Venvs and Adonis

Venvs and Adonis. Vilia miretur vulgus: mihi flauus Apollo Pocula Caſtalia plena miniſtret aqua. Anchora Spei. London. Imprinted by Richard Field, and are to be ſold at the ſigne of the white Greyhound in Paules Church-yard. 1593.

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 burthen, 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.

VENVS AND ADONIS.

Even as the ſunne with purple-colourd face,

Had tane his laſt leaue of the weeping morne,

Roſe-cheekt Adonis hied him to the chace,

Hunting he lou’d, but loue he laught to ſcorne:

Sick-thoughted Venus makes amaine vnto him,

And like a bold fac’d ſuter ginnes to woo him.

Thriſe fairer then my ſelfe, (thus ſhe began)

The fields chiefe flower, ſweet aboue compare,

Staine to all Nimphs, more louely then a man,

More white, and red, then doues, or roſes are:

Nature that made thee with her ſelfe at ſtrife,

Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

Vouchſafe thou wonder to alight thy ſteed,

And raine his proud head to the ſaddle bow,

If thou wilt daine this fauor, for thy meed

A thouſand honie ſecrets ſhalt thou know:

Here come and ſit, where neuer ſerpent hiſſes,

And being ſet, Ile ſmother thee with kiſſes.

And yet not cloy thy lips with loth’d ſacietie,

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 ſommers day will ſeeme an houre but ſhort,

Being waſted in ſuch time-beguiling ſport.

With this ſhe ceazeth on his ſweating palme,

The preſident of pith, and liuelyhood,

And trembling in her paſſion, calls it balme,

Earths ſoueraigne ſalue, to do a goddeſſe good,

Being ſo enrag’d, deſire doth lend her force,

Couragiouſly to plucke him from his horſe.

Ouer one arme the luſtie courſers raine,

Vnder her other was the tender boy,

Who bluſht, and powted in a dull diſdaine,

With leaden appetite, vnapt to toy,

She red, and hot, as coles of glowing fier,

He red for ſhame, but froſtie in deſier.

The ſtudded bridle on a ragged bough,

Nimbly ſhe faſtens, (ô how quicke is loue!)

The ſteed is ſtalled vp, and euen now,

To tie the rider ſhe begins to proue:

Backward ſhe puſht him, as ſhe would be thruſt,

And gouernd him in ſtrength though not in luſt.

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 neuer open.

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 drie againe ſhe ſeekes.

He ſaith, ſhe is immodeſt, blames her miſſe,

What followes more, ſhe murthers with a kiſſe.

Euen as an emptie Eagle ſharpe by faſt,

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

Shaking her wings, deuouring all in haſt,

Till either gorge be ſtuft, or pray be gone:

Euen ſo ſhe kiſt his brow, his cheeke, his chin,

And where ſhe ends, ſhe doth anew begin.

Forſt to content, but neuer to obey,

Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face.

She feedeth on the ſteame, as on a pray,

And calls it heauenly moiſture, aire of grace,

Wiſhing her cheeks were gardens ful of flowers,

So they were dew’d with ſuch diſtilling ſhowers.

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 angrie eyes:

Raine added to a riuer that is ranke,

Perforce will force it ouerflow the banke.

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 loues him beſt, and being white,

Her beſt is betterd with a more delight.

Looke how he can, ſhe cannot chuſe but loue,

And by her faire immortall hand ſhe ſweares,

From his ſoft boſome neuer to remoue,

Till he take truce with her contending teares,

Which lõg haue raind, making her cheeks al wet,

And one ſweet kiſſe ſhal pay this comptleſſe debt.

Vpon this promiſe did he raiſe his chin,

Like a diuedapper peering through a waue,

Who being lookt on, ducks as quickly in:

So offers he to giue what ſhe did craue,

But when her lips were readie for his pay,

He winks, and turnes his lips another way.

Neuer 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 crie, flint-hearted boy,

Tis but a kiſſe I begge, why art thou coy?

I haue bene wooed as I intreat thee now,

Euen by the ſterne, and direfull god of warre,

Whoſe ſinowie necke in battell nere did bow,

Who conquers where he comes in euerie iarre,

Yet hath he bene my captiue, and my ſlaue,

And begd for that which thou vnaskt ſhalt haue.

Ouer my Altars hath he hong his launce,

His battred ſhield, his vncontrolled creſt,

And for my ſake hath learnd to ſport, and daunce,

To toy, to wanton, dallie, ſmile, and ieſt,

Scorning his churliſh drumme, and enſigne red,

Making my armes his field, his tent my bed.

Thus he that ouer-ruld, I ouer-ſwayed,

Leading him priſoner in a red roſe chaine,

Strong-temperd ſteele his ſtronger ſtrength obayed.

Yet was he ſeruile to my coy diſdaine,

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

For maiſtring her that foyld the god of fight.

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 vp thy head,

Looke in mine ey-bals, there thy beautie lyes,

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

Art thou aſham’d to kiſſe? then winke againe,

And I will winke, ſo ſhall the day ſeeme night.

Loue keepes his reuels where there are but twaine:

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

Theſe blew-veind violets whereon we leane,

Neuer can blab, nor know not what we meane.

The tender ſpring vpon thy tempting lip,

Shewes thee vnripe; yet maiſt thou well be taſted,

Make vſe of time, let not aduantage ſlip,

Beautie within it ſelfe ſhould not be waſted,

Faire flowers that are not gathred in their prime,

Rot, and conſume them ſelues in litle time.

