nBeing wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'\nWith this she seizeth on his sweating palm,\nThe precedent of pith and livelihood,\nAnd trembling in her passion, calls it balm,\nEarth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:\nBeing so enraged, desire doth lend her force\nCourageously to pluck him from his horse.\nOver one arm the lusty courser's rein,\nUnder her other was the tender boy,\nWho blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,\nWith leaden appetite, unapt to toy;\nShe red and hot as coals of glowing fire,\nHe red for shame, but frosty in desire.\nThe studded bridle on a ragged bough\nNimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--\nThe steed is stalled up, and even now\nTo tie the rider she begins to prove:\nBackward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,\nAnd govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.\nSo soon was she along as he was down,\nEach leaning on their elbows and their hips:\nNow doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,\nAnd 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;\nAnd kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,\n'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'\nHe burns with bashful shame: she with her tears\nDoth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;\nThen with her windy sighs and golden hairs\nTo fan and blow them dry again she seeks:\nHe saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;\nWhat follows more she murders with a kiss.\nEven as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,\nTires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,\nShaking her wings, devouring all in haste,\nTill either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;\nEven so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,\nAnd where she ends she doth anew begin.\nForced to content, but never to obey,\nPanting he lies and breatheth in her face;\nShe feedeth on the steam as on a prey,\nAnd calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;\nWishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,\nSo they were dew'd with such distilling showers.\nLook, how a bird lies tangled in a net,\nSo fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;\nPure shame and awed resistance made him fret,\nWhich bred more beauty in his angry eyes:\nRain added to a river that is rank\nPerforce will force it overflow the bank.\nStill she entreats, and prettily entreats,\nFor to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;\nStill is he sullen, still he lours and frets,\n'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:\nBeing red, she loves him best; and being white,\nHer best is better'd with a more delight.\nLook how he can, she cannot choose but love;\nAnd by her fair immortal hand she swears,\nFrom his soft bosom never to remove,\nTill he take truce with her contending tears,\nWhich long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;\nAnd one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.\nUpon this promise did he raise his chin,\nLike a dive-dapper peering through a wave,\nWho, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;\nSo offers he to give what she did crave;\nBut when her lips were ready for his pay,\nHe winks, and turns his lips another way.\nNever did passenger in summer's heat\nMore thirst for drink than she for this good turn.\nHer help she sees, but help she cannot get;\nShe bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:\n'O, pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy!\n'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?\n'I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,\nEven by the stern and direful god of war,\nWhose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,\nWho conquers where he comes in every jar;\nYet hath he been my captive and my slave,\nAnd begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.\n'Over my altars hath he hung his lance,\nHis batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,\nAnd for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,\nTo toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,\nScorning his churlish drum and ensign red,\nMaking my arms his field, his tent my bed.\n'Thus he that overruled I oversway'd,\nLeading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:\nStrong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd,\nYet was he servile to my coy disdain.\nO, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,\nFor mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!\n'Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,--\nThough mine be not so fair, yet are they red--\nThe kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.\nWhat seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:\nLook in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;\nThen why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?\n'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,\nAnd I will wink; so shall the day seem night;\nLove keeps his revels where they are but twain;\nBe bold to play, our sport is not in sight:\nThese blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean\nNever can blab, nor know not what we mean.\n'The tender spring upon thy tempting lip\nShows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:\nMake use of time, let not advantage slip;\nBeauty within itself should not be wasted:\nFair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime\nRot and consume themselves in little time.\n'Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,\nIll-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,\nO'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,\nThick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,\nThen mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee\nBut having no defects, why dost abhor me?\n'Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;\nMine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning:\nMy beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,\nMy flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;\nMy smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,\nWould in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.\n'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,\nOr, like a fairy, trip upon the green,\nOr, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,\nDance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:\nLove is a spirit all compact of fire,\nNot gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.\n'Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;\nThese forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;\nTwo strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,\nFrom morn till night, even where I list to sport me:\nIs love so light, sweet boy, and may it be\nThat thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?\n'Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?\nCan thy right hand seize love upon thy left?\nThen woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,\nSteal thine own freedom and complain on theft.\nNarcissus so himself himself forsook,\nAnd died to kiss his shadow in the brook.\n'Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,\nDainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,\nHerbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:\nThings growing to themselves are growth's abuse:\nSeeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;\nThou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.\n'Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed,\nUnless the earth with thy increase be fed?