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'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'
Ovid Amores Bk I xv lines 35-36.
Translated by Christopher Marlowe as
Let base-conceited wits admire vile things, Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muses' s springs.
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.
RIGHT HONORABLE,
I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.
Your honour's in all duty,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
1
EVEN as the sunne with purple-colourd face,
Had tane his last leave of the weeping morne,
Rose-cheekt Adonis hied him to the chase,
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laught to scorne:
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amaine unto him,
And like a bold fac'd suter ginnes to woo him.
7
Thrise fairer than my selfe, (thus she began)
The fields chiefe flower, sweet above compare,
Staine to all Nimphs, more lovely then a man,
More white, and red, then doves, or roses are:
Nature that made thee with her selfe at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
13
Vouchsafe, thou wonder to alight thy steed,
And raine his proud head to the saddle bow;
If thou wilt daign this favor, for thy meed
A thousand honie secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, Ile smother thee with kisses.
19
And yet not cloy thy lips with loth'd satietie,
But rather famish them amid their plentie,
Making them red, and pale, with fresh varietie:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twentie:
A sommer's day will seeme an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.
25
With this she ceazeth on his sweating palme,
The president of pith and livelyhood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balme,
Earths soveraign salve, to do a goddesse good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
31
Over one arme the lustie courser's raine,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blusht, and powted in a dull disdaine,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy,
She red and hot as coles of glowing fier,
He red for shame, but frosty in desier.
37
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens, (ô how quicke is love!)
The steed is stalled up, and even now,
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she pusht him, as she would be thrust,
And governd him in strength though not in lust.
43
So soone was she along, as he was downe,
Each leaning on their elbowes and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And gins to chide, but soone she stops his lips,
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.
49
He burnes with bashfull shame, she with her teares
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheekes,
Then with her windie sighes, and golden heares,
To fan, and blow them dry againe she seekes.
He saith she is immodest, blames her misse;
What followes more she murthers with a kisse.
55
Even as an emptie Eagle sharpe by fast,
Tires with her beake on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuft, or pray be gone:
Even so she kist his brow, his cheeke, his chin,
And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
61
Forst to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steame, as on a pray,
And calls it heavenly moisture, aire of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens ful of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.
67
Looke how a bird lyes tangled in a net,
So fastned in her armes Adonis lyes,
Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beautie in his angry eyes:
Raine added to a river that is ranke,
Perforce will force it overflow the banke.
73
Still she intreats, and prettily intreats,
For to a prettie eare she tunes her tale.
Still is he sullein, still he lowres and frets,
Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashie pale,
Being red she loves him best, and being white,
Her best is betterd with a more delight.
79
Looke how he can, she cannot chuse but love;
And by her faire immortall hand she sweares,
From his soft bosome never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending teares,
Which lõg have raind, making her cheeks al wet,
And one sweet kisse shal pay this comptlesse debt.
85
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a divedapper peering through a wave,
Who, being lookt on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what she did crave,
But when her lips were readie for his pay,
He winks, and turnes his lips another way.
91
Never did passenger in sommers heat,
More thirst for drinke, then she for this good turne.
Her helpe she sees, but helpe she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burne:
Oh pitie, gan she cry, flint-hearted boy,
Tis but a kisse I beg, why art thou coy?
97
I have bene wooed as I intreat thee now,
Even by the sterne, and direfull god of warre,
Whose sinowie necke in battel nere did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in everie jarre,
Yet hath he bene my captive, and my slave,
And begd for that which thou unaskt shalt have.
103
Over my Altars hath he hung his launce,
His battred shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learnd to sport, and daunce,
To toy, to wanton, dallie, smile and jest,
Scorning his churlish drumme and ensigne red,
Making my armes his field, his tent my bed.
109
Thus he that over-ruld, I over-swayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chaine,
Strong-temperd steele his stronger strength obayed.
Yet was he servile to my coy disdaine,
Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For maistering her that foyld the god of fight.
115
Touch but my lips with those faire lips of thine,
Though mine be not so faire, yet are they red,
The kisse shalbe thine owne as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head,
Looke in mine ey-bals, there thy beautie lyes;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
121
Art thou asham'd to kisse? then winke againe,
And I will winke, so shall the day seeme night,
Love keepes his revels where there are but twaine:
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight,
These blew-veind violets whereon we leane,
Never can blab, nor know not what we meane.
127
The tender spring upon thy tempting lip,
Shewes thee unripe; yet maist thou well be tasted,
Make use of time, let not advantage slip,
Beautie within it selfe should not be wasted,
Faire flowers that are not gathred in their prime,
Rot, and consume them selves in little time.
133
Were I hard-favou'd, foule, or wrinckled old,
Il-nurtur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
Ore-worne, despised, reumatique, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, leane, and lacking juyce;
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee,
But having no defects, why doest abhor me?
139
Thou canst not see one wrinckle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey, and bright, & quicke in turning:
My beautie as the spring doth yearelie grow,
My flesh is soft, and plumpe, my marrow burning,
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palme dissolve, or seeme to melt.
145
Bid me discourse, I will inchaunt thine eare,
Or, like a Fairie, trip upon the greene,
Or like a Nimph, with long disheveled heare,
Daunce on the sands, and yet no footing seene.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not grosse to sinke, but light, and will aspire.