Were I hard-fauourd, foule, or wrinckled old,

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

Ore-worne, deſpiſed, reumatique, and cold,

Thick-ſighted, barren, leane, and lacking iuyce;

Thē mightſt thou pauſe, for thē I were not for thee,

But hauing no defects, why doeſt abhor me?

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 diſſolue, or ſeeme to melt.

Bid me diſcourſe, I will inchaunt thine eare,

Or like a Fairie, trip vpon the greene,

Or like a Nimph, with long diſheueled heare,

Daunce on the ſands, and yet no footing ſeene.

Loue is a ſpirit all compact of fire,

Not groſſe to ſinke, but light, and will aſpire.

Witneſſe this Primroſe banke whereon I lie,

Theſe forceleſſe flowers like ſturdy trees ſupport me:

Two ſtrēgthles doues will draw me through the skie,

From morne till night, euen where I liſt to ſport me.

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

That thou ſhould thinke it heauie vnto thee?

Is thine owne heart to thine owne face affected?

Can thy right hand ceaze loue vpon thy left?

Then woo thy ſelfe, be of thy ſelfe reiected:

Steale thine own freedome, and complaine on theft.

Narciſſus ſo him ſelfe him ſelfe forſooke,

And died to kiſſe his ſhadow in the brooke.

Torches are made to light, iewels to weare,

Dainties to taſt, freſh beautie for the vſe,

Herbes for their ſmell, and ſappie plants to beare.

Things growing to them ſelues, are growths abuſe,

Seeds ſpring frõ ſeeds, & beauty breedeth beauty,

Thou waſt begot, to get it is thy duty.

Vpon the earths increaſe why ſhouldſt thou feed,

Vnleſſe the earth with thy increaſe be fed?

By law of nature thou art bound to breed,

That thine may liue, when thou thy ſelfe art dead:

And ſo in ſpite of death thou doeſt ſuruiue,

In that thy likeneſſe ſtill is left aliue.

By this the loue-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 ouer-looke them,

Wiſhing Adonis had his teame to guide,

So he were like him, and by Venus ſide.

And now Adonis with a lazie ſprite,

And with a heauie, darke, diſliking eye,

His lowring browes ore-whelming his faire ſight,

Like miſtie vapors when they blot the skie,

So wring his cheeks, cries, fie, no more of loue,

The ſunne doth burne my face I muſt remoue.

Ay, me, (quoth Venus) young, and ſo vnkinde,

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.

The ſun that ſhines from heauen, ſhines but warme,

And lo I lye betweene that ſunne, and thee:

The heate I haue from thence doth litle harme,

Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,

And were I not immortall, life were done,

Betweene this heauenly, and earthly ſunne.

Art thou obdurate, flintie, hard as ſteele?

Nay more then flint, for ſtone at raine relenteth:

Art thou a womans ſonne and canſt not feele

What tis to loue, how want of loue tormenteth?

O had thy mother borne ſo hard a minde,

She had not brought forth thee, but died vnkind.

What am I that thou ſhouldſt contemne me this?

Or what great danger, dwels vpon my ſute?

What were thy lips the worſe for one poore kis?

Speake faire, but ſpeake faire words, or elſe be mute:

Giue me one kiſſe, Ile giue it thee againe,

And one for intreſt, if thou wilt haue twaine.

Fie, liueleſſe picture, cold, and ſenceleſſe 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 euen by their owne direction.

This ſaid, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,

And ſwelling paſſion doth prouoke a pauſe,

Red cheeks, and fierie eyes blaze forth her wrong:

Being Iudge in loue, ſhe cannot right her cauſe.

And now ſhe weeps, & now ſhe faine would ſpeake

And now her ſobs do her intendments breake.

Sometime ſhe ſhakes her head, and then his hand,

Now gazeth ſhe on him, now on the ground;

Sometime 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.

Fondling, ſhe ſaith, ſince I haue hemd thee here

Within the circuit of this iuorie 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.

Witin 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 ſhal rowze thee, though a thouſand bark.

At this Adonis ſmiles as in diſdaine,

That in ech cheeke appeares a prettie dimple;

Loue 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 loue liu’d, & there he could not die.

Theſe louely caues, 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 loue, in thine own law forlorne,

To loue a cheeke that ſmiles at thee in ſcorne.

Now which way ſhall ſhe turne? what ſhall ſhe ſay?

Her words are done, her woes the more increaſing,

The time is ſpent, her obiect will away,

And from her twining armes doth vrge releaſing:

Pitie ſhe cries, ſome fauour, ſome remorſe,

Away he ſprings, and haſteth to his horſe.

But lo from forth a copp’s that neighbors by,

A breeding Iennet, luſtie, young, and proud,

Adonis trampling Courſer doth eſpy:

And forth ſhe ruſhes, ſnorts, and neighs aloud.

The ſtrong-neckt ſteed being tied vnto a tree,

Breaketh his raine, and to her ſtraight goes hee.

Imperiouſly he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,

And now his wouen girthes he breaks aſunder,

The bearing earth with his hard hoofe he wounds,

Whoſe hollow wombe reſounds like heauens thunder,

The yron bit he cruſheth tweene his teeth,

Controlling what he was controlled with.

His eares vp prickt, his braided hanging mane

Vpon 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,

Shewes his hote courage, and his high deſire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the ſteps,

With gentle maieſtie, and modeſt pride,

Anon he reres vpright, curuets, and leaps,

As who ſhould ſay, lo thus my ſtrength is tride.