\nBy law of nature thou art bound to breed,\nThat thine may live when thou thyself art dead;\nAnd so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,\nIn that thy likeness still is left alive.'\nBy this the love-sick queen began to sweat,\nFor where they lay the shadow had forsook them,\nAnd Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,\nWith burning eye did hotly overlook them;\nWishing Adonis had his team to guide,\nSo he were like him and by Venus' side.\nAnd now Adonis, with a lazy spright,\nAnd with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,\nHis louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,\nLike misty vapours when they blot the sky,\nSouring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love!\nThe sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'\n'Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind?\nWhat bare excuses makest thou to be gone!\nI'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind\nShall cool the heat of this descending sun:\nI'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;\nIf they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.\n'The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,\nAnd, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:\nThe heat I have from thence doth little harm,\nThine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;\nAnd were I not immortal, life were done\nBetween this heavenly and earthly sun.\n'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,\nNay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?\nArt thou a woman's son, and canst not feel\nWhat 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?\nO, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,\nShe had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.\n'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?\nOr what great danger dwells upon my suit?\nWhat were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?\nSpeak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:\nGive me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,\nAnd one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.\n'Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,\nWell-painted idol, image dun and dead,\nStatue contenting but the eye alone,\nThing like a man, but of no woman bred!\nThou art no man, though of a man's complexion,\nFor men will kiss even by their own direction.'\nThis said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,\nAnd swelling passion doth provoke a pause;\nRed cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;\nBeing judge in love, she cannot right her cause:\nAnd now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,\nAnd now her sobs do her intendments break.\nSometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,\nNow gazeth she on him, now on the ground;\nSometimes her arms infold him like a band:\nShe would, he will not in her arms be bound;\nAnd when from thence he struggles to be gone,\nShe locks her lily fingers one in one.\n'Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here\nWithin the circuit of this ivory pale,\nI'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;\nFeed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:\nGraze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,\nStray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.\nWithin this limit is relief enough,\nSweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,\nRound rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,\nTo shelter thee from tempest and from rain\nThen be my deer, since I am such a park;\nNo dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'\nAt this Adonis smiles as in disdain,\nThat in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:\nLove made those hollows, if himself were slain,\nHe might be buried in a tomb so simple;\nForeknowing well, if there he came to lie,\nWhy, there Love lived and there he could not die.\nThese lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,\nOpen'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.\nBeing mad before, how doth she now for wits?\nStruck dead at first, what needs a second striking?\nPoor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,\nTo love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!\nNow which way shall she turn? what shall she say?\nHer words are done, her woes are more increasing;\nThe time is spent, her object will away,\nAnd from her twining arms doth urge releasing.\n'Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!'\nAway he springs and hasteth to his horse.\nBut, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,\nA breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,\nAdonis' trampling courser doth espy,\nAnd forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:\nThe strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,\nBreaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.\nImperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,\nAnd now his woven girths he breaks asunder;\nThe bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,\nWhose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;\nThe iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,\nControlling what he was controlled with.\nHis ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane\nUpon his compass'd crest now stand on end;\nHis nostrils drink the air, and forth again,\nAs from a furnace, vapours doth he send:\nHis eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,\nShows his hot courage and his high desire.\nSometime he trots, as if he told the steps,\nWith gentle majesty and modest pride;\nAnon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,\nAs who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried,\nAnd this I do to captivate the eye\nOf the fair breeder that is standing by.'\nWhat recketh he his rider's angry stir,\nHis flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'?\nWhat cares he now for curb or pricking spur?\nFor rich caparisons or trapping gay?\nHe sees his love, and nothing else he sees,\nFor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.\nLook, when a painter would surpass the life,\nIn limning out a well-proportion'd steed,\nHis art with nature's workmanship at strife,\nAs if the dead the living should exceed;\nSo did this horse excel a common one\nIn shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.\nRound-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,\nBroad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,\nHigh crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,\nThin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:\nLook, what a horse should have he did not lack,\nSave a proud rider on so proud a back.\nSometime he scuds far off and there he stares;\nAnon he starts at stirring of a feather;\nTo bid the wind a base he now prepares,\nAnd whether he run or fly they know not whether;\nFor through his mane and tail the high wind sings,\nFanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.\nHe looks upon his love and neighs unto her;\nShe answers him as if she knew his mind:\nBeing proud, as females are, to see him woo her,\nShe puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,\nSpurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,\nBeating his kind embracements with her heels.\nThen, like a melancholy malcontent,\nHe veils his tail that, like a falling plume,\nCool shadow to his melting buttock lent:\nHe stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.\nHis love, perceiving how he is enraged,\nGrew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.