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by William Shakespeare

Vilia miretur vulgus: mihi flauus Apollo

Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.

To the Right Honorable Henrie Wriothesley,

Earle of Southampton, and Baron of Titchfield.

Right Honourable, I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my vnpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor how the worlde will censure mee for choosing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burden, onelye if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take aduantage of all idle houres, till I haue honoured you with some grauer labour. But if the first heire of my inuention proue deformed, I shall be sorie it had so noble a god-father: and neuer after eare so barren a land, for feare it yeeld me still so bad a haruest, I leaue it to your Honourable suruey, and your Honor to your hearts content, which I wish may alwaies answere your owne wish, and the worlds hopefull expectation.

Your Honors in all dutie,

William Shakespeare.

Even as the sun with purple-color’d face

Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,

Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase;

Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn.

Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,

And like a bold-fac’d suitor gins to woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began,

“The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare,

Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,

More white and red than doves or roses are,

Nature, that made thee with herself at strife,

Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;

If thou wilt deign this favor, for thy meed

A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.

Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,

And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses;

And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety,

But rather famish them amid their plenty,

Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety—

Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.

A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,

Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,

The president of pith and livelihood,

And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,

Earth’s sovereign salve, to do a goddess good.

Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force

Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein,

Under her other was the tender boy,

Who blush’d, and pouted in a dull disdain,

With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,

He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough

Nimbly she fastens (O how quick is love!);

The steed is stalled up, and even now

To tie the rider she begins to prove.

Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust,

And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,

Each leaning on their elbows and their hips.

Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,

And gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,

And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,

“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.”

He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears

Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;

Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs

To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.

He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;

What follows more, she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,

Till either gorge be stuff’d, or prey be gone;

Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his chin,

And where she ends, she doth anew begin.

Forc’d to content, but never to obey,

Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face.

She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,

And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,

Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,

So they were dew’d with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,

So fast’ned in her arms Adonis lies;

Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret,

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.

Rain added to a river that is rank

Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.

Still is he sullen, still he low’rs and frets,

’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.

Being red, she loves him best, and being white,

Her best is better’d with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love,

And by her fair immortal hand she swears

From his soft bosom never to remove

Till he take truce with her contending tears,

Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet,

And one sweet kiss shall pay this comptless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,

Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,

Who being look’d on, ducks as quickly in;

So offers he to give what she did crave,

But when her lips were ready for his pay,

He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat

More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get,

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn.

“O, pity,” gan she cry, “flint-hearted boy,

’Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?

I have been wooed, as I entreat thee now,

Even by the stern and direful god of war,

Whose sinowy neck in battle ne’er did bow,

Who conquers where he comes in every jar,

Yet hath he been my captive, and my slave,

And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have.

Over my altars hath he hung his lance,

His batt’red shield, his uncontrolled crest,

And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance,

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,

Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,

Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

Thus he that overrul’d I overswayed,

Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain;

Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obeyed,

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

For mast’ring her that foil’d the god of fight.

Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine—

Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—

The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.

What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head,

Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;

Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

Art thou asham’d to kiss? Then wink again,

And I will wink, so shall the day seem night.

Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;

Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight;

These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean

Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

The tender spring upon thy tempting lip

Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.

Make use of time, let not advantage slip,

Beauty within itself should not be wasted.

Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime

Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

Were I hard-favor’d, foul, or wrinkled old,

Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,

O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,

Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee,

But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,

Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning;

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning,

My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,

Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,

Or like a fairy, trip upon the green,

Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.

Love is a spirit all compact of fire,

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie,

These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;

Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,

From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.

Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be

That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?

Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?

Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected;

Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.

Narcissus so himself himself forsook,

And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,

Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,

Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:

Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.

Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;

Thou wast begot, to get it is thy duty.

Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,

Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?

By law of nature thou art bound to breed,

That thine may live, when thou thyself art dead;

And so in spite of death thou dost survive,

In that thy likeness still is left alive.”

By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,

For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,

And Titan, tired in the midday heat,

With burning eye did hotly overlook them,

Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,

So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,

His low’ring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,

Like misty vapors when they blot the sky,

Souring his cheeks, cries, “Fie, no more of love!

The sun doth burn my face, I must remove.”

“Ay me,” quoth Venus, “young, and so unkind,

What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!

I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind

Shall cool the heat of this descending sun;

I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;

If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,

And lo I lie between that sun and thee;

The heat I have from thence doth little harm,

Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,

And were I not immortal, life were done,

Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?

Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.