And this I do, to captiuate the eye,

Of the faire breeder that is ſtanding by.

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 loue, and nothing elſe he ſees,

For nothing elſe with his proud ſight agrees.

Looke when a Painter would ſurpaſſe the life,

In limming out a well proportioned ſteed,

His Art with Natures workmanſhip at ſtrife,

As if the dead the liuing ſhould exceed:

So did this Horſe excell a common one,

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

Round hooft, ſhort ioynted, 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 haue, he did not lack,

Saue a proud rider on ſo proud a back.

Sometime he ſcuds farre off, aud there he ſtares,

Anon he ſtarts, at ſturring of a feather:

To bid the wind a baſe he now prepares,

And where he runne, or flie, they know not whether:

For through his mane, & taile, the high wind ſings,

Fanning the haires, who waue like feathred wings.

He lookes vpon his loue, and neighes vnto 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 vnkinde:

Spurnes at his loue, and ſcorns the heat he feeles,

Beating his kind imbracements with her heeles.

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 loue perceiuing how he was inrag’d,

Grew kinder, and his furie was aſſwag’d.

His teſtie maiſter goeth about to take him,

When lo the vnbackt breeder full of feare,

Iealous of catching, ſwiftly doth forſake him,

With her the Horſe, and left Adonis there:

As they were mad vnto the wood they hie them,

Outſtripping crowes, that ſtriue to ouerfly them.

All ſwolne with chafing, downe Adonis ſits,

Banning his boyſtrous, and vnruly beaſt;

And now the happie ſeaſon once more fits

That loueſicke loue, by pleading may be bleſt:

For louers ſay, the heart hath treble wrong,

When it is bard the aydance of the tongue.

An Ouen that is ſtopt, or riuer ſtayd,

Burneth more hotly, ſwelleth with more rage:

So of concealed ſorow may be ſayd,

Free vent of words loues fier doth aſſwage,

But when the hearts atturney once is mute,

The client breakes, as deſperat in his ſute.

He ſees her comming, and begins to glow:

Euen as a dying coale reuiues 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.

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.

Now was ſhe iuſt before him as he ſat,

And like a lowly louer downe ſhe kneeles,

With one faire hand ſhe heaueth vp his hat,

Her other tender hand his faire cheeke feeles:

His tendrer cheeke, receiues her ſoft hands print,

As apt, as new falne ſnow takes any dint.

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 ſeene 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.

Fulll gently now ſhe takes him by the hand,

A lilie priſond in a gaile of ſnow,

Or Iuorie in an allablaſter band,

So white a friend, ingirts ſo white a fo:

This beautious combat wilfull, and vnwilling,

Showed like two ſiluer doues that ſit a billing.

Once more the engin of her thoughts began,

O faireſt mouer 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

Giue me my hand (ſaith he,) why doſt thou feele it?

Giue me my heart (ſaith ſhe,) and thou ſhalt haue it.

O giue it me leſt thy hard heart do ſteele it,

And being ſteeld, ſoft ſighes can neuer graue it.

Then loues deepe grones, I neuer ſhall regard,

Becauſe Adonis heart hath made mine hard.

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 leaue me here alone,

For all my mind, my thought, my buſie care,

Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.

Thus ſhe replies, thy palfrey as he ſhould,

Welcomes the warme approch of ſweet deſire,

Affection is a coale that muſt be coold,

Elſe ſufferd it will ſet the heart on fire,

The ſea hath bounds, but deepe deſire hath none,

Therfore no maruell though thy horſe be gone.

How like a iade he ſtood tied to the tree,

Seruilly maiſterd with a leatherne raine,

But when he ſaw his loue, his youths faire fee,

He held ſuch pettie bondage in diſdaine:

Throwing the baſe thong from his bending creſt,

Enfranchiſing his mouth, his backe, his breſt.

Who ſees his true-loue 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 dares not be ſo bold,

To touch the fier the weather being cold?

Let me excuſe thy courſer gentle boy,

And learne of him I heartily beſeech thee,

To take aduantage on preſented ioy,

Though I were dūbe, yet his proceedings teach thee

O learne to loue, the leſſon is but plaine,

And once made perfect, neuer loſt againe.

I know not loue (quoth he) nor will not know it,

Vnleſſe it be a Boare, and then I chaſe it,

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

My loue to loue, is loue, but to diſgrace it,

For I haue heard, it is a life in death,

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

Who weares a garment ſhapeleſſe and vnfiniſht?

Who plucks the bud before one leafe put forth?

If ſpringing things be anie iot diminiſht,

They wither in their prime, proue nothing worth,

The colt that’s backt and burthend being yong,

Loſeth his pride, and neuer waxeth ſtrong.

You hurt my hand with wringing, let vs part,

And leaue this idle theame, this bootleſſe chat,

Remoue your ſiege from my vnyeelding hart,

To loues allarmes it will not ope the gate,

Diſmiſſe your vows, your fained tears, your flattry,

For where a heart is hard they make no battry.

What canſt thou talke (quoth ſhe) haſt thou a tong?

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

Thy marmaides voice hath done me double wrong,

I had my lode before, now preſt with bearing,

Mellodious diſcord, heauenly tune harſh ſounding,

Eares deep ſweet muſik, & harts deep ſore woūding

Had I no eyes but eares, my eares would loue,

That inward beautie and inuiſible,

Or were I deafe, thy outward parts would moue

Ech part in me, that were but ſenſible,

Though neither eyes, nor eares, to heare nor ſee,

Yet ſhould I be in loue, by touching thee.