\nHis testy master goeth about to take him;\nWhen, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,\nJealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,\nWith her the horse, and left Adonis there:\nAs they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,\nOut-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.\nAll swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,\nBanning his boisterous and unruly beast:\nAnd now the happy season once more fits,\nThat love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;\nFor lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong\nWhen it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.\nAn oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,\nBurneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:\nSo of concealed sorrow may be said;\nFree vent of words love's fire doth assuage;\nBut when the heart's attorney once is mute,\nThe client breaks, as desperate in his suit.\nHe sees her coming, and begins to glow,\nEven as a dying coal revives with wind,\nAnd with his bonnet hides his angry brow;\nLooks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,\nTaking no notice that she is so nigh,\nFor all askance he holds her in his eye.\nO, what a sight it was, wistly to view\nHow she came stealing to the wayward boy!\nTo note the fighting conflict of her hue,\nHow white and red each other did destroy!\nBut now her cheek was pale, and by and by\nIt flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.\nNow was she just before him as he sat,\nAnd like a lowly lover down she kneels;\nWith one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,\nHer other tender hand his fair cheek feels:\nHis tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,\nAs apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.\nO, what a war of looks was then between them!\nHer eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;\nHis eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;\nHer eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:\nAnd all this dumb play had his acts made plain\nWith tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.\nFull gently now she takes him by the hand,\nA lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,\nOr ivory in an alabaster band;\nSo white a friend engirts so white a foe:\nThis beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,\nShow'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.\nOnce more the engine of her thoughts began:\n'O fairest mover on this mortal round,\nWould thou wert as I am, and I a man,\nMy heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;\nFor one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,\nThough nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!\n'Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?'\n'Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it:\nO, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,\nAnd being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:\nThen love's deep groans I never shall regard,\nBecause Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'\n'For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go;\nMy day's delight is past, my horse is gone,\nAnd 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:\nI pray you hence, and leave me here alone;\nFor all my mind, my thought, my busy care,\nIs how to get my palfrey from the mare.'\nThus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should,\nWelcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:\nAffection is a coal that must be cool'd;\nElse, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire:\nThe sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;\nTherefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.\n'How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,\nServilely master'd with a leathern rein!\nBut when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,\nHe held such petty bondage in disdain;\nThrowing the base thong from his bending crest,\nEnfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.\n'Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,\nTeaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,\nBut, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,\nHis other agents aim at like delight?\nWho is so faint, that dare not be so bold\nTo touch the fire, the weather being cold?\n'Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;\nAnd learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,\nTo take advantage on presented joy;\nThough I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;\nO, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,\nAnd once made perfect, never lost again.'\nI know not love,' quoth he, 'nor will not know it,\nUnless it be a boar, and then I chase it;\n'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;\nMy love to love is love but to disgrace it;\nFor I have heard it is a life in death,\nThat laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.\n'Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?\nWho plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?\nIf springing things be any jot diminish'd,\nThey wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:\nThe colt that's back'd and burden'd being young\nLoseth his pride and never waxeth strong.\n'You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,\nAnd leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:\nRemove your siege from my unyielding heart;\nTo love's alarms it will not ope the gate:\nDismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;\nFor where a heart is hard they make no battery.'\n'What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue?\nO, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!\nThy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong;\nI had my load before, now press'd with bearing:\nMelodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,\nEar's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.\n'Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love\nThat inward beauty and invisible;\nOr were I deaf, thy outward parts would move\nEach part in me that were but sensible:\nThough neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,\nYet should I be in love by touching thee.\n'Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,\nAnd that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,\nAnd nothing but the very smell were left me,\nYet would my love to thee be still as much;\nFor from the stillitory of thy face excelling\nComes breath perfumed that breedeth love by\nsmelling.\n'But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,\nBeing nurse and feeder of the other four!\nWould they not wish the feast might ever last,\nAnd bid Suspicion double-lock the door,\nLest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,\nShould, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'\nOnce more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,\nWhich to his speech did honey passage yield;\nLike a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd\nWreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,\nSorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,\nGusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.\nThis ill presage advisedly she marketh:\nEven as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,\nOr as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,\nOr as the berry breaks before it staineth,\nOr like the deadly bullet of a gun,\nHis meaning struck her ere his words begun.