151
Witnesse this Primrose banke whereon I lie,
These forcelesse flowers like sturdy trees support me:
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the skie,
From morne till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should thinke it heavie unto thee?
157
Is thine owne heart to thine owne face affected?
Can thy right hand ceaze love upon thy left?
Then woo thy selfe, be of thy selfe rejected:
Steale thine own freedome, and complaine on theft.
Narcissus so him selfe him selfe forsooke,
And died to kisse his shadow in the brooke.
163
Torches are made to light, jewels to weare,
Dainties to tast, fresh beautie for the use,
Herbes for their smell, and sapped plants to beare.
Things growing to them selves, are growths abuse,
Seeds spring frõ seeds, & beauty breedeth beauty,
Thou wast begot, to get it is thy duty.
169
Upon the earths increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unlesse the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live, when thou thy selfe art dead:
And so in spite of death, thou doest survive,
In that thy likenesse still is left alive.
175
By this the love-sicke Queene began to sweate,
For where they lay the shadow had forsooke them,
And Titan tired in the midday heate,
With burning eye did hotly over-looke them;
Wishing Adonis had his teame to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus side.
181
And now Adonis with a lazie sprite,
And with a heavie, darke, disliking eye,
His lowring browes ore-whelming his faire sight,
Like mistie vapors when they blot the skie,
Sowring his cheeks, cries, fie, no more of love,
The sunne doth burne my face I must remove.
187
Ay, me, (quoth Venus) young, and so unkinde,
What bare excuses mak'st thou to be gon?
Ile sigh celestiall breath, whose gentle winde,
Shall coole the heate of this descending sun:
Ile make a shadow for thee of my heares,
If they burn too, Ile quench them with my teares.
193
The sun that shines from heaven, shines but warme,
And lo I lye betweene that sunne, and thee:
The heate I have from thence doth little harme,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,
And were I not immortall, life were done,
Betweene this heavenly, and earthly sunne.
199
Art thou obdurate, flintie, hard as steele?
Nay more than flint, for stone at raine relenteth:
Art thou a womans sonne and canst not feele
What tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
O had thy mother borne so hard a minde,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
205
What am I that thou shouldst contemne me this?
Or what great danger, dwels upon my sute?
What were thy lips the worse for one poore kis?
Speake fair, but speak fair wordes, or else be mute:
Give me one kisse Ile give it thee againe,
And one for intrest, if thou wilt have twaine.
211
Fie, lifelesse picture, cold, and senselesse stone,
Well painted idoll, image dull, and dead,
Statüe contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:
Thou art no man, though of a mans complexion,
For men will kisse even by their owne direction.
217
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause,
Red cheeks, and fierie eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being Judge in love, she cannot right her cause.
And now she weeps, & now she faine would speake,
And now her sobs do her intendments breake.
223
Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her armes infold him like a band,
She would, he will not in her armes be bound:
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lillie fingers one in one.
229
Fondling, she saith, since I have hemd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivorie pale,
Ile be a parke, and thou shalt be my deare:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountaine, or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hils be drie,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountaines lie.
235
Within this limit is reliefe inough,
Sweet bottome grasse, and high delightfull plaine,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure, and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest, and from raine:
Then be my deare, since I am such a parke;
No dog shall rowze thee, though a thousand bark.'
241
At this Adonis smiles as in disdaine,
That in ech cheeke appeares a prettie dimple;
Love made those hollowes, if him selfe were slaine,
He might be buried in a tombe so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why there Love liv'd, & there he could not die.
247
These lovely caves, these round inchanting pits,
Opend their mouthes to swallow Venus liking:
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Strucke dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poore Queene of love, in thine own law forlorne,
To love a cheeke that smiles at thee in scorne.
253
Now which way shall she turne? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing,
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining armes doth urge releasing:
Pitie she cries, some favour, some remorse,
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.
259
But lo from forth a copps that neighbors by,
A breeding Jennet, lustie, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling Courser doth espy:
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud,
The strong-neckt steed being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his raine, and to her straight goes hee.
265
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girthes he breaks asunder,
The bearing earth with his hard hoofe he wounds,
Whose hollow wombe resounds like heavens thunder;
The yron bit he crusheth tweene his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.
271
His eares up-prickt, his braided hanging mane
Upon his compast crest now stand on end,
His nostrils drinke the aire, and forth againe
As from a fornace, vapors doth he send:
His eye which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hote courage, and his high desire.
277
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majestie, and modest pride,
Anon he reres upright, curvets, and leaps,
As who should say; lo thus my strength is tride,
And this I do, to captivate the eye,
Of the faire breeder that is standing by.
283
What recketh he his riders angrie sturre,
His flattering holla, or his stand, I say,
What cares he now, for curbe or pricking spurre,
For rich caparisons, or trappings gay:
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
289
Looke when a Painter would surpasse the life,
In limming 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 excell a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
295
Round hoof'd, short jointed, fetlocks shag, and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostrill wide,
High crest, short eares, straight legs, & passing strõg,
Thin mane, thicke taile, broad buttock, tender hide:
Looke what a Horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
301
Sometime he scuds farre off, and there he stares,
Anon he starts, at sturring of a feather:
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he runne, or flie, they know not whether:
For through his mane, & taile, the high wind sings,
Fanning the haires, who wave like feathred wings.