Art thou a woman’s son and canst not feel

What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?

O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,

She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?

Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?

What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?

Speak, fair, but speak fair words, or else be mute.

Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,

And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

Fie, liveless picture, cold and senseless stone,

Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,

Statue contenting but the eye alone,

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!

Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,

For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,

And swelling passion doth provoke a pause.

Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong;

Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause.

And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,

And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand,

Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;

Sometime her arms infold him like a band:

She would, he will not in her arms be bound;

And when from thence he struggles to be gone,

She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith, “since I have hemm’d thee here

Within the circuit of this ivory pale,

I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:

Feed where thou wilt, on mountain, or in dale;

Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,

Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Within this limit is relief enough,

Sweet bottom grass and high delightful plain,

Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,

To shelter thee from tempest and from rain;

Then be my deer, since I am such a park,

No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.”

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;

Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,

He might be buried in a tomb so simple,

Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,

Why, there Love liv’d, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,

Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.

Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?

Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?

Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,

To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?

Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;

The time is spent, her object will away,

And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.

“Pity,” she cries, “some favor, some remorse!”

Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo from forth a copse that neighbors by,

A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,

Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy;

And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.

The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree,

Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,

And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;

The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,

Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;

The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,

Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick’d, his braided hanging mane

Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end,

His nostrils drink the air, and forth again

As from a furnace, vapors doth he send;

His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,

Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,

With gentle majesty and modest pride;

Anon he rears upright, curvets, and leaps,

As who should say, “Lo thus my strength is tried;

And this I do to captivate the eye

Of the fair breeder that is standing by.”

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,

His flattering “Holla,” or his “Stand, I say”?

What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur,

For rich caparisons, or trappings gay?

He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,

For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life

In limning out a well-proportioned steed,

His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,

As if the dead the living should exceed;

So did this horse excel a common one,

In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone.

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,

Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,

High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:

Look what a horse should have he did not lack,

Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares,

Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;

To bid the wind a base he now prepares,

And whe’er he run, or fly, they know not whether;

For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,

Fanning the hairs, who wave like feath’red wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her,

She answers him, as if she knew his mind;

Being proud as females are, to see him woo her,

She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,

Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,

Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then like a melancholy malcontent,

He vails his tail that like a falling plume

Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;

He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.

His love, perceiving how he was enrag’d,

Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d.

His testy master goeth about to take him,

When lo the unback’d breeder, full of fear,

Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,

With her the horse, and left Adonis there.

As they were mad unto the wood they hie them,

Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoll’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,

Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast;

And now the happy season once more fits

That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;

For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong

When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d,

Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage;

So of concealed sorrow may be said,

Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage,

But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,

The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,

Even as a dying coal revives with wind,

And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,

Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,

Taking no notice that she is so nigh,

For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O what a sight it was wistly to view,

How she came stealing to the wayward boy,

To note the fighting conflict of her hue,

How white and red each other did destroy!

But now her cheek was pale, and by and by

It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,

And like a lowly lover down she kneels;

With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,

Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:

His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print,

As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O what a war of looks was then between them!

Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing,

His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them,

Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing;

And all this dumb play had his acts made plain

With tears which chorus-like her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,

A lily prison’d in a jail of snow,

Or ivory in an alablaster band,

So white a friend engirts so white a foe:

This beauteous combat, willful and unwilling,

Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:

“O fairest mover on this mortal round,

Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound!

For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,

Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure thee.”

“Give me my hand,” saith he, “why dost thou feel it?”

“Give me my heart,” saith she, “and thou shalt have it.

O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,

And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it.

Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard,

Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.”

“For shame,” he cries, “let go, and let me go,

My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone,

And ’tis your fault I am bereft him so.

I pray you hence, and leave me here alone,

For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,

Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.”

Thus she replies: “Thy palfrey, as he should,

Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire;

Affection is a coal that must be cool’d,

Else suffer’d it will set the heart on fire.

The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none,

Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.

How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,

Servilely master’d with a leathern rein!

But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee,

He held such petty bondage in disdain,

Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,

Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.

Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,

Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,

But when his glutton eye so full hath fed,

His other agents aim at like delight?

Who is so faint that dares not be so bold

To touch the fire, the weather being cold?

Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy,

And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,

To take advantage on presented joy;

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee.

O, learn to love, the lesson is but plain,

And once made perfect, never lost again.”

“I know not love,” quoth he, “nor will not know it,

Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;

’Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;

My love to love is love but to disgrace it,

For I have heard it is a life in death,

That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.

Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d?

Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?