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 loue to thee be ſtill as much,

For frō the ſtillitorie of thy face excelling,

Coms breath perfumd, that breedeth loue by ſmelling.

But oh what banquet wert thou to the taſt,

Being nourſe, and feeder of the other foure,

Would they not wiſh the feaſt might euer laſt,

And bid ſuſpition double locke the dore;

Leſt iealouſie that ſower vnwelcome gueſt,

Should by his ſtealing in diſturbe the feaſt?

Once more the rubi-colourd portall opend,

Which to his ſpeech did honie paſſage yeeld,

Like a red morne that euer yet betokend,

wracke to the ſea-man, tempeſt to the field:

Sorrow to ſhepherds, wo vnto the birds,

Guſts, and foule flawes, to heardmen, & to herds.

This ill preſage aduiſedly ſhe marketh,

Euen 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.

And at his looke ſhe flatly falleth downe,

For lookes kill loue, and loue by lookes reuiueth,

A ſmile recures the wounding of a frowne,

But bleſſed bankrout that by loue ſo thriueth.

The ſillie boy beleeuing ſhe is dead,

Claps her pale cheeke, till clapping makes it red.

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

For ſharply he did thinke to reprehend her,

Which cunning loue did wittily preuent,

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.

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 vnkindneſſe mard,

He kiſſes her, and ſhe by her good will,

Will neuer riſe, ſo he will kiſſe her ſtill.

The night of ſorrow now is turnd to day,

Her two blew windowes faintly ſhe vpheaueth,

Like the faire ſunne when in his freſh array,

He cheeres the morne, and all the earth releeueth:

And as the bright ſunne glorifies the skie:

So is her face illumind with her eye.

Whoſe beames vpon his haireleſſe face are fixt,

As if from thence they borrowed all their ſhine,

Were neuer foure ſuch lamps, together mixt,

Had not his clouded with his browes repine:

But hers, which through the criſtal tears gaue light,

Shone like the Moone in water ſeene by night.

O where am I (quoth ſhe,) in earth or heauen,

Or in the Ocean drencht, or in the fire:

What houre is this, or morne, or wearie euen,

Do I delight to die or life deſire?

But now I liu’d, and life was deaths annoy,

But now I dy’de, and death was liuely ioy.

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 haue murdred this poore heart of mine,

And theſe mine eyes true leaders to their queene,

But for thy piteous lips no more had ſeene.

Long may they kiſſe ech other for this cure,

Oh neuer let their crimſon liueries weare,

And as they laſt, their verdour ſtill endure,

To driue infection from the dangerous yeare:

That the ſtar-gazers hauing writ on death,

May ſay, the plague is baniſht by thy breath.

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 vſe good dealing,

Which purchaſe if thou make, for feare of ſlips,

Set thy ſeale manuell, on my wax-red lips.

A thouſand kiſſes buyes my heart from me,

And pay them at thy leiſure, one by one,

What is ten hundred touches vnto thee,

Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone?

Say for non-paimēt, that the debt ſhould double,

Is twentie hundred kiſſes ſuch a trouble?

Faire Queene (quoth he) if anie loue you owe me,

Meaſure my ſtrangeneſſe with my vnripe yeares,

Before I know my ſelfe, ſeeke not to know me,

No fiſher but the vngrowne frie forbeares,

The mellow plum doth fall, the greene ſticks faſt,

Or being early pluckt, is ſower to taſt.

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 heauens light,

Do ſummon vs to part, and bid good night.

Now let me ſay goodnight, and ſo ſay you,

If you will ſay ſo, you ſhall haue a kis;

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.

Till breathleſſe he diſioynd, and backward drew,

The heauenly 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.

Now quicke deſire hath caught the yeelding pray,

And gluttonlike ſhe feeds, yet neuer 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.

And hauing 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 vp a deſperat courage,

Planting obliuion, beating reaſon backe,

Forgetting ſhames pure bluſh, & honors wracke.

Hot, faint, and wearie, with her hard imbracing,

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

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.

What waxe ſo frozen but diſſolues with tempring,

And yeelds at laſt to euerie light impreſſion?

Things out of hope, are compaſt oft with ventring,

Chiefly in loue, whoſe leaue exceeds commiſſion:

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

But thē woes beſt, whē moſt his choice is froward.

When he did frowne, ô had ſhe then gaue ouer,

Such nectar from his lips ſhe had not ſuckt,

Foule wordes, and frownes, muſt not repell a louer,

What though the roſe haue prickles, yet tis pluckt?

Were beautie vnder twentie locks kept faſt,

Yet loue breaks through, & picks them all at laſt.

For pittie now ſhe can no more detaine him,

The poore foole praies her that he may depart,

She is reſolu’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.

Sweet boy ſhe ſaies, this night ile waſt in ſorrow,

For my ſick heart commands mine eyes to watch,

Tell me loues maiſter, ſhall we meete to morrow,

Say, ſhall we, ſhall we, wilt thou make the match?

He tell’s her no, to morrow he intends,

To hunt the boare with certaine of his frends.

The boare (quoth ſhe) whereat a ſuddain pale,

Like lawne being ſpred vpon the bluſhing roſe,

Vſurpes her cheeke, ſhe trembles at his tale,

And on his neck her yoaking armes ſhe throwes.

She ſincketh downe, ſtill hanging by his necke,

He on her belly fall’s, ſhe on her backe.

