To the Right Honourable Henry Wriothesly, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.
Right Honourable,
Know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht Lines to your Lordship, nor how the World will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: 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 Godfather, 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 hearts content; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world's hopeful expectation.
Your Honours in all duty,
WILL. SHAKESPEARE.
VENUS
AND
ADONIS.
EVen as the Sun with purple coloured Face, Had ta'n his last Leave of the weeping Morn, Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase: Hunting he lov'd, but Love he laught to scorn: Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-fac'd Suter 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer than my self (thus she began) The Fields chief Flower, sweet above compare, Stain to all Nymphs, more lovely than a Man, More white and red than Doves or Roses are: Nature that made thee, with her self at Strife, Saith that the World hath ending with thy Life.
Vouchsafe, thou Wonder, to alight thy Steed, And rein his proud Head to the Saddle Bow. If thou wilt deign this Favour, for thy meed, A thousand hony Secrets shalt thou know: Here come and sit, where Serpents never hisses, And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses.
And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety, But rather famish them amid their Plenty, Making them red and pale with fresh Variety: Ten Kisses short as one, one long as twenty. A Summer's Day will seem an Hour but short, Being wasted in such time-beguiling Sport.
With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm, The President of pith and livelihood, And trembling in her Passion calls it balm, Earth's sovereign salve to do a Goddess good: Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force, Couragiously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty Coursers rein, Under her other was the tender Boy, Who blusht and powted in a dull disdain, With leaden appetite, unapt to toy, She red and hot, as coals of glowing fire: He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough, Nimbly she fastens, (O how quick is love!) The Steed is stalled up, and even now To tye the Rider she begins to prove: Backward she pusht him, as she would be thrust, And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down, Each leaning on their elbows and their hips. Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips. And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.
He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears Doth quench the maiden-burning of his cheeks: Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs, To fan and blow them dry again she seeks. He says she is immodest, blames her miss, What follows more, she smothers with a kiss.
Even as an empty Eagle sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuft, or prey be gone: Even so she kist his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forc'd to content, but never to obey, Panting he lies, and breathing in her face: She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey, And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace, Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.
Look how a Bird lies tangled in a Net, So fastned in her arms Adonis lies: Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes. Rain added to a River that is rank, Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Still she intreats, and prettily intreats: For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale: Still he is sullen, still he lowres and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashie pale; Being red she loves him best, and being white, Her breast is bettered with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot chuse but love, And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet, And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a Dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who being lookt on, ducks as quickly in: So offers he to give what she did crave, But when his Lips were ready for his pay, He winks and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in Summers heat More thirst for drink, then she for this good turn, Her help she sees, but help she cannot get, She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: Oh pitty gan she cry, flint-hearted boy, 'Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now, Even by the stern and direful God of War, Whose sinowy neck in battel ne'er did bow, Who conquers where he comes in every jar: Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And beg'd for that which thou unaskt shalt have.
Over my Altars hath he hung his Launce, His battred Shield, his uncontrolled Crest, And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance, To coy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest, Scorning his churlish Drum, and Ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
Thus he that over-rul'd, I over-sway'd, Leading him prisoner in a red Rose chain: Strong tempred steel his stronger strength obey'd, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, For mastring her that foil'd the God of Fight.
Touch but my lips with those falr lips of thine, (Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red) The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head: Look in mine eye-balls where thy beauty lies, Then why not lips on lips, since eyes on eyes?
Art thou asham'd to kiss? then wink again, And I will wink, so shall the day seem night, Love keeps his revels where there be but twain: Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight. These blew-vein'd Violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender Spring, upon thy tempting lip, Shews thee unripe; yet may'st thou well be tasted: Make use of time, let not advantage slip, Beauty within it self would not be wasted. Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime, Rot and consume themselves in little time.
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled old, Ill-natur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, Ore-worn, despised, rheumatick and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juyce, Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee: But having no defects why dost abhor me?
Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow, Mine eyes are gray, and bright, and quick in turning: My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, My flesh as soft and plump, my marrow burning: My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or like a Fairie, trip upon the green, Or like a Nymph, with long dishevel'd hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. Love is a spirit all compact of Fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
Witness this primrose bank whereon I lye, The forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me: Two strengthless Doves will draw me through the sky From morn till night, even where I list to sport me. Is love so light, sweet Boy, and may it be That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee.