\nAnd at his look she flatly falleth down,\nFor looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;\nA smile recures the wounding of a frown;\nBut blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!\nThe silly boy, believing she is dead,\nClaps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;\nAnd all amazed brake off his late intent,\nFor sharply he did think to reprehend her,\nWhich cunning love did wittily prevent:\nFair fall the wit that can so well defend her!\nFor on the grass she lies as she were slain,\nTill his breath breatheth life in her again.\nHe wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,\nHe bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,\nHe chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks\nTo mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd:\nHe kisses her; and she, by her good will,\nWill never rise, so he will kiss her still.\nThe night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:\nHer two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,\nLike the fair sun, when in his fresh array\nHe cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth;\nAnd as the bright sun glorifies the sky,\nSo is her face illumined with her eye;\nWhose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,\nAs if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.\nWere never four such lamps together mix'd,\nHad not his clouded with his brow's repine;\nBut hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,\nShone like the moon in water seen by night.\n'O, where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven,\nOr in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?\nWhat hour is this? or morn or weary even?\nDo I delight to die, or life desire?\nBut now I lived, and life was death's annoy;\nBut now I died, and death was lively joy.\n'O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:\nThy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,\nHath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain\nThat they have murder'd this poor heart of mine;\nAnd these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,\nBut for thy piteous lips no more had seen.\n'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!\nO, never let their crimson liveries wear!\nAnd as they last, their verdure still endure,\nTo drive infection from the dangerous year!\nThat the star-gazers, having writ on death,\nMay say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.\n'Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,\nWhat bargains may I make, still to be sealing?\nTo sell myself I can be well contented,\nSo thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;\nWhich purchase if thou make, for fear of slips\nSet thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.\n'A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;\nAnd pay them at thy leisure, one by one.\nWhat is ten hundred touches unto thee?\nAre they not quickly told and quickly gone?\nSay, for non-payment that the debt should double,\nIs twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?\n'Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me,\nMeasure my strangeness with my unripe years:\nBefore I know myself, seek not to know me;\nNo fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:\nThe mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,\nOr being early pluck'd is sour to taste.\n'Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,\nHis day's hot task hath ended in the west;\nThe owl, night's herald, shrieks, ''Tis very late;'\nThe sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,\nAnd coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light\nDo summon us to part and bid good night.\n'Now let me say 'Good night,' and so say you;\nIf you will say so, you shall have a kiss.'\n'Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says 'Adieu,'\nThe honey fee of parting tender'd is:\nHer arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;\nIncorporate then they seem; face grows to face.\nTill, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew\nThe heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,\nWhose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,\nWhereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:\nHe with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth\nTheir lips together glued, fall to the earth.\nNow quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,\nAnd glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;\nHer lips are conquerors, his lips obey,\nPaying what ransom the insulter willeth;\nWhose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,\nThat she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry:\nAnd having felt the sweetness of the spoil,\nWith blindfold fury she begins to forage;\nHer face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,\nAnd careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,\nPlanting oblivion, beating reason back,\nForgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.\nHot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,\nLike a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,\nOr as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing,\nOr like the froward infant still'd with dandling,\nHe now obeys, and now no more resisteth,\nWhile she takes all she can, not all she listeth.\nWhat wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,\nAnd yields at last to every light impression?\nThings out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,\nChiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:\nAffection faints not like a pale-faced coward,\nBut then woos best when most his choice is froward.\nWhen he did frown, O, had she then gave over,\nSuch nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.\nFoul words and frowns must not repel a lover;\nWhat though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:\nWere beauty under twenty locks kept fast,\nYet love breaks through and picks them all at last.\nFor pity now she can no more detain him;\nThe poor fool prays her that he may depart:\nShe is resolved no longer to restrain him;\nBids him farewell, and look well to her heart,\nThe which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,\nHe carries thence incaged in his breast.\n'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow,\nFor my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.\nTell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?\nSay, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'\nHe tells her, no; to-morrow he intends\nTo hunt the boar with certain of his friends.\n'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,\nLike lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,\nUsurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,\nAnd on his neck her yoking arms she throws:\nShe sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,\nHe on her belly falls, she on her back.\nNow is she in the very lists of love,\nHer champion mounted for the hot encounter:\nAll is imaginary she doth prove,\nHe will not manage her, although he mount her;\nThat worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,\nTo clip Elysium and to lack her joy.\nEven as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,\nDo surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,\nEven so she languisheth in her mishaps,\nAs those poor birds that helpless berries saw.\nThe warm effects which she in him finds missing\nShe seeks to kindle with continual kissing.\nBut all in vain; good queen, it will not be:\nShe hath assay'd as much as may be proved;\nHer pleading hath deserved a greater fee;\nShe's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.