Now is ſhe in the verie liſts of loue,

Her champion mounted for the hot incounter,

All is imaginarie ſhe doth proue,

He will not mannage her, although he mount her,

That worſe then Tantalus is her annoy,

To clip Elizium, and to lacke her ioy.

Euen ſo poore birds deceiu’d with painted grapes,

Do ſurfet by the eye, and pine the maw:

Euen 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.

But all in vaine, good Queene, it will not bee,

She hath aſſai’d as much as may be prou’d,

Her pleading hath deſeru’d a greater fee,

She’s loue; ſhe loues, and yet ſhe is not lou’d,

Fie, fie, he ſaies, you cruſh me, let me go,

You haue no reaſon to withhold me ſo.

Thou hadſt bin gone (quoth ſhe) ſweet boy ere this,

But that thou toldſt me, thou woldſt hunt the boare,

Oh be aduiſd, thou know’ſt not what it is,

With iauelings point a churliſh ſwine to goare,

Whoſe tuſhes neuer ſheathd, he whetteth ſtill,

Like to a mortall butcher bent to kill.

On his bow-backe, he hath a battell ſet,

Of briſly pikes that euer threat his foes,

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

His ſnout digs ſepulchers where ere he goes,

Being mou’d he ſtrikes, what ere is in his way,

And whom he ſtrikes, his crooked tuſhes ſlay.

His brawnie ſides with h^airie 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 fearefull of him part, through whom he ruſhes.

Alas, he naught eſteem’s that face of thine,

To which loues eyes paies tributarie gazes,

Nor thy ſoft handes, ſweet lips, and chriſtall eine,

Whoſe full perfection all the world amazes,

But hauing thee at vantage (wondrous dread!)

Wold roote theſe beauties, as he root’s the mead.

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 thriue well, take counſell of their friends,

When thou didſt name the boare, not to diſſēble,

I feard thy fortune, and my ioynts did tremble.

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 boſome whereon thou doeſt lye,

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

But like an earthquake, ſhakes thee on my breſt.

For where loue raignes, diſturbing iealouſie,

Doth call him ſelfe affections centinell,

Giues falſe alarmes, ſuggeſteth mutinie,

And in a peacefull houre doth crie, kill, kill,

Diſtempring gentle loue in his deſire,

As aire, and water do abate the fire.

This ſower informer, this bate-breeding ſpie,

This canker that eates vp loues tender ſpring,

This carry-tale, diſſentious iealouſie,

That ſomtime true newes, ſomtime falſe doth bring,

Knocks at my heart, and whiſpers in mine eare,

That if I loue thee, I thy death ſhould feare.

And more then ſo, preſenteth to mine eye,

The picture of an angrie chafing boare,

Vnder whoſe ſharpe fangs, on his backe doth lye,

An image like thy ſelfe, all ſtaynd with goare,

Whoſe blood vpon the freſh flowers being ſhed,

Doth make thē droop with grief, & hang the hed.

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 diuination;

I prophecie thy death, my liuing ſorrow,

If thou incounter with the boare to morrow.

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

Vncouple at the timerous flying hare,

Or at the foxe which liues 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 hoūds

And when thou haſt on foote the purblind hare,

Marke the poore wretch to ouer-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.

Sometime he runnes among a flocke of ſheepe,

To make the cunning hounds miſtake their ſmell,

And ſometime where earth-deluing Conies keepe,

To ſtop the loud purſuers in their yell:

And ſometime ſorteth with a heard of deare,

Danger deuiſeth ſhifts, wit waites on feare.

For there his ſmell with others being mingled,

The hot ſent-ſnuffing hounds are driuen to doubt,

Ceaſing their clamorous cry, till they haue ſingled

With much ado the cold fault cleanly out,

Then do they ſpend their mouth’s, eccho replies,

As if an other chaſe were in the skies.

By this poore wat farre off vpon a hill,

Stands on his hinder-legs with liſtning eare,

To hearken 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.

Then ſhalt thou ſee the deaw-bedabbled wretch,

Turne, and returne, indenting with the way,

Ech enuious brier, his wearie legs do ſcratch,

Ech ſhadow makes him ſtop, ech murmour ſtay,

For miſerie is troden on by manie,

And being low, neuer releeu’d by anie.

Lye quietly, and heare a litle more,

Nay do not ſtruggle, for thou ſhalt not riſe,

To make thee hate the hunting of the bore,

Vnlike my ſelfe thou hear’ſt me moralize,

Applying this to that, and ſo to ſo,

For loue can comment vpon euerie wo.

Where did I leaue? no matter where (quoth he)

Leaue 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.

But if thou fall, oh then imagine this,

The earth in loue with thee, thy footing trips,

And all is but to rob thee of a kis,

Rich prayes make true-men theeues: ſo do thy lips

Make modeſt Dyan, cloudie and forlorne,

Leſt ſhe ſhould ſteale a kiſſe and die forſworne.

Now of this darke night I perceiue the reaſon,

Cinthia for ſhame, obſcures her ſiluer ſhine,

Till forging nature be condemn’d of treaſon,

For ſtealing moulds from heauen, that were diuine,

Wherin ſhe fram’d thee, in hie heauens deſpight,

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

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 ſubiect to the tyrannie,

Of mad miſchances, and much miſerie.

As burning feauers, 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.

And not the leaſt of all theſe maladies,

But in one minutes fight brings beautie vnder,

Both fauor, ſauour, hew, and qualities,

Whereat the th’impartiall gazer late did wonder,

Are on the ſudden waſted, thawed, and donne,

As mountain ſnow melts with the midday ſonne.