307
He lookes upon his love? and neighes unto her,
She answers him, as if she knew his minde,
Being proud as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangenesse, seemes unkinde:
Spurnes at his love, and scorns the heat he feeles,
Beating his kind embracements with her heeles.
313
Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vailes his taile that like a falling plume,
Coole shadow to his melting buttocke lent:
He stamps, and bites the poore flies in his fume:
His love perceiving how he was inrag'd,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.
319
His testie maister goeth about to take him,
When lo the unbackt breeder full of feare,
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,
Out stripping crowes, that strive to overfly them.
325
All swolne with chafing, downe Adonis sits,
Banning his boysterous, and unruly beast;
And now the happie season once more fits
That lovesicke love, by pleading may be blest:
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong,
When it is bard the aydance of the tongue.
331
An Oven that is stopt, or river stayd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorow may be sayd,
Free vent of words loves fier doth asswage,
But when the heart's atturney once is mute,
The client breakes, as desperat in his sute.
337
He sees her comming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coale revives with winde,
And with his bonnet hides his angrie brow,
Lookes on the dull earth with disturbed minde:
Taking no notice that she is so nye,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.
343
O what a sight it was wistly to view,
How she came stealing to the wayward boy,
To note the fighting conflict of her hew,
How white and red, ech other did destroy:
But now her cheeke was pale, and by and by
It flasht forth fire, as lightning from the skie.
349
Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover downe she kneeles,
With one faire hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his faire cheek feeles:
His tendrer cheeke, receives her soft hands print,
As apt, as new-faln snow takes any dint.
355
Oh what a war of lookes was then betweene 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 disdaind the wooing:
And all this dumbe play had his acts made plain,
With tears, which, Chorus-like her eyes did rain.
361
Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lillie prisond in a gaile of snow,
Or Ivorie in an allablaster band,
So white a friend, ingirts so white a fo:
This beautious combat wilfull, and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a billing.
367
Once more the engin of her thoughts began,
O fairest mover on this mortall round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound,
For one sweet looke thy helpe I would assure thee,
Thogh nothing but my bodies bane wold cure thee!
373
Give me my hand (saith he,) why dost thou feele it?
Give me my heart (saith she,) and thou shalt have it.
O give it me lest thy hard heart do steele it,
And being steeld, soft sighes can never grave it.
Then loves deep grones, I never shall regard,
Because Adonis heart hath made mine hard.
379
For shame he cries, let go, and let me go,
My dayes 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 busie care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.
385
Thus she replies, thy palfrey as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire,
Affection is a coal that must be coold,
Else sufferd it will set the heart on fire,
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none,
Therefore no marvell though thy horse be gone.
391
How like a jade he stood tied to the tree,
Servillly maisterd with a leatherne rain,
But when he saw his love, his youths fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdaine:
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his backe, his brest.
397
Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hew then white,
But when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents ayme at like delight?
Who is so faint that dare not be so bold
To touch the fier the weather being cold?
403
Let me excuse thy courser gentle boy,
And learne of him I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy,
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee:
O learne to love, the lesson is but plaine,
And once made perfect, never lost againe.
409
I know not love ( quoth he) nor will not know it,
Unlesse it be a Boare, 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.
415
Who weares a garment shapelesse and unfinisht?
Who plucks the bud before one leafe put forth?
If springing things be anie jot diminisht,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth,
The colt that's backt and burthend being yong,
Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.
421
You hurt my hand with wringing, let us part,
And leave this idle theame, this bootlesse chat,
Remove your siege from my unyeelding hart,
To loves allarmes it will not ope the gate,
Dismises your vows, your fained tears, your flattry,
For where a heart is hard they make no battry.
427
What canst thou talke (quoth she) hast thou a tong?
O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing,
Thy mermaides voice hath done me double wrong,
I had my lode before, now prest with bearing,
Mellodious discord, heavenly tune harsh sounding,
Eares deep sweet music, & harts deep sore wounding.
433
Had I no eyes but eares, my eares would love,
That inward beautie and invisible,
Or were I deafe, thy outward parts would move
Ech part in me, that were but sensible,
Though neither eyes, nor eares, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love, by touching thee.
439
Say that the sence of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor heare, nor touch,
And nothing but the verie smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much,
For frõ the stillitorie of thy face excelling,
Coms breath perfumd, that breedeth love by smelling.
445
But oh what banquet wert thou to the tast,
Being nourse, and feeder of the other foure,
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid suspition double locke the dore,
Lest jealousy that sower unwelcome guest,
Should by his stealing in disturbe the feast?'
451
Once more the rubi-colourd portall opend,
Which to his speech did honie passage yeeld,
Like a red morne that ever yet betokend,
Wracke to the sea-man, tempest to the field:
Sorrow to shepherds, wo unto the birds,
Gusts, and foule flawes, to heardmen, & to herds.
457
This ill presage advisedly she marketh,
Even as the wind is husht before it raineth:
Or as the wolfe doth grin before he barketh:
Or as the berrie breakes before it staineth:
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun:
His meaning strucke her ere his words begun.