If springing things be any jot diminish’d,

They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth;

The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being young,

Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.

You hurt my hand with wringing, let us part,

And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat;

Remove your siege from my unyielding heart,

To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate;

Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flatt’ry,

For where a heart is hard they make no batt’ry.”

“What, canst thou talk?” quoth she, “hast thou a tongue?

O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!

Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong;

I had my load before, now press’d with bearing:

Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh sounding,

Ears’ deep sweet music, and heart’s deep sore wounding.

Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love

That inward beauty and invisible,

Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move

Each part in me that were but sensible;

Though neither eyes nor ears to hear nor see,

Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

Say that the sense of feeling were bereft me,

And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,

And nothing but the very smell were left me,

Yet would my love to thee be still as much,

For from the stillitory of thy face excelling

Comes breath perfum’d, that breedeth love by smelling.

But O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,

Being nurse and feeder of the other four!

Would they not wish the feast might ever last,

And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,

Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,

Should by his stealing in disturb the feast?”

Once more the ruby-color’d portal open’d,

Which to his speech did honey passage yield,

Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d

Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,

Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,

Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh:

Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth,

Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,

Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,

Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,

His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,

For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth:

A smile recures the wounding of a frown.

But blessed bankrout that by love so thriveth!

The silly boy, believing she is dead,

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;

And all amaz’d, brake off his late intent,

For sharply he did think to reprehend her,

Which cunning Love did wittily prevent:

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!

For on the grass she lies as she were slain,

Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,

He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,

He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he seeks

To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d,

He kisses her, and she by her good will

Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day:

Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth,

Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array

He cheers the morn, and all the earth relieveth;

And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,

So is her face illumin’d with her eye,

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d,

As if from thence they borrowed all their shine.

Were never four such lamps together mix’d,

Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine;

But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,

Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

“O, where am I?” quoth she, “in earth or heaven,

Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire?

What hour is this? Or morn or weary even?

Do I delight to die, or life desire?

But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy,

But now I died, and death was lively joy.

O, thou didst kill me, kill me once again.

Thy eyes’ shrowd tutor, that hard heart of thine,

Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain

That they have murd’red this poor heart of mine,

And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,

But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

Long may they kiss each other for this cure!

O, never let their crimson liveries wear!

And as they last, their verdour still endure,

To drive infection from the dangerous year!

That the star-gazers, having writ on death,

May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath.

Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?

To sell myself I can be well contented,

So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing,

Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips,

Set thy seal manual on my wax-red lips.

A thousand kisses buys my heart from me,

And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.

What is ten hundred touches unto thee?

Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone?

Say for non-payment that the debt should double,

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?”

“Fair queen,” quoth he, “if any love you owe me,

Measure my strangeness with my unripe years;

Before I know myself, seek not to know me,

No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears;

The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,

Or being early pluck’d, is sour to taste.

Look the world’s comforter with weary gait

His day’s hot task hath ended in the west;

The owl (night’s herald) shrieks, ’tis very late;

The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,

And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light

Do summon us to part, and bid good night.

Now let me say ‘Good night,’ and so say you;

If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.”

“Good night,” quoth she, and ere he says “Adieu,”

The honey fee of parting tend’red is;

Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;

Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face;

Till breathless he disjoin’d, and backward drew

The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,

Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,

Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth;

He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth,

Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,

And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;

Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;

Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high

That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,

With blindfold fury she begins to forage;

Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,

And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,

Planting oblivion, beating reason back,

Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honor’s wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,

Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much handling,

Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tir’d with chasing,

Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling,

He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,

While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp’ring,

And yields at last to every light impression?

Things out of hope are compass’d oft with vent’ring,

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission;

Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward,

But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O had she then gave over,

Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d.

Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;

What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d!

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,

Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.

For pity now she can no more detain him;

The poor fool prays her that he may depart.

She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him,

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,

The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,

He carries thence incaged in his breast.

“Sweet boy,” she says, “this night I’ll waste in sorrow,

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.

Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet tomorrow?

Say, shall we, shall we? Wilt thou make the match?”

He tells her no, tomorrow he intends

To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

“The boar!” quoth she, whereat a sudden pale,

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,

Usurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,

And on his neck her yoking arms she throws.

She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,

He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Now is she in the very lists of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter;

All is imaginary she doth prove,

He will not manage her, although he mount her,

That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,

To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.

Even so poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes,

Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw;

Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,

As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.

The warm effects which she in him finds missing

She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain, good queen, it will not be;

She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d.

Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee;

She’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.