Is thine own heart to thine own face affected? Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left? Then wooe thy self, be of thy self rejected, Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft. Narcissus so himself, himself forsook, And dyed to kiss his shadow in the Brook.
Torches are made to light, Jewels to wear, Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, Herbs for their smell, and sappy Plants to bear: Things growing to themselves are growths abuse, Seeds spring from seeds, & beauty breedeth beauty, Thou wert begot, to get it is thy duty.
Upon the Earths increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed? By Law of Nature thou art bound to breed, That thine may live when thou thy self art dead: And so in spight of death thou dost survive, In that thy likeness still is left alive.
By this, the Love-sick Queen began to sweat, For where they lay, the shadow had forsook them, And Titan tyred in the mid-day heat, With burning eye did hotly overlook them, Wishing Adonis had his team to guide, So he were like him and by Venus side.
And now Adonis with a lazy spright, And with a heavy dark disliking eye, His lowring brows o'rewhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky, Sowring his cheeks, cryes fie, no more of love, The Sun doth burn my face, I must remove:
Ah me (quoth Venus) young and so unkind? What bare excuses mak'st thou to be gone? I'le sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending Sun: I'le make a shadow for thee of my hairs, If they burn too, I'le quench them with my tears.
The Sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And loe, I lie between that Sun and thee: The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me. And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly Sun.
Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel? Nay more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth, Art thou a womans son, and canst not feel, What 'tis to love, how want of love tormenteth? O had thy mother born so bad a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but dyed unkind.
What am I, that thou should'st contemn me this? Or what great danger dwels upon my suit? What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss! Speak Fair: but speak fair words or else be mute. Give me one kiss, I'le give it thee again, And one for int'rest, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, Well painted Idol, Image dull and dead, Statue contenting but the eye alone: Thing like a man, but of no woman bred, Thou art no man though of a mans complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction.
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause, Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong, Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause; And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break.
Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand; Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground: Sometimes her arms infold him like a band; She would, he will not in her arms be bound: And when from thence he struggles to be gone; She locks her Lilly fingers one in one.
Fondling, saith she, since I have hemm'd thee here, Within the circuit of this Ivory pale, I'le be the Park, and thou shalt be my Deer; Feed where thou wilt on mountain or in dale; Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom grass, and high delightful plain, Round rising hillocks, brakes, obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain: Then be my Deer, since I am such a Park, No Dog shall rouz thee, though a thousand bark.
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple, Love made those hollows: if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple: Fore-knowing well if there he came to lie, Why there Love liv'd, and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round inchanting pits, Opened their mouths to swallow Venus liking: Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Strook dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor Queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at thee with scorn!
Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing: The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge releasing: Pitty she crys, some favour, some remorse: Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse:
But loe, from forth a Copp's that neighbours by, A breeding Jennet, lusty, young, and proud, Adonis trampling courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: The strong neckt Steed being tyed unto a tree Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds: And now his woven girts he breaks asunder, The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heavens thunder: The Iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with.
His ears up prickt his braided hanging mane Upon his compast Crest now stands an end: His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a Furnace vapours doth he lend, His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shews his hot courage, and his high desire.
Sometime he trots as if he told the steps, With gentle Majesty, and modest pride, Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps; As who should say, loe, thus my strength is tried, And thus I do to captivate the eye, Of the fair breeder that is standing by.
What recketh he his Riders angry stur, His flatt'ring Holla, or his Stand, I say? What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur, For rich caparisons, or trapping gay? He sees his Love, and nothing else he sees: Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look, when a Painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well proportion'd Steed, His Art, with Natures 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.
Round hooft, short joynted, fetlocks shag and long, Broad brest, full eyes, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a Feather: To bid the wind abase he now prepares, And where he run, or flie, they know not whether, For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who have like feather'd wings.
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her: She answers him, as if she knew his mind: Being proud, as Females are, to see him wooe her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurnes at his love, and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy male-content, He vails his tail: that, like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttocks lent, He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume: His love perceiving how he is inrag'd, Grew kinder, and his fury was asswag'd.