463
And at his looke she flatly falleth downe,
For lookes kill love, and love by looks reviveth,
A smile recures the wounding of a frowne,
But blessed bankrout that by love so thriveth,
The sillie boy beleeving she is dead,
Claps her pale cheeke, till clapping makes it red.
469
And all amaz'd, brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did thinke to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent,
Faire fall the wit that can so well defend her:
For on the grasse she lyes as she were slaine,
Till his breath breatheth life in her againe.
475
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheekes,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips, a thousand wayes he seekes,
To mend the hurt, that his unkindnesse mard,
He kisses her; and she by her good will,
Will never rise, so he will kisse her still.
481
The night of sorrow now is turnd to day,
Her two blew windowes faintly she upheaveth,
Like the faire sunne when in his fresh array,
He cheeres the morne, and all the earth releeveth:
And as the bright sunne glorifies the skie:
So is her face illumind with her eye.
487
Whose beames upon his hairlesse face are fixt,
As if from thence they borrowed all their shine,
Were never foure such lamps, together mixt,
Had not his clouded with his browes repine.
But hers, which through the cristal tears gave light,
Shone like the Moone in water seene by night.
493
O where am I (quoth she,) in earth or heaven,
Or in the Ocean drencht, or in the fire:
What houre is this, or morne, or wearie even,
Do I delight to die or life desire?
But now I liv'd, and life was deaths annoy,
But now I dy'de, and death was lively joy.
499
O thou didst kill me, kill me once againe,
Thy eyes shrowd tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornfull tricks, & such disdaine,
That they have murdred this poore heart of mine,
And these mine eyes true leaders to their queene,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seene.
505
Long may they kisse each other for this cure,
Oh never let their crimson liveries wear,
And as they last, their verdour still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous yeare:
That the star-gazers having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banisht by thy breath.
511
Pure lips, sweet seales in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargaines may I make still to be sealing?
To sell my selfe I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing,
Which purchase if thou make, for feare of slips,
Set thy seal manuell, on my wax-red lips.
517
A thousand kisses buyes 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 twentie hundred kisses such a trouble?
523
Faire Queen (quoth he) if anie love you owe me,
Measure my strangenesse with my unripe yeares,
Before I know my selfe, seeke not to know me,
No fisher but the ungrowne fry forbeares,
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluckt is sower to tast.
529
Looke the worlds comforter with wearie gate,
His dayes hot taske hath ended in the west,
The owle (nights herald) shreeks tis verie late,
The sheepe are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
And cole-black clouds, that shadow heavens light,
Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
535
Now let me say goodnight, and so say you,
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss;
Goodnight (quoth she) and ere he sayes adue,
The honie fee of parting tendred is,
Her armes do lend his necke a sweet imbrace,
Incorporate then they seeme, face growes to face.
541
Till breathlesse he disjoynd, and backward drew,
The heavenly moisture that sweet corall mouth,
Whose precious tast, her thirstie lips well knew,
Whereon they surfet, yet complaine on drouth,
He with her plentie prest, she faint with dearth,
Their lips together glewed, fall to the earth.
547
Now quicke desire hath caught the yeelding pray,
And gluttonlike she feeds, yet never filleth,
Her lips are conquerers, his lips obay,
Paying what ransome the insulter willeth:
Whose vultur thought doth pitch the price so hie,
That she will draw his lips rich treasure drie.
553
And having felt the sweetnesse of the spoile,
With blind fold furie she begins to forrage,
Her face doth reeke, & smoke, her blood doth boile,
And carelesse lust stirs up a desperat courage,
Planting oblivion, beating reason backe,
Forgetting shames pure blush, & honors wracke.
559
Hot, faint, and wearie, with her hard imbracing,
Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot Roe that's tyr'd with chasing,
Or like the froward infant stild with dandling:
He now obayes, and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.
565
What waxe so frozen but dissolves with tempring,
And yeelds at last to everie light impression?
Things out of hope, are compast oft with ventring,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward,
But then woes best, when most his choice is froward.
571
When he did frowne, ô had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suckt,
Foule wordes, and frownes, must not repell a lover,
What though the rose have prickles, yet tis pluckt?
Were beautie under twentie locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through, & picks them all at last.
577
For pittie now she can no more detaine him,
The poore foole praies her that he may depart,
She is resolv'd no longer to restraine him,
Bids him farewell, and looke well to her hart,
The which, by Cupids bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incaged in his brest.
583
Sweet boy she saies, this night ile wast in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me loves maister, shall we meete to morrow,
Say, shall we, shall we, wilt thou make the match?
He tells her no, to-morrow he intends,
To hunt the boare with certain of his friends.
589
The boare (quoth she) whereat a suddain pale,
Like lawne being spred upon the blushing rose,
Usurpes her cheeke, she trembles at his tale,
And on his necke her yoaking armes she throwes.
She sincketh downe, still hanging by his necke,
He on her belly falls, she on her backe.
595
Now is she in the verie lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot incounter,
All is imaginarie she doth prove,
He will not mannage her, although he mount her,
That worse than Tantalus is her annoy,
To clip Elyzium and to lacke her joy.
601
Even so poore birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do surfet by the eye, and pine the maw:
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poore birds that helplesse berries saw,
The warme effects which she in him finds missing,
She seekes to kindle with continuall kissing.