“Fie, fie,” he says, “you crush me, let me go,

You have no reason to withhold me so.”

“Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet boy, ere this,

But that thou toldst me thou wouldst hunt the boar.

O, be advis’d, thou know’st not what it is

With javeling’s point a churlish swine to gore,

Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still,

Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes that ever threat his foes,

His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret,

His snout digs sepulchres where e’er he goes;

Being mov’d, he strikes, what e’er is in his way,

And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.

His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed,

Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter;

His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed;

Being ireful, on the lion he will venture.

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,

As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.

Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,

To which Love’s eyes pays tributary gazes,

Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,

Whose full perfection all the world amazes,

But having thee at vantage (wondrous dread!)

Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still!

Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends.

Come not within his danger by thy will,

They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.

When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,

I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white?

Sawest thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?

Grew I not faint, and fell I not downright?

Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,

But like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy

Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel,

Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,

And in a peaceful hour doth cry, “Kill, kill!”

Distemp’ring gentle Love in his desire,

As air and water do abate the fire.

This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,

This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring,

This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,

That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,

Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,

That if I love thee, I thy death should fear;

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye

The picture of an angry chafing boar,

Under whose sharp fangs, on his back doth lie

An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore,

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,

Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,

That tremble at th’ imagination?

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,

And fear doth teach it divination:

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,

If thou encounter with the boar tomorrow.

But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul’d by me,

Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,

Or at the fox which lives by subtilty,

Or at the roe which no encounter dare;

Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,

And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy hounds.

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,

Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles,

How he outruns the wind, and with what care

He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:

The many musits through the which he goes

Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,

To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,

And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,

To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:

Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.

For there his smell with others being mingled,

The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,

Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled

With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;

Then do they spend their mouths: echo replies,

As if another chase were in the skies.

By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,

Stands on his hinder-legs with list’ning ear,

To hearken if his foes pursue him still.

Anon their loud alarums he doth hear,

And now his grief may be compared well

To one sore sick that hears the passing bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch

Turn, and return, indenting with the way;

Each envious brier his weary legs do scratch,

Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay,

For misery is trodden on by many,

And being low, never reliev’d by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more,

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise.

To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,

Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize,

Applying this to that, and so to so,

For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave?” “No matter where,” quoth he,

“Leave me, and then the story aptly ends;

The night is spent.” “Why, what of that?” quoth she.

“I am,” quoth he, “expected of my friends,

And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.”

“In night,” quoth she, “desire sees best of all.

But if thou fall, O then imagine this,

The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,

And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.

Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips

Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.

Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,

Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason,

For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine,

Wherein she fram’d thee, in high heaven’s despite,

To shame the sun by day, and her by night.

And therefore hath she brib’d the Destinies

To cross the curious workmanship of Nature,

To mingle beauty with infirmities,

And pure perfection with impure defeature,

Making it subject to the tyranny

Of mad mischances and much misery:

As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,

Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood,

The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint

Disorder breeds by heating of the blood;

Surfeits, impostumes, grief, and damn’d despair

Swear Nature’s death for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these maladies

But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under;

Both favor, savor, hue, and qualities,

Whereat th’ impartial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d, and done,

As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.

Therefore despite of fruitless chastity,

Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns,

That on the earth would breed a scarcity

And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,

Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night

Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,

Seeming to bury that posterity

Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,

If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,

Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

So in thyself thyself art made away,

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,

Or butcher sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul cank’ring rust the hidden treasure frets,

But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.”

“Nay then,” quoth Adon, “you will fall again

Into your idle over-handled theme.

The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain,

And all in vain you strive against the stream,

For by this black-fac’d night, desire’s foul nurse,

Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,

And every tongue more moving than your own,

Bewitching like the wanton mermaids’ songs,

Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;

For know my heart stands armed in mine ear,

And will not let a false sound enter there,

Lest the deceiving harmony should run

Into the quiet closure of my breast,

And then my little heart were quite undone,

In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest.

No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan,

But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove?

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.

I hate not love, but your device in love,

That lends embracements unto every stranger.

You do it for increase: O strange excuse!

When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse.

Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,

Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name,

Under whose simple semblance he hath fed

Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;

Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,

As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,

But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;

Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,

Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done;

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;

Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

More I could tell, but more I dare not say,

The text is old, the orator too green,

Therefore in sadness, now I will away;

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen,

Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,

Do burn themselves for having so offended.”

With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace

Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,

And homeward through the dark laund runs apace,

Leaves Love upon her back, deeply distress’d.

Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky,

So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye,

Which after him she darts, as one on shore

Gazing upon a late embarked friend,

Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,

Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend;

So did the merciless and pitchy night

Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amaz’d as one that unaware

Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood,

Or stonish’d as night-wand’rers often are,

Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,

Even so confounded in the dark she lay,

Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,

That all the neighbor caves, as seeming troubled,

Make verbal repetition of her moans;

Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:

“Ay me!” she cries, and twenty times, “Woe, woe!”

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She marking them begins a wailing note,

And sings extemporally a woeful ditty,

How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote,

How love is wise in folly, foolish witty.

Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,

And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,

For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short;

If pleas’d themselves, others they think delight

In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport.

Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,

End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal,

But idle sounds resembling parasits,

Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every call,

Soothing the humor of fantastic wits?

She says, “’Tis so,” they answer all, “’Tis so,”

And would say after her, if she said “No.”

Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,

And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun ariseth in his majesty,

Who doth the world so gloriously behold

That cedar tops and hills seem burnish’d gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:

“O thou clear god, and patron of all light,

From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow

The beauteous influence that makes him bright,

There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother,

May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.”

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,

Musing the morning is so much o’erworn,

And yet she hears no tidings of her love.

She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn;

Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily,

And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way,

Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,

Some twin’d about her thigh to make her stay.

She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,

Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,

Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this she hears the hounds are at a bay,

Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder

Wreath’d up in fatal folds just in his way,

The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds

Appalls her senses, and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,

But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,

Because the cry remaineth in one place,

Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud;

Finding their enemy to be so curst,

They all strain court’sy who shall cope him first.

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,

Through which it enters to surprise her heart,

Who overcome by doubt, and bloodless fear,

With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:

Like soldiers when their captain once doth yield,

They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,

Till cheering up her senses all dismay’d,

She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy,

And childish error that they are afraid;

Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more—

And with that word, she spied the hunted boar,

Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,

Like milk and blood being mingled both together,

A second fear through all her sinews spread,

Which madly hurries her she knows not whither;

This way she runs, and now she will no further,

But back retires to rate the boar for murder.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,

She treads the path that she untreads again;

Her more than haste is mated with delays,

Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,

Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,

In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound,

And asks the weary caitiff for his master,

And there another licking of his wound,

’Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster,

And here she meets another sadly scowling,

To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas’d his ill-resounding noise,

Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim,

Against the welkin volleys out his voice;

Another, and another, answer him,

Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,

Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go.

Look how the world’s poor people are amazed

At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,

Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,

Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;

So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,

And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

“Hard-favor’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,

Hateful divorce of love”—thus chides she Death—

“Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou mean

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath?

Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty set

Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet.

If he be dead—O no, it cannot be,

Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:

O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see,

But hatefully at randon dost thou hit.

Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart

Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant’s heart.

Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,

And hearing him, thy power had lost his power.

The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke:

They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower.

Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled,

And not Death’s ebon dart to strike him dead.

Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping?

What may a heavy groan advantage thee?

Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping

Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?

Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigor,

Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigor.”

Here overcome, as one full of despair,

She vail’d her eyelids, who like sluices stopp’d

The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair

In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp’d;

But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,

And with his strong course opens them again.

O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!

Her eye seen in the tears, tears in her eye,

Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow,

Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;

But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,

Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,

As striving who should best become her grief;

All entertain’d, each passion labors so,

That every present sorrow seemeth chief,

But none is best; then join they all together,

Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off, she hears some huntsman hallow;

A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well.

The dire imagination she did follow

This sound of hope doth labor to expel,

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,

And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,

Being prison’d in her eye, like pearls in glass,

Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,

Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass

To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,

Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d.

O hard-believing love, how strange it seems!

Not to believe, and yet too credulous:

Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;

Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:

The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,

In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;

It was not she that call’d him all to naught;

Now she adds honors to his hateful name:

She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,

Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

“No, no,” quoth she, “sweet Death, I did but jest,

Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear

When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,

Which knows no pity, but is still severe;

Then, gentle shadow (truth I must confess),

I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decesse.

’Tis not my fault, the boar provok’d my tongue,

Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander;

’Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong,

I did but act, he’s author of thy slander.

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet

Could rule them both without ten women’s wit.”

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate,

And that his beauty may the better thrive,

With Death she humbly doth insinuate;

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

“O Jove,” quoth she, “how much a fool was I,

To be of such a weak and silly mind,

To wail his death who lives, and must not die

Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,

And beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear

As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves;

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,

Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.”