Therefore deſpight of fruitleſſe chaſtitie,

Loue-lacking veſtals, and ſelfe-louing Nuns,

That on the earth would breed a ſcarcitie,

And barraine dearth of daughters, and of ſuns;

Be prodigall, the lampe that burnes by night,

Dries vp his oyle, to lend the world his light.

What is thy bodie but a ſwallowing graue,

Seeming to burie that poſteritie,

Which by the rights of time thou needs muſt haue,

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.

So in thy ſelfe, thy ſelfe art made away,

A miſchiefe worſe then ciuill home-bred ſtrife,

Or theirs whoſe deſperat hands them ſelues do ſlay,

Or butcher ſire, that reaues his ſonne of life:

Foule cankring ruſt, the hidden treaſure frets,

But gold that’s put to vſe more gold begets.

Nay then (quoth Adon) you will fall againe,

Into your idle ouer-handled theame,

The kiſſe I gaue you is beſtow’d in vaine,

And all in vaine you ſtriue againſt the ſtreame,

For by this black-fac’t night, deſires foule nourſe,

Your treatiſe makes me like you, worſe & worſe.

If loue haue lent you twentie thouſand tongues,

And euerie tongue more mouing then your owne,

Bewitching like the wanton Marmaids 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.

Leſt the deceiuing harmonie ſhould ronne,

Into the quiet cloſure of my breſt,

And then my litle heart were quite vndone,

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.

What haue you vrg’d, that I can not reproue?

The path is ſmooth that leadeth on to danger,

I hate not loue, but your deuiſe in loue,

That lends imbracements vnto euery ſtranger,

You do it for increaſe, ô ſtraunge excuſe!

When reaſon is the bawd to luſts abuſe.

Call it not loue, for loue to heauen is fled,

Since ſweating luſt on earth vſurpt his name,

Vnder whoſe ſimple ſemblance he hath fed,

Vpon freſh beautie, blotting it with blame;

Which the hot tyrant ſtaines, & ſoone bereaues:

As Caterpillers do the tender leaues.

Loue comforteth like ſun-ſhine after raine,

But luſts effect is tempeſt after ſunne,

Loues gentle ſpring doth alwayes freſh remaine,

Luſts winter comes, ere ſommer halfe be donne:

Loue ſurfets not, luſt like a glutton dies:

Loue 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 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 ſelues, for hauing ſo offended.

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,

Leaues loue vpon her backe, deeply diſtreſt,

Looke how a bright ſtar ſhooteth from the skye;

So glides he in the night from Venus eye.

Which after him ſhe dartes, as one on ſhore

Gazing vpon a late embarked friend,

Till the wilde waues will haue him ſeene no more,

Whoſe ridges with the meeting cloudes contend:

So did the mercileſſe, and pitchie night,

Fold in the obiect that did feed her ſight.

Whereat amaſ’d as one that vnaware,

Hath dropt a precious iewell in the flood,

Or ſtoniſht, as night wandrers often are,

Their light blowne out in ſome miſtruſtfull wood;

Euen ſo confounded in the darke ſhe lay,

Hauing loſt the faire diſcouerie of her way.

And now ſhe beates her heart, whereat it grones,

That all the neighbour caues as ſeeming troubled,

Make verball repetition of her mones,

Paſſion on paſſion, deeply is redoubled,

Ay me, ſhe cries, and twentie times, wo, wo,

And twentie ecchoes, twentie times crie ſo,

She marking them, begins a wailing note,

And ſings extemporally a wofull dittie,

How loue makes yong-men thrall, & old men dote,

How loue is wiſe in follie, fooliſh wittie:

Her heauie antheme ſtill concludes in wo,

And ſtill the quier of ecchoes anſwer ſo.

Her ſong was tedious, and out-wore the night,

For louers houres are long, though ſeeming ſhort,

If pleaſd themſelues, others they thinke delight,

In ſuch like circumſtance, with ſuch like ſport:

Their copious ſtories oftentimes begunne,

End without audience, and are neuer donne.

For who hath ſhe to ſpend the night withall,

But idle ſounds reſembling paraſits?

Like ſhrill-tongu’d Tapſters anſwering euerie 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.

Lo here the gentle larke wearie of reſt,

From his moyſt cabinet mounts vp on hie,

And wakes the morning, from whoſe ſiluer breſt,

The ſunne ariſeth in his maieſtie,

Who doth the world ſo gloriouſly behold,

That Ceade^r tops and hils, ſeeme burniſht gold.

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 beautious influence that makes him bright,

There liues a ſonne that ſuckt an earthly mother,

May lend thee light, as thou doeſt lend to other.

This ſayd, ſhe haſteth to a mirtle groue,

Muſing the morning is ſo much ore-worne,

And yet ſhe heares no tidings of her loue;

She harkens for his hounds, and for his horne,

Anon ſhe heares them chaunt it luſtily,

And all in haſt ſhe coaſteth to the cry.

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,

By this ſhe heares the hounds are at a bay,

Whereat ſhe ſtarts like one that ſpies an adder,

Wreath’d vp in fatall folds iuſt in his way,

The feare where of doth make him ſhake, & ſhudder,

Euen ſo the timerous yelping of the hounds,

Appals her ſenſes, and her ſpirit confounds.

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 curt’ſie who ſhall cope him firſt.

This diſmall crie rings ſadly in her eare,

Through which it enters to ſurpriſe her hart,

Who ouercome by doubt, and bloodleſſe feare,

With cold-pale weakeneſſe, nums ech feeling part,

Like ſoldiers when their captain once doth yeeld,

They baſely flie, and dare not ſtay the field.