607
But all in vaine, good Queene, it will not bee,
She hath assai'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 saies, you crush me, let me go,
You have no reason to withhold me so.
613
Thou hadst bin gone (quoth she) sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou toldst me, thou woldst hunt the boare,
Oh be advisd, thou know'st not what it is,
With javelings point a churlish swine to goare,
Whose tushes never sheathd he whetteth still,
Like to a mortall butcher bent to kill.
619
On his bow-backe, he hath a battel set,
Of brisly pikes, that ever threat his foes,
His eyes, like glow-wormes, shine, when he doth fret
His snout digs sepulchers where ere he goes,
Being mov'd he strikes, what ere is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.
625
His brawnie sides with hairie bristles armed,
Are better proofe then thy speares point can enter,
His short thick necke cannot be easily harmed,
Being irefull, on the lyon he will venter,
The thornie brambles, and imbracing bushes,
As fearfull of him part, through whom he rushes.
631
Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which loves eyes paies tributarie gazes,
Nor thy soft handes, sweet lips, and crystall eine,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes,
But having thee at vantage (wondrous dread!)
Would roote these beauties, as he roots the mead.
637
Oh let him keep his loathsome cabin still,
Beautie hath naught to do with such foule fiends,
Come not within his danger by thy will,
They that thrive well, take counsell of their friends,
When thou didst name the boare, not to dissemble,
I feard thy fortune, and my joynts did tremble.
643
Didst thou not marke my face, was it not white?
Sawest thou not signes of feare lurke in mine eye?
Grew I not faint, and fell I not downe right?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my brest.
649
For where love raignes, disturbing jealousie,
Doth call him selfe affections centinell,
Gives false alarmes, suggesteth mutinie,
And in a peacefull houre doth crie, kill, kill,
Distempering gentle love in his desire,
As aire, and water do abate the fire.
655
This sower informer, this bate-breeding spie,
This canker that eates up love's tender spring,
This carry tale, dissentious jealousie,
That somtime true newes, somtime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine eare,
That if I love thee, I thy death should feare.
661
And more then so, presenteth to mine eye,
The picture of an angrie chafing boare,
Under whose sharpe fangs, on his backe doth lye,
An image like thy selfe, all staynd with goare,
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make them droop with grief, & hang the hed.
667
What should I do, seeing thee so indeed?
That tremble at th'imagination,
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And feare doth teach it divination;
I prophecie thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou incounter with the boare to morrow.
673
But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me,
Uncouple at the timerous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtiltie,
Or at the Roe which no incounter dare:
Pursue these fearfull creatures o're the downes,
And on thy wel breathd horse keep with thy hounds.
679
And when thou hast on foote the purblind hare,
Marke the poore wretch, to over-shut his troubles,
How he outruns the wind, and with what care,
He crankes and crosses with a thousand doubles,
The many musits through the which he goes,
Are like a laberinth to amaze his foes.
685
Sometime he runnes among a flocke of sheepe,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving Conies keepe,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell:
And sometime sorteth with a heard of deer,
Danger deviseth shifts, wit waites on feare.
691
For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot sent-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 mouth's, eccho replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
697
By this poore wat farre off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder-legs with listning eare,
To harken if his foes pursue him still,
Anon their loud alarums he doth heare,
And now his griefe may be compared well,
To one sore sicke, that heares the passing bell.
703
Then shalt thou see the deaw-bedabbled wretch,
Turne, and returne, indenting with the way,
Ech envious brier, his wearie legs do scratch,
Ech shadow makes him stop, ech murmour stay,
For miserie is troden on by manie,
And being low, never releev'd by anie.
709
Lye quietly, and heare a little more,
Nay do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise,
To make thee hate the hunting of the bore,
Unlike my selfe thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so,
For love can comment upon every wo.
715
Where did I leave? no matter where (quoth he)
Leave me, and then the storie aptly ends,
The night is spent; why what of that (quoth she?)
I am (quoth he) expected of my friends,
And now tis darke, and going I shall fall.
In night (quoth she) desire sees best of all.
721
But if thou fall, oh then imagine this,
The earth in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kis,
Rich prayes make true-men theeves: so do thy lips
Make modest Dyan, cloudie and forlorne,
Lest she should steale a kisse and die forsworne.
727
Now of this darke night I perceive the reason,
Cinthia for shame, obscures her silver shine,
Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven, that were divine,
Wherin she fram'd thee, in hie heavens despight,
To shame the sunne by day, and her by night.
733
And therefore hath she brib'd the destinies,
To crosse the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beautie with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,
Making it subject to the tyrannie,
Of mad mischances, and much miserie.
739
As burning feavers, agues pale, and faint,
Life-poysoning pestilence, and frendzies wood,
The marrow-eating sicknesse whose attaint,
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood,
Surfets, impostumes, griefe, and damnd dispaire,
Sweare natures death, for framing thee so faire.
745
And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minutes fight brings beautie under,
Both favour, savour, hew, and qualities,
Whereat th'impartiall gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thawed, and donne,
As mountain snow melts with the midday sonne.
751
Therefore despight of fruitlesse chastitie,
Love-lacking vestals, and selfe-loving Nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcitie,
And barraine dearth of daughters, and of suns;
Be prodigall, the lamp that burnes by night,
Dries up his oyle, to lend the world his light.