Even at this word she hears a merry horn,

Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.

As falcons to the lure, away she flies,

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light,

And in her haste unfortunately spies

The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight,

Which seen, her eyes as murd’red with the view,

Like stars asham’d of day, themselves withdrew;

Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,

Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,

And there, all smoth’red up, in shade doth sit,

Long after fearing to creep forth again;

So at his bloody view her eyes are fled

Into the deep-dark cabins of her head,

Where they resign their office, and their light,

To the disposing of her troubled brain,

Who bids them still consort with ugly night,

And never wound the heart with looks again,

Who like a king perplexed in his throne,

By their suggestion, gives a deadly groan.

Whereat each tributary subject quakes,

As when the wind imprison’d in the ground,

Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,

Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound.

This mutiny each part doth so surprise

That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes,

And being open’d, threw unwilling light

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d

In his soft flank, whose wonted lily white

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench’d.

No flow’r was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,

But stole his blood, and seem’d with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,

Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;

Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth,

She thinks he could not die, he is not dead;

Her voice is stopp’d, her joints forget to bow,

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,

That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three,

And then she reprehends her mangling eye,

That makes more gashes where no breach should be.

His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled,

For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

“My tongue cannot express my grief for one,

And yet,” quoth she, “behold two Adons dead!

My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,

Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead:

Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire,

So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!

What face remains alive that’s worth the viewing?

Whose tongue is music now? What canst thou boast

Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?

The flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim,

But true sweet beauty liv’d and died with him.

Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!

Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:

Having no fair to lose, you need not fear,

The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you.

But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air

Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.

And therefore would he put his bonnet on,

Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;

The wind would blow it off, and being gone,

Play with his locks; then would Adonis weep;

And straight, in pity of his tender years,

They both would strive who first should dry his tears.

To see his face the lion walk’d along

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;

To recreate himself when he hath song,

The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him;

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,

And never fright the silly lamb that day.

When he beheld his shadow in the brook,

The fishes spread on it their golden gills;

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,

That some would sing, some other in their bills

Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries:

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,

Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,

Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore—

Witness the entertainment that he gave.

If he did see his face, why then I know

He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so.

’Tis true, ’tis true, thus was Adonis slain:

He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,

Who did not whet his teeth at him again,

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;

And nousling in his flank, the loving swine

Sheath’d unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess,

With kissing him I should have kill’d him first,

But he is dead, and never did he bless

My youth with his, the more am I accurs’d.”

With this she falleth in the place she stood,

And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale,

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold,

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,

As if they heard the woeful words she told;

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,

Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies;

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld

A thousand times, and now no more reflect,

Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d,

And every beauty robb’d of his effect.

“Wonder of time,” quoth she, “this is my spite,

That thou being dead, the day should yet be light.

Since thou art dead, lo here I prophesy,

Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend;

It shall be waited on with jealousy,

Find sweet beginning, but unsavory end;

ne’er settled equally, but high or low,

That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.

It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,

Bud, and be blasted, in a breathing while,

The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d

With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile;

The strongest body shall it make most weak,

Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.

It shall be sparing, and too full of riot,

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;

The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;

It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,

Make the young old, the old become a child.

It shall suspect where is no cause of fear,

It shall not fear where it should most mistrust,

It shall be merciful, and too severe,

And most deceiving when it seems most just;

Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward,

Put fear to valor, courage to the coward.

It shall be cause of war and dire events,

And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire,

Subject and servile to all discontents,

As dry combustious matter is to fire.

Sith in his prime, Death doth my love destroy,

They that love best, their loves shall not enjoy.”

By this the boy that by her side lay kill’d

Was melted like a vapor from her sight,

And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d,

A purple flow’r sprung up, check’red with white,

Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood

Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flow’r to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath,

And says within her bosom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death.

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears

Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

“Poor flow’r,” quoth she, “this was thy father’s guise—

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire—

For every little grief to wet his eyes;

To grow unto himself was his desire,

And so ’tis thine, but know it is as good

To wither in my breast as in his blood.

Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;

Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right.

Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest,

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night;

There shall not be one minute in an hour

Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flow’r.”

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,

And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid

Their mistress mounted through the empty skies,

In her light chariot, quickly is convey’d,

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen

Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

Play Sources

Metamorphoses by Ovid (8 A.D.)

Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe (1598)

Text Sources

Quarto 1 of 1593

Version 3.4

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