\n'Fie, fie,' he says, 'you crush me; let me go;\nYou have no reason to withhold me so.'\n'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this,\nBut that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.\nO, be advised! thou know'st not what it is\nWith javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,\nWhose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,\nLike to a mortal butcher bent to kill.\n'On his bow-back he hath a battle set\nOf bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;\nHis eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;\nHis snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;\nBeing moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,\nAnd whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.\n'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,\nAre better proof than thy spear's point can enter;\nHis short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;\nBeing ireful, on the lion he will venture:\nThe thorny brambles and embracing bushes,\nAs fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.\n'Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,\nTo which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;\nNor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,\nWhose full perfection all the world amazes;\nBut having thee at vantage,--wondrous dread!--\nWould root these beauties as he roots the mead.\n'O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;\nBeauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:\nCome not within his danger by thy will;\nThey that thrive well take counsel of their friends.\nWhen thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,\nI fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.\n'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?\nSaw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?\nGrew I not faint? and fell I not downright?\nWithin my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,\nMy boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,\nBut, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.\n'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy\nDoth call himself Affection's sentinel;\nGives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,\nAnd in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!'\nDistempering gentle Love in his desire,\nAs air and water do abate the fire.\n'This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,\nThis canker that eats up Love's tender spring,\nThis carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,\nThat sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,\nKnocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear\nThat if I love thee, I thy death should fear:\n'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye\nThe picture of an angry-chafing boar,\nUnder whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie\nAn image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;\nWhose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed\nDoth make them droop with grief and hang the head.\n'What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,\nThat tremble at the imagination?\nThe thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,\nAnd fear doth teach it divination:\nI prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,\nIf thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.\n'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;\nUncouple at the timorous flying hare,\nOr at the fox which lives by subtlety,\nOr at the roe which no encounter dare:\nPursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,\nAnd on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy\nhounds.\n'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,\nMark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles\nHow he outruns the wind and with what care\nHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:\nThe many musets through the which he goes\nAre like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.\n'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,\nTo make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,\nAnd sometime where earth-delving conies keep,\nTo stop the loud pursuers in their yell,\nAnd sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:\nDanger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:\n'For there his smell with others being mingled,\nThe hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,\nCeasing their clamorous cry till they have singled\nWith much ado the cold fault cleanly out;\nThen do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,\nAs if another chase were in the skies.\n'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,\nStands on his hinder legs with listening ear,\nTo harken if his foes pursue him still:\nAnon their loud alarums he doth hear;\nAnd now his grief may be compared well\nTo one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.\n'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch\nTurn, and return, indenting with the way;\nEach envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,\nEach shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:\nFor misery is trodden on by many,\nAnd being low never relieved by any.\n'Lie quietly, and hear a little more;\nNay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:\nTo make thee hate the hunting of the boar,\nUnlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,\nApplying this to that, and so to so;\nFor love can comment upon every woe.\n'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he,\n'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:\nThe night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.\n'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends;\nAnd now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'\n'In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all\n'But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,\nThe earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,\nAnd all is but to rob thee of a kiss.\nRich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips\nMake modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,\nLest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.\n'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:\nCynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,\nTill forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,\nFor stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;\nWherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,\nTo shame the sun by day and her by night.\n'And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies\nTo cross the curious workmanship of nature,\nTo mingle beauty with infirmities,\nAnd pure perfection with impure defeature,\nMaking it subject to the tyranny\nOf mad mischances and much misery;\n'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,\nLife-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,\nThe marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint\nDisorder breeds by heating of the blood:\nSurfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,\nSwear nature's death for framing thee so fair.\n'And not the least of all these maladies\nBut in one minute's fight brings beauty under:\nBoth favour, savour, hue and qualities,\nWhereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,\nAre on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,\nAs mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.\n'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,\nLove-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,\nThat on the earth would breed a scarcity\nAnd barren dearth of daughters and of sons,\nBe prodigal: the lamp that burns by night\nDries up his oil to lend the world his light.