757
What is thy bodie but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to burie that posteritie,
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in darke obscuritie?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdaine,
Sith in thy pride, so faire a hope is slaine.
763
So in thy selfe, thy selfe art made away,
A mischiefe worse then civill home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperat hands them selves do slay,
Or butcher sire, that reaves his sonne of life:
Foule cankring rust, the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use more gold begets.
769
Nay then (quoth Adon) you will fall againe,
Into your idle over-handled theame,
The kisse I gave you is bestow'd in vaine,
And all in vaine you strive against the streame,
For by this black-fac't night, desires foule nourse,
Your treatise makes me like you, worse & worse.
775
If love have lent you twentie thousand tongues,
And everie tongue more moving then your owne,
Bewitching like the wanton Marmaid's songs,
Yet from mine eare the tempting tune is blowne,
For know my heart stands armed in mine eare,
And will not let a false sound enter there.
781
Lest the deceiving harmonie should ronne,
Into the quiet closure of my brest,
And then my litle heart were quite undone,
In his bed-chamber to be bard of rest,
No Ladie no, my heart longs not to grone,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
787
What have you urg'd, that I can not reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger,
I hate not love, but your devise in love,
That lends imbracements unto every stranger,
You do it for increase: ô straunge excuse!
When reason is the bawd to lusts abuse.
793
Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating lust on earth usurpt his name,
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed,
Upon fresh beautie, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant staines, & soon bereaves:
As Caterpillars do the tender leaves.
799
Love comforteth like sun-shine after raine,
But lusts effect is tempest after sunne,
Love's gentle spring doth alwayes fresh remaine,
Lusts winter comes, ere summer halfe be donne;
Love surfets not, lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies.
805
More I could tell, but more I dare not say,
The text is old, the Orator too greene,
Therefore, in sadnesse, now I will away,
My face is full of shame, my heart of teene,
Mine eares that to your wanton talke attended,
Do burne them selves, for having so offended.
811
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those faire armes which bound him to her brest,
And homeward through the dark lawnd runs apace,
Leaves love upon her backe, deeply distresst,
Looke how a bright star shooteth from the skye;
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.
817
Which after him she dartes, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late embarked friend,
Till the wilde waves will have him seene no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting cloudes contend:
So did the mercilesse, and pitchie night,
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
823
Whereat amas'd as one that unaware,
Hath dropt a precious jewel in the flood,
Or stonisht, as night wandrers often are,
Their light blowne out in some mistrustfull wood;
Even so confounded in the darke she lay,
Having lost the faire discoverie of her way.
829
And now she beates her heart, whereat it grones,
That all the neighbour caves as seeming troubled,
Make verball repetition of her mones,
Passion on passion, deeply is redoubled,
Ay me, she cries, and twenty times, wo, wo,
And twentie ecchoes, twenty times crie so.
835
She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemporally a wofull dittie,
How love makes yong men thrall, & old men dote,
How love is wise in follie, foolish wittie:
Her heavie antheme still concludes in wo,
And still the quier of ecchoes answer so.
841
Her song was tedious, and out-wore the night,
For lovers hours are long, though seeming short,
If pleasd themselves, others, they thinke delight,
In such like circumstance, with such like sport:
Their copious stories oftentimes begunne,
End without audience, and are never donne.
847
For who hath she to spend the night withall,
But idle sounds resembling parasits?
Like shrill-tongu'd Tapsters answering everie call,
Soothing the humor of fantastique wits,
She sayes 'tis so, they answer all tis so,
And would say after her, if she said no.
853
Lo here the gentle larke wearie of rest,
From his moyst cabinet mounts up on hie,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver brest,
The sunne ariseth in his majestie,
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That Caedar tops and hils, seem burnisht gold.
859
Venus salutes him with this faire good morrow,
Oh thou cleare god, and patron of all light,
From whom ech lamp, and shining star doth borrow,
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a sonne that suckt an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou doest lend to other.
865
This sayd, she hasteth to a mirtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much ore-worne,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love;
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horne,
Anon she heares them chaunt it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
871
And as she runnes, the bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the necke, some kisse her face,
Some twin'd about her thigh to make her stay,
She wildly breaketh from their strict imbrace,
Like a milch Doe, whose swelling dugs do ake,
Hasting to feed her fawne, hid in some brake.
877
By this she hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder,
Wreath'd up in fatall folds just in his way,
The feare whereof doth make him shake, & shudder,
Even so the timerous yelping of the hounds,
Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.
883
For now she knowes it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boare, rough beare, or lyon proud,
Because the crie remaineth in one place,
Where fearefully the dogs exclaime aloud,
Finding their enemie to be so curst,
They all straine court'sie who shall cope him first.
889
This dismall crie rings sadly in her eare,
Through which it enters to surprise her hart,
Who overcome by doubt, and bloodlesse feare,
With cold-pale weaknesse, nums ech feeling part,
Like soldiers when their captain once doth yeeld,
They basely flie, and dare not stay the field.