His testy Master goeth about to take him, When loe, the unbackt breeder, full of fear, Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there; As they were mad, unto the Wood they hie them: Out-stripping Crows that strive to over-flie them.
All swolne with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boystrous and unruly Beast: And now the happy season once more fits, That love-sick Love, by pleading may be blest. For Lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong, When it is bar'd the aidance of the tongue.
An Oven that is stopt, or River staid, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: So of concealed sorrow may be said! Free vent of words loves fire doth asswage: But when the hearts Atturney once is mute, The Client breaks, as desperate in his sute.
He sees her coming, and begins to glow, Even as a dying coal revives with wind, And with his bonnet hides his angry brow, Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind; Taking no notice that she is so nigh, For all ascance 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 hiew, How white and red each other did destroy: But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flasht forth fire, as lightning from the sky.
Now was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels, With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels: His tender cheeks receive her soft hands print, As apt as new fallen snow takes any dint.
Oh what a war of looks was then between them? Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing, His eyes saw her eyes, as they had not seen them, Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing: And all this dumb play had his acts made plain, With tears which Chorus like, her eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the hand, A Lilly prison'd in a Jayl of Snow, Or Ivory in an Alabaster band, So white a friend ingirts so white a foe: This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, Shew'd like to silver Doves that sit a billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began: O fairest mover on this mortal round, Would thou wert as I am, and I a man, My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound: For one sweet look my help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my bodys bane would cure thee.
Give me my hand (saith he) why dost thou feel it? Give me my heart (saith she) and thou shalt have it. O give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it; And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it; Then love's deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis heart hath made mine hard.
For shame he crys let go, and let me go, My days delight is past, my horse is gone, And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so, I pray you hence, and leave me here alone. For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my Palfrey from the Mare.
Thus she replies: thy Palfrey, as he should, Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire: Affection is a cole that must be cool'd; Else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire. The Sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none, Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
How like a Jade he stood, ty'd to the tree, Servilely mastred with a lethern rein? But when he saw his love, his youths fair fee, He held such petty bondage in disdain, Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.
Who sees his true love in her naked bed, Teaching the sheets a whiter hiew than white, But when his glutton eye so full hath fed, His other agents aim at like delight: Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold, To touch the fire, the Weather being cold?
Let me excuse thy Courser, gentle boy, And learn of him I heartily beseech thee, To take advantage on presented Joy, Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee. O learn to love, the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again.
I know not love (quoth he) nor will I know it, Unless it be a Boar, and then I chase it. 'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it, My love to love, is love but to disgrace it; For I have heard it is a life in death, That laughs, and weeps, and all but with a breath.
Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinisht? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth? If springing things be any jot diminisht, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth: The Colt that's backt, and burthen'd being young Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.
You hurt my hand with wringing: let us part, And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat, Remove your siege from my unyielding heart, To loves alarm it will not ope the gate. Dismiss your vows, your fained tears, your flattry; For where a heart is hard, they make no battry.
What, canst thou talk (quoth she) hast thou a tong, O would thou had'st not, or I had no hearing, Thy Mermaids voice hath done me double wrong: I had my load before, now prest with bearing, Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh sounding, Earths deep sweet musick, and hearts deep sore wounding.
Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love, That inward beauty, and invisible: Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible. Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me, And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, And nothing but the very smell were left me, Yet would my love to thee be still as much, For from the Stillatory of thy face excelling, Comes breath perfum'd, that breedeth love by smelling.
But oh, what banquet wert thou to the tast, Being nurse and feeder of the other four? Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid suspition double lock the door; Lest jealousy that sowr unwelcome guest, Should by his stealing in disturb the feast.
Once more the ruby-colour'd Portal open'd, Which to his speech did hony passage yield: Like a red morn that ever yet betoken'd, Wrack to the Sea-man, tempest to the field, Sorrow to Shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gust and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
This ill presage advisedly she marketh, Even as the wind is husht before it raineth, Or as the Wolf doth grin before he barketh, Or as the Berry breaks before it staineth: Or like the deadly bullet of a Gun, His meaning struck her ere his words begun.
And at his look she flatly falleth down, For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth: A smile recures the wounding of a frown, But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth: The silly boy believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red.
And in amaze brake off his late intent, For sharply he did think to reprehend her: Which cunning love did wittily prevent, Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her: For on the grass she lies as she were slain, 'Till his breath breatheth life in her again.
