A LOVER'S

A LOVER'S COMPLAINTA POEM

BYWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
From off a hill whose concave womb rewordedA plaintful story from a sist'ring vale,My spirits t'attend this double voice accorded,And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale,Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain,Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.Upon her head a platted hive of straw,Which fortified her visage from the sun,Whereon the thought might think sometime it sawThe carcase of a beauty spent and done.Time had not scythed all that youth begun,Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rageSome beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,Which on it had conceited characters,Laund'ring the silken figures in the brineThat seasoned woe had pelleted in tears,And often reading what contents it bears;As often shrieking undistinguished woeIn clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage rideAs they did batt'ry to the spheres intend;Sometime diverted their poor balls are tiedTo th'orbed earth; sometimes they do extendTheir view right on; anon their gazes lendTo every place at once, and nowhere fixed,The mind and sight distractedly commixed.
Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plait,Proclaimed in her a careless hand of pride;For some, untucked, descended her sheaved hat,Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,And, true to bondage, would not break from thence,Though slackly braided in loose negligence.
A thousand favours from a maund she drewOf amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,Which one by one she in a river threw,Upon whose weeping margent she was set;Like usury applying wet to wet,Or monarch's hands that lets not bounty fallWhere want cries some, but where excess begs all.
Of folded schedules had she many a one,Which she perused, sighed, tore, and gave the flood;Cracked many a ring of posied gold and bone,Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;Found yet moe letters sadly penned in blood,With sleided silk feat and affectedlyEnswathed and sealed to curious secrecy.
These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,And often kissed, and often 'gan to tear;Cried "O false blood, thou register of lies,What unapproved witness dost thou bear!Ink would have seemed more black and damned here!"This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,Big discontent so breaking their contents.
A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh,Sometime a blusterer that the ruffle knewOf court, of city, and had let go byThe swiftest hours observed as they flew,Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew,And, privileged by age, desires to knowIn brief the grounds and motives of her woe.
So slides he down upon his grained bat,And comely distant sits he by her side,When he again desires her, being sat,Her grievance with his hearing to divide.If that from him there may be aught appliedWhich may her suffering ecstasy assuage,'Tis promised in the charity of age.
"Father," she says "though in me you beholdThe injury of many a blasting hour,Let it not tell your judgement I am old:Not age, but sorrow over me hath power.I might as yet have been a spreading flower,Fresh to myself, if I had self-appliedLove to myself, and to no love beside.
"But, woe is me! too early I attendedA youthful suit -it was to gain my grace -O, one by nature's outwards so commendedThat maidens' eyes stuck over all his face.Love lacked a dwelling and made him her place;And when in his fair parts she did abideShe was new-lodged and newly deified.
"His browny locks did hang in crooked curls,And every light occasion of the windUpon his lips their silken parcels hurls.What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,For on his visage was in little drawnWhat largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.
"Small show of man was yet upon his chin;His phoenix down began but to appear,Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,Whose bare outbragged the web it seemed to wear;Yet showed his visage by that cost more dear,And nice affections wavering stood in doubtIf best were as it was, or best without.
"His qualities were beauteous as his form,For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;Yet, if men moved him, was he such a stormAs oft twixt May and April is to see,When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.His rudeness so with his authorized youthDid livery falseness in a pride of truth.
"Well could he ride, and often men would say`That horse his mettle from his rider takes:Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!'And controversy hence a question takes,Whether the horse by him became his deed,Or he his manage by th' well-doing steed.
"But quickly on this side the verdict went:His real habitude gave life and graceTo appertainings and to ornament,Accomplished in himself, not in his case.All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,Came for additions; yet their purposed trimPieced not his grace, but were all graced by him.
"So on the tip of his subduing tongueAll kind of arguments and question deep,All replication prompt, and reason strong,For his advantage still did wake and sleep.To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,He had the dialect and different skill,Catching all passions in his craft of will,
"That he did in the general bosom reignOf young, of old, and sexes both enchanted,To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remainIn personal duty, following where he haunted.Consents bewitched, ere he desire, have granted,And dialogued for him what he would say,Asked their own wills, and made their wills obey.
"Many there were that did his picture getTo serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;Like fools that in th'imagination setThe goodly objects which abroad they findOf lands and mansions, theirs in thought assigned,And labour in moe pleasures to bestow themThan the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.
"So many have, that never touched his hand,Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart.My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,And was my own fee-simple, not in part,What with his art in youth, and youth in art,Threw my affections in his charmed power,Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.
"Yet did I not, as some my equals did,Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;Finding myself in honour so forbid,With safest distance I mine honour shielded.Experience for me many bulwarks buildedOf proofs new-bleeding, which remained the foilOf this false jewel and his amorous spoil.
"But ah, who ever shunned by precedentThe destined ill she must herself assay?Or forced examples 'gainst her own contentTo put the by-past perils in her way?Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay,For when we rage, advice is often seenBy blunting us to make our wills more keen.