\n'What is thy body but a swallowing grave,\nSeeming to bury that posterity\nWhich by the rights of time thou needs must have,\nIf thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?\nIf so, the world will hold thee in disdain,\nSith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.\n'So in thyself thyself art made away;\nA mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,\nOr theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,\nOr butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.\nFoul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,\nBut gold that's put to use more gold begets.'\n'Nay, then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again\nInto your idle over-handled theme:\nThe kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,\nAnd all in vain you strive against the stream;\nFor, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,\nYour treatise makes me like you worse and worse.\n'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,\nAnd every tongue more moving than your own,\nBewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,\nYet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown\nFor know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,\nAnd will not let a false sound enter there;\n'Lest the deceiving harmony should run\nInto the quiet closure of my breast;\nAnd then my little heart were quite undone,\nIn his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.\nNo, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,\nBut soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.\n'What have you urged that I cannot reprove?\nThe path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:\nI hate not love, but your device in love,\nThat lends embracements unto every stranger.\nYou do it for increase: O strange excuse,\nWhen reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!\n'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,\nSince sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;\nUnder whose simple semblance he hath fed\nUpon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;\nWhich the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,\nAs caterpillars do the tender leaves.\n'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,\nBut Lust's effect is tempest after sun;\nLove's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,\nLust's winter comes ere summer half be done;\nLove surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;\nLove is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.\n'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;\nThe text is old, the orator too green.\nTherefore, in sadness, now I will away;\nMy face is full of shame, my heart of teen:\nMine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,\nDo burn themselves for having so offended.'\nWith this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,\nOf those fair arms which bound him to her breast,\nAnd homeward through the dark laund runs apace;\nLeaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.\nLook, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,\nSo glides he in the night from Venus' eye.\nWhich after him she darts, as one on shore\nGazing upon a late-embarked friend,\nTill the wild waves will have him seen no more,\nWhose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:\nSo did the merciless and pitchy night\nFold in the object that did feed her sight.\nWhereat amazed, as one that unaware\nHath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,\nOr stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,\nTheir light blown out in some mistrustful wood,\nEven so confounded in the dark she lay,\nHaving lost the fair discovery of her way.\nAnd now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,\nThat all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,\nMake verbal repetition of her moans;\nPassion on passion deeply is redoubled:\n'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!'\nAnd twenty echoes twenty times cry so.\nShe marking them begins a wailing note\nAnd sings extemporally a woeful ditty;\nHow love makes young men thrall and old men dote;\nHow love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:\nHer heavy anthem still concludes in woe,\nAnd still the choir of echoes answer so.\nHer song was tedious and outwore the night,\nFor lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:\nIf pleased themselves, others, they think, delight\nIn such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:\nTheir copious stories oftentimes begun\nEnd without audience and are never done.\nFor who hath she to spend the night withal\nBut idle sounds resembling parasites,\nLike shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,\nSoothing the humour of fantastic wits?\nShe says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;'\nAnd would say after her, if she said 'No.'\nLo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,\nFrom his moist cabinet mounts up on high,\nAnd wakes the morning, from whose silver breast\nThe sun ariseth in his majesty;\nWho doth the world so gloriously behold\nThat cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.\nVenus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:\n'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,\nFrom whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow\nThe beauteous influence that makes him bright,\nThere lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,\nMay lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'\nThis said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,\nMusing the morning is so much o'erworn,\nAnd yet she hears no tidings of her love:\nShe hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:\nAnon she hears them chant it lustily,\nAnd all in haste she coasteth to the cry.\nAnd as she runs, the bushes in the way\nSome catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,\nSome twine about her thigh to make her stay:\nShe wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,\nLike a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,\nHasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.\nBy this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;\nWhereat she starts, like one that spies an adder\nWreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,\nThe fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;\nEven so the timorous yelping of the hounds\nAppals her senses and her spirit confounds.\nFor now she knows it is no gentle chase,\nBut the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,\nBecause the cry remaineth in one place,\nWhere fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:\nFinding their enemy to be so curst,\nThey all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.\nThis dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,\nThrough which it enters to surprise her heart;\nWho, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,\nWith cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:\nLike soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,\nThey basely fly and dare not stay the field.\nThus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;\nTill, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,\nShe tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,\nAnd childish error, that they are afraid;\nBids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:--\nAnd with that word she spied the hunted boar,\nWhose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,\nLike milk and blood being mingled both together,\nA second fear through all her sinews spread,\nWhich madly hurries her she knows not whither:\nThis way runs, and now she will no further,\nBut back retires to rate the boar for murther.