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness mar'd, He kisses her, and she, by her good will, Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.
The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day, Her two blew windows faintly she up heaveth: Like the fair Sun, when in his fresh array, He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth: And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumin'd with her eye.
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fixt, As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine: Were never four such lamps together mixt, Had not his clouded with his brows repine: But hers, which thro the Chrystal tears gave light, Shone like the Moon in water seen by night.
O where am I (quoth she) in earth or heaven, Or in the Ocean drencht, or in the fire? What hour is this, or morn, or weary even? Do I delight to die, or life desire? But now I liv'd, and life was deaths annoy: But now I dy'd, and death was lively joy.
O thou didst kill me, kill me once again, Thy eyes, shrew'd tutor, that hard heart of thine, Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain, That they have murdred this poor heart of mine; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their Queen, But for thy pitious lips no more had seen.
Long may they kiss each other for this cure: Oh never let their crimson liveries wear, And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year; That the Star-gazers having writ on death, May say, the plague is banisht by thy breath.
Pure lips, sweet seals, in my soft lips imprinted, What bargains may I make still to be sealing? To sell my self I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing: Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips, Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.
A thousand kisses buyes my heart from me, And pay them at thy leasure one by one. What is ten hundred kisses unto thee? Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone? Say for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
Fair Queen (quoth he) if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years, Before I know my self, seek not to know me: No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears, The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluckt, is sowr to taste.
Look, the worlds comforter, with weary gate, His days hot task hath ended in the West, The Owle (nights Herald) shrieks, 'tis very late, The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest. The cole-black clouds that shadow heavens light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
Now let me say good night, and so say you: If you will say so, you shall have a kiss. Good night (quoth she) and ere he says adieu, The hony fee of parting tendred is; Her arms do lend his neck a sweet imbrace, Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.
Till breathless he dis-joyn'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfet, yet complain on drouth, He with her plenty prest, she faint with dearth, Their lips together glew'd fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught her yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth, Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, Paying what ransom the insulter willeth; Whose vultur thought doth pitch the price so hie, That she will draw his lips rich treasure dry.
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, With blind-fold fury she begins to forrage, Her face doth reek and smoak, her bloud doth boyl, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage: Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shames pure blush, and honours wrack.
Hot, faint and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot Roe, that's tir'd with chasing, Or like the froward Infant still'd with dandling. He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.
What wax so frozen, but dissolves with tempring, And yields at last to every 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 woos best, when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O had she then gave over, Such Nectar from his lips she had not suckt: Foul words and frowns must not repel a Lover, What though the Rose have pricks? yet it is pluckt. Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.
For pitty now she can no more detain him; The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him; Bids him farewel, and look well to her heart, The which by Cupids bow she doth protest, He carries thence engaged in his brest.
Sweet boy, she says, this night I'le waste in sorrow, For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, loves master, shall we meet to morrow? Say, shall we, shall we, wilt thou make the match? He tells her no, to morrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.
The boar! (quoth she) whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing Rose, Usurps her cheeks, she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love, Her Champion mounted for the hot encounter: All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her although he mount her: That worse than Tantalus is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.
Even as poor Birds deceiv'd with painted grapes, Do surfet by the eye, and pine the maw; Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw; The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain; good Queen, it will not be, She hath assaid as much as may be prov'd, Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee: She's love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd. Fie, fie, he says, you crush me, let me go, You have no reason to with-hold me so.
Thou hadst been gone (quoth she) sweet boy e'r this, But that thou toldst me thou wouldst hunt the Boar. O be advis'd, thou know'st not what it is, With javelins point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes never sheath'd, he whetteth still, Like to a mortal Butcher bent to kill.
On his bow-back he hath a battle set, Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; His eyes like Glow-worms, shine when he doth fret, His snout digs sepulchres, where-e're he goes: Being mov'd, he strikes whate're is in his way; And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.
His brawny sides with hairy bristles armed, Are better proof then thy spears point can enter, His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed, Being ireful, on the Lyon he will venter: The thorny brambles, and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eye pay tributary gazes, Nor thy soft hand, sweet lips, and chrystal eyne; Whose full perfection all the world amazes; But having thee at vantage (wondrous dread!) Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.