895
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasie,
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,
She tels them tis a causelesse fantasie,
And childish error that they are afrayd,
Bids them leave quaking, bids them feare no more,
And with that word, she spide the hunted boare,
901
Whose frothie mouth bepainted all with red,
Like milke, & blood, being mingled both togither,
A second feare through all her sinewes spred,
Which madly hurries her, she knowes not whither,
This way runs, and now she will no further,
But backe retires, to rate the boare for murther.
907
A thousand spleenes beare her a thousand wayes,
She treads the path, that she untreads againe;
Her more than hast, is mated with delayes,
Like the proceedings of a drunken braine,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
913
Here kenneld in a brake, she finds a hound,
And askes the weaie caitiffe for his maister,
And there another licking of his wound,
Gainst venimd sores, the onely soveraigne plaister.
And here she meets another, sadly skowling,
To whom she speaks, & he replies with howling.
919
When he hath ceast his ill resounding noise,
Another flapmouthd mourner, blacke, and grim,
Against the welkin, volies out his voyce,
Another, and another, answer him,
Clapping their proud tailes to the ground below,
Shaking their scratcht-eares, bleeding as they go.
925
Looke how, the worlds poore people are amazed,
At apparitions, signes and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes, they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadfull prophecies;
So she at these sad signes, drawes up her breath,
And sighing it againe, exclaimes on death.
931
Hard favourd tyrant, ougly, meagre, leane,
Hatefull divorce of love, (thus chides she death)
Grim-grinning ghost, earths-worme what dost thou meane?
To stifle beautie, and to steal his breathe,
Who when he liv'd, his breath and beautie set
Glosse on the rose, smell to the violet.
937
If he be dead, ô no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beautie, thou shouldst strike at it,
O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random doest thou hit,
Thy marke is feeble age, but thy false dart,
Mistakes that aime, and cleaves an infants hart.
943
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 pluckst a flower,
Loves golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not deaths ebon dart, to strike dead.
949
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping,
What may a heavy groane advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternall sleeping,
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best worke is ruin'd with thy rigour.
955
Here overcome as one full of dispaire,
She vaild her eye-lids, who, like sluces stopt
The crystall tide, that from her two cheeks faire,
In the sweet channell of her bosome dropt.
But through the floud gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them againe.
961
O how her eyes, and teares, did lend, and borrow,
Her eyes seene in the teares, teares in her eye,
Both christals, where they viewd ech others sorrow:
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to drye,
But like a stormie day, now wind, now raine,
Sighs drie her cheeks, tears make them wet againe.
967
Variable passions throng her constant wo,
As striving who should best become her griefe,
All entertaind, ech passion labours so,
That everie present sorrow seemeth chiefe,
But none is best, then joyne they all together,
Like many clouds, consulting for foule weather.
973
By this farre off, she heares some huntsman hallow,
A nourses song nere pleasd her babe so well,
The dyre imagination she did follow,
This sound of hope doth labour to expell,
For now reviving joy bids her rejoyce,
And flatters her, it is Adonis voyce.
979
Whereat her teares began to turne their tide,
Being prisond in her eye: like pearles in glasse,
Yet sometimes fals an orient drop beside,
Which her cheeke melts, as scorning it should passe
To wash the foule face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but dronken when she seemeth drownd.
985
O hard beleeving love how strange it seemes!
Not to beleeve, and yet too credulous:
Thy weale, and wo, are both of them extreames,
Despaire, and hope, makes thee ridiculous.
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
991
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,
Adonis lives, and death is not to blame:
It was not she that cald him, all-to nought;
Now she adds honours to his hatefull name.
She clepes him king of graves, & grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortall things.
997
No, no, quoth she, sweet Death, I did but jest?
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of feare
When as I met the boare, that bloodie beast,
Which knows no pity but is still severe,
Then gentle shadow (truth I must confesse)
I rayld on thee, fearing my love's decesse.
1003
Tis not my fault, the Bore provok't my tong,
Be wreak't on him (invisible commaunder)
T'is he foule creature, that hath done thee wrong,
I did but act, he's author of thy slaunder.
Greefe hath two tongues, and never woman yet,
Could rule them both, without ten womens wit.
1009
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate,
And that his beautie may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate.
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombes, and stories,
His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.
1015
O Jove quoth she, how much a foole was I,
To be of such a weake and sillie mind,
To waile his death who lives, and must not die,
Till mutuall overthrow of mortall kind?
For he being dead, with him is beautie slaine,
And beautie dead, blacke Chaos comes againe.
1021
Fy, fy, fond love, thou art as full of feare,
As one with treasure laden, hem'd theeves,
Trifles unwitnessed with eye, or eare,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking greeves,
Even at this word she heares a merry horne,
Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorne.
1027
As Faulcons to the lure, away she flies,
The grasse stoops not, she treads on it so light,
And in her hast, unfortunately spies,
The foule boares conquest, on her faire delight,
Which seene, her eyes, as murdred with the view,
Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew.
1033
Or as the snaile, whose tender hornes being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shellie cave with paine,
And, there all smoothred up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creepe forth againe:
So, at his bloodie view, her eyes are fled,
Into the deep-darke cabbins of her head.
1039
Where they resigne their office, and their light,
To the disposing of her troubled braine,
Who bids them still consort with ougly night,
And never wound the heart with lookes againe,
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion, gives a deadly grone,
1045
Whereat ech tributarie subject quakes,
As when the wind imprisond in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earths foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror, doth mens minds confound:
This mutinie ech part doth so surprise,
That from their dark beds once more leap her eies.