\nA thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;\nShe treads the path that she untreads again;\nHer more than haste is mated with delays,\nLike the proceedings of a drunken brain,\nFull of respects, yet nought at all respecting;\nIn hand with all things, nought at all effecting.\nHere kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound,\nAnd asks the weary caitiff for his master,\nAnd there another licking of his wound,\n'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;\nAnd here she meets another sadly scowling,\nTo whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.\nWhen he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,\nAnother flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,\nAgainst the welkin volleys out his voice;\nAnother and another answer him,\nClapping their proud tails to the ground below,\nShaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.\nLook, how the world's poor people are amazed\nAt apparitions, signs and prodigies,\nWhereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,\nInfusing them with dreadful prophecies;\nSo she at these sad signs draws up her breath\nAnd sighing it again, exclaims on Death.\n'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,\nHateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--\n'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean\nTo stifle beauty and to steal his breath,\nWho when he lived, his breath and beauty set\nGloss on the rose, smell to the violet?\n'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,\nSeeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--\nO yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,\nBut hatefully at random dost thou hit.\nThy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart\nMistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.\n'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,\nAnd, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.\nThe Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;\nThey bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:\nLove's golden arrow at him should have fled,\nAnd not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.\n'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?\nWhat may a heavy groan advantage thee?\nWhy hast thou cast into eternal sleeping\nThose eyes that taught all other eyes to see?\nNow Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,\nSince her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'\nHere overcome, as one full of despair,\nShe vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt\nThe crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair\nIn the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;\nBut through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,\nAnd with his strong course opens them again.\nO, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!\nHer eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;\nBoth crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,\nSorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;\nBut like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,\nSighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.\nVariable passions throng her constant woe,\nAs striving who should best become her grief;\nAll entertain'd, each passion labours so,\nThat every present sorrow seemeth chief,\nBut none is best: then join they all together,\nLike many clouds consulting for foul weather.\nBy this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;\nA nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:\nThe dire imagination she did follow\nThis sound of hope doth labour to expel;\nFor now reviving joy bids her rejoice,\nAnd flatters her it is Adonis' voice.\nWhereat her tears began to turn their tide,\nBeing prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass;\nYet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,\nWhich her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,\nTo wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,\nWho is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.\nO hard-believing love, how strange it seems\nNot to believe, and yet too credulous!\nThy weal and woe are both of them extremes;\nDespair and hope makes thee ridiculous:\nThe one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,\nIn likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.\nNow she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;\nAdonis lives, and Death is not to blame;\nIt was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:\nNow she adds honours to his hateful name;\nShe clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,\nImperious supreme of all mortal things.\n'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;\nYet pardon me I felt a kind of fear\nWhen as I met the boar, that bloody beast,\nWhich knows no pity, but is still severe;\nThen, gentle shadow,--truth I must confess,--\nI rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.\n''Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;\nBe wreak'd on him, invisible commander;\n'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;\nI did but act, he's author of thy slander:\nGrief hath two tongues, and never woman yet\nCould rule them both without ten women's wit.'\nThus hoping that Adonis is alive,\nHer rash suspect she doth extenuate;\nAnd that his beauty may the better thrive,\nWith Death she humbly doth insinuate;\nTells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories\nHis victories, his triumphs and his glories.\n'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I\nTo be of such a weak and silly mind\nTo wail his death who lives and must not die\nTill mutual overthrow of mortal kind!\nFor he being dead, with him is beauty slain,\nAnd, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.\n'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear\nAs one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;\nTrifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,\nThy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'\nEven at this word she hears a merry horn,\nWhereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.\nAs falcon to the lure, away she flies;\nThe grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;\nAnd in her haste unfortunately spies\nThe foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;\nWhich seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,\nLike stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;\nOr, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,\nShrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,\nAnd there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,\nLong after fearing to creep forth again;\nSo, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled\nInto the deep dark cabins of her head:\nWhere they resign their office and their light\nTo the disposing of her troubled brain;\nWho bids them still consort with ugly night,\nAnd never wound the heart with looks again;\nWho like a king perplexed in his throne,\nBy their suggestion gives a deadly groan,\nWhereat each tributary subject quakes;\nAs when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,\nStruggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,\nWhich with cold terror doth men's minds confound.