O let him keep his loathsome cabin still: Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends. Come not within his danger by thy will, They that thrive well take counsell of their friends. When thou didst name the Boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joynts did tremble.
Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white? Sawst thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But like an earthquake shakes thee on my brest.
For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy Doth call himself affections Centinel, Gives false alarmes, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry, Kill, Kill Distempring gentle Love in his desire, As air and water doth abate the fire.
This sower informer, this bate-breeding spy, This canker that eats up loves tender spring, This carry-tale, dissensions jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear, That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry chafing Boar, Under whose sharp fangs, on his back doth lie An image like thy self, all stain'd with gore, Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, Doth make them drop with grief, and hang the Head.
What should I do? seeing thee so indeed, That trembling at th' imagination, The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination. I prophesie thy death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the Boar to morrow.
But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me; Uncouple at the timerous flying Hare, Or at the Fox which lives by subtilty; Or at the Roe which no encounter dare: Pursue these fearful Creatures o're the downs, And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.
And when thou hast on foot the purblind Hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles, How he out-runs the wind, and with what care, He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many umfits through the which he goes, Are like a labyrinth t' amaze his foes.
Sometime he runs among a flock of Sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, And sometime where earth-delving Conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, And sometime sorteth with a herd of Deer. Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.
For there his smell with others being mingled, The hot-scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much adoe the cold fault cleanly out. Then do they spend their mouths, eccho replies, As if another chase were in the skies.
By this, poor Wat far off upon a hill Stands on his hinder legs with listning ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still: Anon their loud alarums he doth hear, And now his grief may be compared well To one sore-sick that hears the passing bell.
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way: Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay, For misery is trodden on by many: And being low never reliev'd by any:
Lie quietly, and hear a little more, Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise, To make thee hate the hunting of the Boar, Unlike my self thou hear'st me morallize, Applying this to that, and so to so; For love can comment upon every woe.
Where did I leave? No matter where, (quoth he) Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: The night is spent, Why, what of that (quoth she?) I am (quoth he) expected of my friends. And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall: In night (quoth she) desire sees best of all.
But if thou fall, oh, then imagine this, The earth in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich preys make true men thieves: so do thy lips Make modest Diane cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.
Now of this dark night I perceive the reason, Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine, Wherein she fram'd thee in hie heavens despite, To shame the Sun by day, and her by night.
And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies, To cross the curious workmanship of nature, To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, Making it subject to the tyranny Of sad mischances and much misery.
As burning fevers; agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood, The marrow eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by beating of the blood: Surfets, impostumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear natures death for framing thee so fair.
And not the least of all these maladies, But in one minutes sight brings beauty under: Both favour, savour hiew and qualities, Whereat th' impartial gazer late did wonder, Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done, As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day Sun.
Therefore, despight of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking Vestals, and self-loving Nuns, That on the earth would breed a scarcity, And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night, Dries up his oyl, to lend the world his light.
What is thy body, but a swallowing Grave, Seeming to bury that posterity, Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
So in thy self thy self art made away, A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or Butcher Sire, that reaves his son of life. Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets: But Gold that's put to use more Gold begets.
Nay then, quoth Adon, you will fall again Into your idle over-handled Theam, The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream. For by this black-fac'd night, desires foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton Mermaids songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown: For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there:
Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my brest, And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bed-chamber to be bar'd of rest: No Lady, no: my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger, I hate not love, but your device in love, That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for encrease: O strange excuse! When reason is the Bawd to lusts abuse.
Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled, Since sweating Lust on earth usurps his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed, Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves, As Caterpillers do the tender leaves.
Love comforteth like Sun-shine after rain: But lusts effect is tempest after Sun. Loves gentle spring doth always fresh remain: Lusts Winter comes, ere Summer half be done. Love surfets not: lust like a glutton dies. Love is all truth: lust full of forged lies.
More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The Text is old, the Orator too green; Therefore in sadness now I will away, My face is full of shame, my heart of teen; Mine ears that to your wanton calls attended, Do burn themselves for having so offended.