Thus ſtands ſhe in a trembling extaſie,

Till cheering vp her ſenſes all diſmayd,

She tels them tis a cauſleſſe fantaſie,

And childiſh error that they are affrayd,

Bids thē leaue quaking, bids them feare no more,

And with that word, ſhe ſpide the hunted boare.

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 ſhe runs, and now ſhe will no further,

But backe retires, to rate the boare for murther.

A thouſand ſpleenes beare her a thouſand wayes,

She treads the path, that ſhe vntreads againe;

Her more then haſt, is mated with delayes,

Like the proceedings of a drunken braine,

Full of reſpects, yet naught at all reſpecting,

In hand with all things, naught at all effecting.

Here kenneld in a brake, ſhe finds a hound,

And askes the wearie caitiffe for his maiſter,

And there another licking of his wound,

Gainſt venimd ſores, the onely ſoueraigne plaiſter.

And here ſhe meets another, ſadly ſkowling,

To whom ſhe ſpeaks, & he replies with howling.

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-ea^res, bleeding as they go.

Looke how, the worlds poore people are amazed,

At apparitions, ſignes, and prodigies,

Whereon with feareful eyes, they long haue gazed,

Infuſing them with dreadfull prophecies;

So ſhe at theſe ſad ſignes, drawes vp her breath,

And ſighing it againe, exclaimes on death.

Hard fauourd tyrant, ougly, meagre, leane,

Hatefull diuorce of loue, (thus chides ſhe death)

Grim-grinning ghoſt, earths-worme what doſt thou meane?

To ſtifle beautie, and to ſteale his breath?

Who when he liu’d, his breath and beautie ſet

Gloſſe on the roſe, ſmell to the violet.

If he be dead, ô no, it cannot be,

Seeing his beautie, thou ſhouldſt ſtrike at it,

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

But hatefully at randon doeſt thou hit,

Thy marke is feeble age, but thy falſe dart,

Miſtakes that aime, and cleaues an infants hart.

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,

Loues golden arrow at him ſhould haue fled,

And not deaths ebon dart to ſtrike him dead.

Doſt thou drink tears, that thou prouok’ſt ſuch weeping,

What may a heauie grone aduantage thee?

Why haſt thou caſt into eternall ſleeping,

Thoſe eyes that taught all other eyes to ſee?

Now nature cares not for thy mortall vigour,

Since her beſt worke is ruin’d with thy rigour.

Here ouercome as one full of diſpaire,

She vaild her eye-lids, who like ſluces ſtopt

The chriſtall tide, that from her two cheeks faire,

In the ſweet channell of her boſome dropt.

But through the floud-gates breaks the ſiluer rain,

And with his ſtrong courſe opens them againe.

O how her eyes, and teares, did lend, and borrow,

Her eye 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 thē wet againe.

Variable paſſions throng her conſtant wo,

As ſtriuing who ſhould beſt become her griefe,

All entertaind, ech paſſion labours ſo,

That euerie preſent ſorrow ſeemeth chiefe,

But none is beſt, then ioyne they all together,

Like many clouds, conſulting for foule weather.

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 reuiuing ioy bids her reioyce,

And flatters her, it is Adonis voyce.

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.

O hard beleeuing loue how ſtrange it ſeemes!

Not to beleeue, 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 vnlikely,

In likely thoughts the other kils thee quickly.

Now ſhe vnweaues the web that ſhe hath wrought,

Adonis liues, and death is not to blame:

It was not ſhe that cald him all to nought;

Now ſhe ads honours to his hatefull name.

She clepes him king of graues, & graue for kings,

Imperious ſupreme of all mortall things.

No, no, quoth ſhe, ſweet death, I did but ieſt,

Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of feare

When as I met the boare, that bloodie beaſt,

Which knowes no pitie but is ſtill ſeuere,

Then gentle ſhadow (truth I muſt confeſſe)

I rayld on thee, fearing my loues deceſſe.

Tis not my fault, the Bore prouok’t my tong,

Be wreak’t on him (inuiſible 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 neuer woman yet,

Could rule them both, without ten womens wit.

Thus hoping that Adonis is aliue,

Her raſh ſuſpect ſhe doth extenuate,

And that his beautie may the better thriue,

With death ſhe humbly doth inſinuate.

Tels him of trophies, ſtatues, tombes, and ſtories,

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

O Ioue quoth ſhe, how much a foole was I,

To be of ſuch a weake and ſillie mind,

To waile his death who liues, and muſt not die,

Till mutuall ouerthrow of mortall kind?

For he being dead, with him is beautie ſlaine,

And beautie dead, blacke Chaos comes againe.

Fy, fy, fond loue, thou art as full of feare,

As one with treaſure laden, hem’d with theeues,

Trifles vnwitneſſed with eye, or eare,

Thy coward heart with falſe bethinking greeues.

Euen at this word ſhe heares a merry horne,

Whereat ſhe leaps, that was but late forlorne.

As Faulcons to the lure, away ſhe flies,

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

And in her haſt, vnfortunately ſpies,

The foule boares conqueſt, on her faire delight,

Which ſeene, her eyes are murdred with the view,

Like ſtars aſham’d of day, themſelues withdrew.

Or as the ſnaile, whoſe tender hornes being hit,

Shrinks backward in his ſhellie caue with paine,

And, there all ſmoothred vp, 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.