\nThis mutiny each part doth so surprise\nThat from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;\nAnd, being open'd, threw unwilling light\nUpon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd\nIn his soft flank; whose wonted lily white\nWith purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:\nNo flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,\nBut stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.\nThis solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;\nOver one shoulder doth she hang her head;\nDumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;\nShe thinks he could not die, he is not dead:\nHer voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;\nHer eyes are mad that they have wept til now.\nUpon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,\nThat her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;\nAnd then she reprehends her mangling eye,\nThat makes more gashes where no breach should be:\nHis face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;\nFor oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.\n'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,\nAnd yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!\nMy sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,\nMine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:\nHeavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!\nSo shall I die by drops of hot desire.\n'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!\nWhat face remains alive that's worth the viewing?\nWhose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast\nOf things long since, or any thing ensuing?\nThe flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;\nBut true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.\n'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!\nNor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:\nHaving no fair to lose, you need not fear;\nThe sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:\nBut when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air\nLurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:\n'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,\nUnder whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;\nThe wind would blow it off and, being gone,\nPlay with his locks: then would Adonis weep;\nAnd straight, in pity of his tender years,\nThey both would strive who first should dry his tears.\n'To see his face the lion walk'd along\nBehind some hedge, because he would not fear him;\nTo recreate himself when he hath sung,\nThe tiger would be tame and gently hear him;\nIf he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey\nAnd never fright the silly lamb that day.\n'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,\nThe fishes spread on it their golden gills;\nWhen he was by, the birds such pleasure took,\nThat some would sing, some other in their bills\nWould bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;\nHe fed them with his sight, they him with berries.\n'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,\nWhose downward eye still looketh for a grave,\nNe'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;\nWitness the entertainment that he gave:\nIf he did see his face, why then I know\nHe thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.\n''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:\nHe ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,\nWho did not whet his teeth at him again,\nBut by a kiss thought to persuade him there;\nAnd nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine\nSheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.\n'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,\nWith kissing him I should have kill'd him first;\nBut he is dead, and never did he bless\nMy youth with his; the more am I accurst.'\nWith this, she falleth in the place she stood,\nAnd stains her face with his congealed blood.\nShe looks upon his lips, and they are pale;\nShe takes him by the hand, and that is cold;\nShe whispers in his ears a heavy tale,\nAs if they heard the woeful words she told;\nShe lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,\nWhere, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;\nTwo glasses, where herself herself beheld\nA thousand times, and now no more reflect;\nTheir virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,\nAnd every beauty robb'd of his effect:\n'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,\nThat, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.\n'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:\nSorrow on love hereafter shall attend:\nIt shall be waited on with jealousy,\nFind sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,\nNe'er settled equally, but high or low,\nThat all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.\n'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,\nBud and be blasted in a breathing-while;\nThe bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd\nWith sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:\nThe strongest body shall it make most weak,\nStrike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.\n'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,\nTeaching decrepit age to tread the measures;\nThe staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,\nPluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;\nIt shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,\nMake the young old, the old become a child.\n'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;\nIt shall not fear where it should most mistrust;\nIt shall be merciful and too severe,\nAnd most deceiving when it seems most just;\nPerverse it shall be where it shows most toward,\nPut fear to valour, courage to the coward.\n'It shall be cause of war and dire events,\nAnd set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;\nSubject and servile to all discontents,\nAs dry combustious matter is to fire:\nSith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,\nThey that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'\nBy this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd\nWas melted like a vapour from her sight,\nAnd in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,\nA purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,\nResembling well his pale cheeks and the blood\nWhich in round drops upon their whiteness stood.\nShe bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,\nComparing it to her Adonis' breath,\nAnd says, within her bosom it shall dwell,\nSince he himself is reft from her by death:\nShe crops the stalk, and in the breach appears\nGreen dropping sap, which she compares to tears.\n'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise--\nSweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire--\nFor every little grief to wet his eyes:\nTo grow unto himself was his desire,\nAnd so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good\nTo wither in my breast as in his blood.\n'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;\nThou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:\nLo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,\nMy throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:\nThere shall not be one minute in an hour\nWherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'\nThus weary of the world, away she hies,\nAnd yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid\nTheir mistress mounted through the empty skies\nIn her light chariot quickly is convey'd;\nHolding their course to Paphos, where their queen\nMeans to immure herself and not be seen.","title":"Venus and Adonis","type":"page"}