With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast. And homeward through the dark lanes runs apace! Leaves love upon her back deeply distrest. Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus eye;
Which after him she darts, as one on shore, Gazing upon a late embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend. So did the merciless and pitchy night, Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware Hath dropt a precious Jewel in the flood, Or 'stonisht as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood: Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour-caves as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans: Passion on passion, deeply is redoubled: Ay me, she cryes, and twenty times, woe, woe, And twenty ecchoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemp'rally a woful ditty, How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote, How love is wise in folly, foolish witty: Her heavy anthem stili concludes in woe, And still the Quire of Ecchoes answers so.
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers hours are long, though seeming short: It pleas'd themselves, others they think delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport. Their copious Stories, oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal But idle sounds, resembling Parasites, Like shrill-tongu'd Tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humor of fantastick wits? She says, 'tis so: they answer all, 'tis so: And would say after her, if she said no.
Lo here the gentle Lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The Sun ariseth in his Majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That Cedar tops and hills seem burnisht gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow; O thou clear God, and Patron of all light, From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauties influence that makes him bright, There lives a son, that suckt an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.
This said, she hasteth to a Mirtle grove, Musing the morning is so much ore-worn, And yet she hears no tydings of her love, She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn: Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way, Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, Some twine about her thigh to make her stay, She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch Doe, whose swelling dugs do ake, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this she hears the Hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts, like one that spies an Adder, Wreath'd up in fatal folds just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder: Even so the timerous yelping of the Hounds, Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase, But the blunt Boar, rough Bear, or Lion proud: Because the cry remaineth in one place, Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud: Finding their enemy to be so curst, They all strain curt'sie who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprize her heart: Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold pale weakness nums each feeling part: Like Soldiers when their Captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling extasie, 'Till chearing up her senses sore dismaid, She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasie, And childish error that they are afraid, Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more: And with that word she spied the hunted Boar:
Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spred, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires to rate the Boar for murder.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways, She treads the path that she untreads again, Her more than haste is marred with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting; In hand with all things, nought at all affecting.
Here kennel'd in a brake she finds an hound, And asks the weary Caitif for his Master, And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaister, And here she meets another sadly scolding, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceast his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner black and grim, Against the Welkin vollies out his voice, Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratcht ears, bleeding as they go.
Look how the worlds poor people are amazed At Apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful Eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies, So she, at these sad signs, draws up her breath, And, sighing it again, exclaims on death.
Hard-favoured Tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of Love (thus chides she Death) Grim-grinning Ghost, earths worm, what dost thou mean, To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath? Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the Rose, smell to the Violet.
If he be dead, O no; it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it. O yes, it may: thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. Thy Mark is feeble age; but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an Infants heart.
Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing him, thy power had lost his power: The destinies will curse thee for this stroke, They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluckest a flower: Loves golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Deaths Ebon Dart to strike him dead.
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigor, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.
Here overcome, as one full of despair, She veil'd her eye-lids, who like sluces stopt The crystal tide, that from her two cheeks fair, In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt. But thro' the floud-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again,
O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye, Both crystals, where they view'd each others sorrow, Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry: But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving which should best become her grief. All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief: But none is best; then join they altogether, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off, she hears some Huntsman hollow: A Nurses song ne're pleas'd her babe so well: The dire imagination, she did follow, This sound of hope doth labour to expell: For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her, it is Adonis voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass: Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts? as scorning it should pass To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous! Thy weal and woe, are both of them extreams, Despair and hope make thee ridiculous: The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts, the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought, Adonis lives, and death is not to blame: It was not she that call'd him all to nought, Now she adds honor to his hateful name, She cleeps him King of graves, and Grave for Kings, Imperial supreme of all mortal things.
No, no (quoth she) sweet death I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear, When as I met the Boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no Pity, but is still severe: Then gentle shadow (truth I must confess) I rail'd on thee, fearing my loves decease.
'Tis not my fault: the Boar provok't my tongue, Be wreak't on him (invisible commander) 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong, I did but act, he's author of thy slander. Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten womens wit.
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate: And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate; Tells him of Trophies, Statues, Tombs, & Stories, His Victories, his Triumphs, and his Glories.
O Jove, quoth she, how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind, To wail his death, who lives, and must not dye, Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And beauty dead, black Chaos comes again.
Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear, As one with treasure laden, hem'd with thieves: Trifles (unwitnessed with eye or ear) Thy coward heart, with false bethinking grieves: Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.
As Faulcon to the lure away she flies: The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light, And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul Boars conquest on her fair delight. Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like Stars, asham'd of day, themselves withdrew.
Or, as the Snail, whose tender horns being hit Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain, And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again: So, at his bloody view her eyes are fled, Into the deep dark cabins of her head.
Where they resign'd their office and their light, To the disposing of her troubled brain: Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again, Who like a King perplexed in his Throne, By their suggestions gives a deadly grone.
Whereat each tributary Subject quakes, As when the wind imprison'd in the ground, Strugling for passage, earths foundation shakes, Which with cold terrors doth mens minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise, That from their dark beds, once more, leap her eyes.
And, being opened, threw unwilling sight Upon the wide wound that the Boar had trencht In his soft flank: whose wonted Lilly white With purple Tears, that his wound wept, was drencht. No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed, But stole his blood, and seem'd with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth, Over one shoulder doth she hang her head, Dumbly she passions, frantickly 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.
Upon his hurt she looks 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 should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled, For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
My tongue cannot express my grief for one; And yet (quoth she) behold two Adons dead: My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone; Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead, Heavy hearts lead melt at mine eyes red fire: So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost? What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is musick now? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh & trim: But true sweet beauty liv'd and dy'd in him.
Bonnet or veile, henceforth no creature wear; Nor Sun nor Wind will ever strive to kiss you. Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The Sun doth scorn you, & the Wind doth hiss you. But when Adonis liv'd, Sun and sharp air Lurkt like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.
And therefore would he put his Bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy Sun would peep; The wind would blow it off, and being gone, Play with his locks, then would Adonis weep: And straight in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
To see his face, the Lyon walks along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him: To recreate himself when he hath sung, The Tygre would be tame, and gently hear him: If he had spoke, the Wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the silly lamb that day.
When he beheld his shadow in a Brook, There fishes spred on it their golden gills: When he was by, the Birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him Mulberries, & ripe red Cherries, He fed them with his sight, they him with Berries.
But this foul, grim, and urchin snouted Boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne're saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave: If he did see his face, why then I know, He thought to kiss him, and hath killed him so.
'Tis true, true, true, thus was Adonis slain, He ran upon the Boar with his sharp spear, Who would not whet his teeth at him again, But, by a kiss, thought to perswade him there: And, nousling in his flank, the loving Swine, Sheath'd, unaware, his tusk in his soft groine.
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him, I should have kill'd him first, But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst; With this she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ear a heavy tale, As if he heard the woful words she told: She lifts the coffer lids that close his eyes, Where loe, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies.
Two glasses, where her self her self beheld A thousand times, and now, no more reflect, Their vertue lost, wherein they late excel'd, And every beauty rob'd of his effect: Wonder of time (quoth she) this is my spight, That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.
Since thou art dead, loe here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, Ne're settled equally, but high or low; That all loves pleasures shall not match his woe.
It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, And shall be blasted in a breathing while, The bottom poison, and the top ore-straw'd With sweets, that shall the sharpest sight beguile. The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.
It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring Ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, inrich the poor with treasures, It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child.
It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving, when it seems most just: Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
It shall be cause of war, and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the Son and Sire, Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustuous matter is to fire: Sith in his prime, death doth my love destroy, They that love best, their love shall not enjoy.
By this, the Boy that by her side lay kill'd, Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up checker'd with white, Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis breath: And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death: She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.
Poor flower (quoth she) this was thy fathers guise, (Sweet issue of a more sweet smelling Sire) For every little grief to wet his eyes, To grow unto himself was his desire, And so 'tis thine: but know, it is as good To wither in my brest, as in his blood.
Here was thy fathers bed, here is my brest, Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: Loe, in this hollow Cradle take thy rest, My thrubbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour, Wherein I will not kiss my sweet Loves flower.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver Doves, by whose swift aid Their Mistress mounted, through the empty skies In her light Chariot quickly is convey'd, Holding their course to Paphos, where their Queen Means to immure her self, and not be seen.
Know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht Lines to your Lordship, nor how the World will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: 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 Godfather, 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 hearts content; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world's hopeful expectation.