Where they reſigne their office, and their light,

To the diſpoſing of her troubled braine,

Who bids them ſtill conſort with ougly night,

And neuer wound the heart with lookes againe,

Who like a king perplexed in his throne,

By their ſuggeſtion, giues a deadly grone.

Whereat ech tributarie ſubiect quakes,

As when the wind impriſond in the ground,

Struggling for paſſage, earths foundation ſhakes,

which with cold terror, doth mens minds confoūd:

This mutinie ech part doth ſo ſurpriſe,

That frō their dark beds once more leap her eies.

And being opend, threw vnwilling light,

Vpon the wide wound, that the boare had trencht

In his ſoft flanke, whoſe wonted lillie white

With purple tears that his wound wept, had drēcht.

No floure was nigh, no graſſe, hearb, leaf, or weed,

But ſtole his blood, and ſeemd with him to bleed.

This ſolemne ſympathie, poore Venus noteth,

Ouer one ſhoulder doth ſhe hang her head,

Dumblie ſhe paſſions, frantikely ſhe doteth,

She thinkes he could not die, he is not dead,

Her voice is ſtopt, her ioynts forget to bow,

Her eyes are mad, that they haue wept till now.

Vpon 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 ſeuerall lim is doubled,

For oft the eye miſtakes, the brain being troubled

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,

Heauie hearts lead melt at mine eyes red fire,

So ſhall I die by drops of hot deſire.

Alas poore world what treaſure haſt thou loſt,

What face remains aliue that’s worth the viewing?

Whoſe tongue is muſick now? What cāſt thou boaſt,

Of things long ſince, or any thing inſuing?

The flowers are ſweet, their colours freſh, and trim,

But true ſweet beautie liu’d, and di’de with him.

Bonnet, nor vaile henceforth no creature weare,

Nor ſunne, nor wind will euer ſtriue to kiſſe you,

Hauing no faire to loſe, you need not feare,

The ſun doth ſkorne you, & the wind doth hiſſe you.

But when Adonis liu’de, ſunne, and ſharpe aire,

Lurkt like two theeues, to rob him of his faire.

And therefore would he put his bonnet on,

Vnder 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 ſtriue who firſt ſhould drie his teares.

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 Tygre would be tame, and gently heare him.

If he had ſpoke, the wolfe would leaue his praie,

And neuer fright the ſillie lambe that daie.

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.

But this foule, grim, and vrchin-ſnowted Boare,

Whoſe downeward eye ſtill looketh for a graue:

Ne’re ſaw the beautious liuerie that he wore,

Witneſſe the intertainment that he gaue.

If he did ſee his face, why then I know,

He thought to kiſſe him, and hath kild him ſo.

Tis true, tis true, thus was Adonis ſlaine,

He ran vpon 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 louing ſwine,

Sheath’d vnaware the tuſke in his ſoft groine.

Had I bin tooth’d like him I muſt confeſſe,

With kiſſing him I ſhould haue kild him firſt,

But he is dead, and neuer 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.

She lookes vpon his lips, and they are pale,

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

She whiſpers in his eares a heauie 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.

Two glaſſes where her ſelfe, her ſelfe beheld

A thouſand times, and now no more reflect,

Their vertue loſt, wherein they late exceld,

And euerie beautie robd of his effect;

Wonder of time (quoth ſhe) this is my ſpight,

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

Since thou art dead, lo here I prophecie,

Sorrow on loue hereafter ſhall attend:

It ſhall be wayted on with iealouſie,

Find ſweet beginning, but vnſauorie end.

Nere ſetled equally, but high or lo,

That all loues pleaſure ſhall not match his wo.

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 dūbe, & teach the foole to ſpeake.

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, inrich the poore with treaſures,

It ſhall be raging mad, and ſillie milde,

Make the yoong old, the old become a childe.

It ſhall ſuſpect where is no cauſe of feare,

It ſhall not feare where it ſhould moſt miſtruſt,

It ſhall be mercifull, and too ſeueare,

And moſt deceiuing, when it ſeemes moſt iuſt,

Peruerſe it ſhall be, where it ſhowes moſt toward,

Put feare to valour, courage to the coward.

It ſhall be cauſe of warre, and dire euents,

And ſet diſſention twixt the ſonne, and ſire,

Subiect, and ſeruill to all diſcontents:

As drie combuſtious matter is to fire,

Sith in his prime, death doth my loue deſtroy,

They that loue beſt, their loues ſhall not enioy.

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 vp, checkred with white,

Reſembling well his pale cheekes, and the blood,

Which in round drops, vpō their whiteneſſe ſtood.

She bowes her head, the new-ſprong floure to ſmel,

Comparing it to her Adonis breath,

And ſaies within her boſome it ſhall dwell,

Since he himſelfe is reft from her by death;

She crop’s the ſtalke, and in the breach appeares,

Green-dropping ſap, which ſhe cõpares to teares.

Poore floure (quoth ſhe) this was thy fathers guiſe,

Sweet iſſue of a more ſweet ſmelling ſire,

For euerie little griefe to wet his eies,

To grow vnto himſelfe was his deſire;

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

To wither in my breſt, as in his blood.

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 kiſſe my ſweet loues floure.

Thus weary of the world, away ſhe hies,

And yokes her ſiluer doues, by whoſe ſwift aide,

Their miſtreſſe mounted through the emptie skies,

In her light chariot, quickly is conuaide,

Holding their courſe to Paphos, where their queen,

Meanes to immure her ſelfe, and not be ſeen.

FINIS