1051
And being opend, threw unwilling light,
Upon the wide wound, that the boare had trencht
In his soft flank, whose wonted lilie white
With purple tears that his wound wept, was drencht.
No floure was nigh, no grasse, hearb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood, and seemd with him to bleed.
1057
This solemne sympathie, poore Venus noteth,
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumblie she passions, frantikely she doteth,
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead,
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.
1063
Upon his hurt she lookes so stedfastly,
That her sight dazling, makes the wound seem three,
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes, where no breach shuld be:
His face seems twain, ech severall lim is doubled,
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
1069
My tongue cannot expresse my griefe for one,
And yet (quoth she) behold two Adons dead,
My sighes are blowne away, my salt teares gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead,
Heavie hearts lead, melt at mine eyes red fire,
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
1075
Alas poore 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 insuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh, and trim,
But true sweete beautie liv'd, and di'de with him.
1081
Bonnet, nor vaile henceforth no creature weare,
Nor sunne, nor wind will ever strive to kisse you,
Having no faire to lose, you need not feare,
The sun doth skorne you, & the wind doth hisse you.
But when Adonis liv'de, sunne, and sharpe aire,
Lurkt like two theeves, to rob him of his faire.
1087
And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudie sunne would peepe,
The wind would blow it off, and being gon,
Play with his locks, then would Adonis weepe.
And straight in pittie of his tender yeares,
They both would strive who first should drie his teares.
1093
To see his face the Lion walkt along,
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him:
To recreate himself when he hath song,
The Tyger would be tame, and gently heare him.
If he had spoke, the wolfe would leave his praie,
And never fright the sillie lamb that daie.
1099
When he beheld his shadow in the brooke,
The fishes spread on it their golden gils,
When he was by the birds such pleasure tooke,
That some would sing, some other in their bils
Would bring him mulberries & ripe-red cherries,
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
1105
But this foule, grim, and urchin-snowted Boare,
Whose downeward eye still looketh for a grave:
Ne're saw the beautious liverie that he wore,
Witnesse the intertainment that he gave.
If he did see his face, why then I know,
He thought to kisse him, and hath kild him so.
1111
Tis true, tis true, thus was Adonis slaine,
He ran upon the Boare with his sharpe speare,
Who did not whet his teeth at him againe,
But by a kisse thought to persuade him there.
And nousling in his flanke the loving swine,
Sheath'd unaware the tuske in his soft groine.
1117
Had I bin tooth'd like him I must confesse,
With kissing him I should have kild him first,
But he is dead, and never did he blesse
My youth with his, the more am I accurst..
With this she falleth in the place she stood,
And staines her face with his congealed bloud.
1123
She lookes upon his lips, and they are pale,
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold,
She whispers in his eares a heavie tale,
As if they heard the wofull words she told:
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darknesse lies.
1129
Two glasses where her selfe, her selfe beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect,
Their vertue lost, wherein they late exceld,
And everie beautie robd of his effect;
Wonder of time (quoth she) this is my spight,
That thou being dead, the day shuld yet be light.
1135
Since thou art dead, lo here I prophecie,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be wayted on with jealousie,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavourie end.
Nere setled equally, but high or lo,
That all loves pleasure shall not match his wo.
1141
It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,
Bud, and be blasted, in a breathing while,
The bottome poyson, and the top ore-strawd
With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile,
The strongest bodie shall it make most weake,
Strike the wise dumbe, & teach the foole to speake.
1147
It shall be sparing, and too full of ryot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures,
The staring ruffian shall it keepe in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poore with treasures,
It shall be raging mad and sillie milde,
Make the young old, the old become a childe.
1153
It shall suspect where is no cause of feare,
It shall not feare where it should most mistrust,
It shall be mercifull, and too seveare,
And most deceiving, when it seemes most just,
Perverse it shall be, where it showes most toward,
Put feare to valour, courage to the coward.
1159
It shall be cause of warre, and dire events,
And set dissention twixt the sonne, and sire,
Subject, and servil to all discontents:
As drie combustious matter is to fire,
Sith in his prime, death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.
1165
By this the boy that by her side laie kild,
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground laie spild,
A purple floure sproong up, checkred with white,
Resembling well his pale cheekes, and the blood,
Which in round drops, upon their whitenesse stood.
1171
She bowes her head, the new-sprong floure to smel,
Comparing it to her Adonis breath,
And saies within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crop's the stalke, and in the breach appeares,
Green-dropping sap, which she compares to teares.
1177
Poore floure (quoth she) this was thy fathers guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For everie little griefe to wet his eies,
To grow unto himselfe was his desire;
And so tis thine, but know it is as good,
To wither in my brest as in his blood.
1183
Here was thy fathers bed, here in my brest,
Thou art the next of blood, and tis thy right,
Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing hart shall rock thee day and night;
There shall not be one minute in an houre,
Wherein I wil not kiss my sweet loves floure.
1189
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aide,
Their mistresse mounted through the emptie skies,
In her light chariot, quickly is convaide,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen,
Means to immure her selfe, and not be seen.
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