"Nor gives it satisfaction to our bloodThat we must curb it upon others' proof,To be forbod the sweets that seems so goodFor fear of harms that preach in our behoof.O appetite, from judgement stand aloof!The one a palate hath that needs will taste,Though reason weep, and cry `It is thy last'.
"For further I could say this man's untrue,And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew;Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;Thought characters and words merely but art,And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.
"And long upon these terms I held my city,Till thus he 'gan besiege me: `Gentle maid,Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,And be not of my holy vows afraid.That's to ye sworn to none was ever said;For feasts of love I have been called unto,Till now did ne'er invite nor never woo.
" `All my offences that abroad you seeAre errors of the blood, none of the mind;Love made them not; with acture they may be,Where neither party is nor true nor kind.They sought their shame that so their shame did find;And so much less of shame in me remainsBy how much of me their reproach contains.
" `Among the many that mine eyes have seen,Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed,Or my affection put to th' smallest teen,Or any of my leisures ever charmed.Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harmed;Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,And reigned commanding in his monarchy.
" `Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent meOf pallid pearls and rubies red as blood,Figuring that they their passions likewise lent meOf grief and blushes, aptly understoodIn bloodless white and the encrimsoned mood -Effects of terror and dear modesty,Encamped in hearts, but fighting outwardly.
" `And lo, behold these talents of their hair,With twisted metal amorously impleached,I have received from many a several fair,Their kind acceptance weepingly beseeched,With the annexions of fair gems enriched,And deep-brained sonnets that did amplifyEach stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.
" `The diamond? -why, 'twas beautiful and hard,Whereto his invised properties did tend;The deep-green em'rald, in whose fresh regardWeak sights their sickly radiance do amend;The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blendWith objects manifold: each several stone,With wit well blazoned, smiled or made some moan." `Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,Of pensived and subdued desires the tender,Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not,But yield them up where I myself must render -That is to you, my origin and ender;For these, of force, must your oblations be,Since I their altar, you enpatron me.
" `O then advance of yours that phraseless hand,Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise.Take all these similes to your own command,Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise.What me your minister, for you obeys,Works under you, and to your audit comesTheir distract parcels in combined sums.
" `Lo, this device was sent me from a nun,A sister sanctified, of holiest note,Which late her noble suit in court did shun,Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,But kept cold distance, and did thence removeTo spend her living in eternal love.
" `But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leaveThe thing we have not, mast'ring what not strives,Planing the place which did no form receive,Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves!She that her fame so to herself contrives,The scars of battle scapeth by the flight,And makes her absence valiant, not her might.
" `O pardon me, in that my boast is true!The accident which brought me to her eyeUpon the moment did her force subdue,And now she would the caged cloister fly:Religious love put out religion's eye.Not to be tempted, would she be immured,And now to tempt, all liberty procured.
" `How mighty then you are, O hear me tell!The broken bosoms that to me belongHave emptied all their fountains in my well,And mine I pour your ocean all among.I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,Must for your victory us all congest,As compound love to physic your cold breast.
" `My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,Believed her eyes when they t'assail begun,All vows and consecrations giving place.O most potential love! -vow, bond, nor space,In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,For thou art all, and all things else are thine.
" `When thou impressest, what are precepts worthOf stale example? When thou wilt inflame,How coldly those impediments stand forth,Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst shame;And sweetens, in the suff'ring pangs it bears,The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.
" `Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine,And supplicant their sighs to you extend,To leave the batt'ry that you make 'gainst mine,Lending soft audience to my sweet design,And credent soul to that strong-bonded oathThat shall prefer and undertake my troth.'
"This said, his wat'ry eyes he did dismount,whose sights till then were levelled on my face;Each cheek a river running from a fountWith brinish current downward flowed apace.O how the channel to the stream gave grace!Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing rosesThat flame through water which their hue encloses.
"O father, what a hell of witchcraft liesIn the small orb of one particular tear!But with the inundation of the eyesWhat rocky heart to water will not wear?What breast so cold that is not warmed here?O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath,Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.
"For lo, his passion, but an art of craft,Even there resolved my reason into tears;There my white stole of chastity I daffed,Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;Appear to him as he to me appears,All melting; though our drops this diff'rence bore:His poisoned me, and mine did him restore.
"In him a plenitude of subtle matter,Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,Of burning blushes or of weeping water,Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,In either's aptness, as it best deceives,To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows,
"That not a heart which in his level cameCould scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;And, veiled in them, did win whom he would maim.Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;When he most burned in heart-wished luxuryHe preached pure maid and praised cold chastity.
"Thus merely with the garment of a graceThe naked and concealed fiend he covered,That th'unexperient gave the tempter place,Which like a cherubin above them hovered.Who, young and simple, would not be so lovered?Ay me, I fell; and yet do question makeWhat I should do again for such a sake.
"O, that infected moisture of his eye,O, that false fire which in his cheek so glowed,O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestowed,O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed,Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed,And new pervert a reconciled maid."
THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLEA POEM BYWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
The Phoenix and the TurtleLet the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be,To whose sound chaste wings obey.But thou shrieking harbinger,Foul precurrer of the fiend,Augur of the fever's end,To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wingSave the eagle, feather'd king:Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice whiteThat defunctive music can,Be the death-divining swan,Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,That thy sable gender mak'stWith the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:—Love and constancy is dead;Phoenix and the turtle fledIn a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twainHad the essence but in one;Two distincts, division none;Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;Distance, and no space was seen'Twixt the turtle and his queen:But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,That the turtle saw his rightFlaming in the phoenix' sight;Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appall'd,That the self was not the same;Single nature's double nameNeither two nor one was call'd.
Reason, in itself confounded,Saw division grow together;To themselves yet either neither;Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, 'How true a twainSeemeth this concordant one!Love hath reason, reason noneIf what parts can so remain.'
Whereupon it made this threneTo the phoenix and the dove,Co-supremes and stars of love,As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,Grace in all simplicity,Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix' nest;And the turtle's loyal breastTo eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:'Twas not their infirmity,It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
THE RAPE OF LUCRECEPOEM BYWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
DEDICATION
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTONBARON OF TITCHFIELD
The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end: whereof this pamphlet, without beginning is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, make it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life still lengthened with all happiness.
Your lordship's in all duty, William Shakespeare
THE ARGUMENT
Lucius Tarquinius, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own father-in-law Servius Tullius to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife; among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece' beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate, royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls.
such a look'; But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue 'can lurk' from 'cannot' took; 'It cannot be' she in that sense forsook, And turned it thus, 'It cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind;
'For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, So sober-sad, so weary and so mild, As if with grief or travail he had fainted, To me came Tarquin armed to beguild With outward honesty, but yet defiled With inward vice. As Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish.
Look, look, how list'ning Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds. Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise? For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds; His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds; Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.
'Such devils steal effects from lightless hell; For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell; These contraries such unity do hold Only to flatter fools and make them bold; So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears doth flatter That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.'
Here, all enraged, such passion her assails, That patience is quite beaten from her breast. She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, Comparing him to that unhappy guest Whose deed hath made herself herself At last she smilingly with this gives o'er: 'Fool, fool!' quoth she, 'his wounds will not be sore.'
Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining. She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining. Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining; Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.
Which all this time hath overslipped her thought That she with painted images hath spent, Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others' detriment, Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured.
But now the mindful messenger come back Brings home his lord and other company; Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black, And round about her tear-distained eye Blue circles streamed, like rainbows in the sky. These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent.
Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares: Her eyes, though sod in tears, looked red and raw, Her lively colour killed with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares; Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from home, wond'ring each other's chance.
At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins: 'What uncouth ill event Hath thee befall'n. that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent? Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.'
Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire Ere once she can discharge one word of woe; At length addressed to answer his desire, She modestly prepares to let them know Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe; While Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words.
And now this pale swan in her wat'ry nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. 'Few words', quoth she, 'shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending: In me moe woes than words are now depending; And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.
'Then be this all the task it hath to say: Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; And what wrong else may be imagined By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free.
'For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came: A creeping creature with a flaming light, And softly cried "Awake, thou Roman dame, And entertain my love; else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict, If thou my love's desire do contradict.
"'For some hard-favoured groom of thine," quoth he, "Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee, And swear I found you where you did fulfill The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill The lechers in their deed: this act will be My fame, and thy perpetual infamy."
'With this, I did begin to start and cry, And then against my heart he set his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently, I should not live to speak another word; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Rome Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.
'Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, And far the weaker with so strong a fear. My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; No rightful plea might plead for justice there. His scarlet lust came evidence to swear That my poor beauty had purloined his eyes, And when the judge is robbed, the prisoner dies.
'O, teach me how to make mine own excuse! Or, at the least, this refuge let me find: Though my gross blood be stained with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind; That was not forced; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poisoned closet yet endure.'
Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declined, and voice damned up with woe, With sad-set eyes and wreathed arms across, From lips new waxen pale begins to blow The grief away that stops his answer so; But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain; What he breathes out his breath drinks up again.
As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast, In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past; Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, To push grief on and back the same grief draw.
Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh: 'Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power; no flood by raining slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling-painful. Let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes.
'And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me: Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Thine, mine, his own; suppose thou dost defend me From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die; "For sparing justice feeds iniquity.
'But ere I name him, you fair lords', quoth she, Speaking to those that came with Collatine, 'Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine; For 'tis a meritorious fair design To chase injustice with revengeful arms: Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms.'
At this request, with noble disposition Each present lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, The protestation stops. 'O, speak,' quoth she, 'How may this forced stain be wiped from me?
'What is the quality of my offence, Being constrained with dreadful circumstance? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, My low-declined honour to advance? May any terms acquit me from this chance? The poisoned fountain clears itself again; And why not I from this compelled stain?'
With this, they all at once began to say, Her body's stain her mind untainted clears; While with a joyless smile she turns. away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears. 'No, no,' quoth she, 'no dame hereafter living By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.'
Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin's name: 'He, he,' she says, But more than 'he' her poor tongue could not speak; Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, She utters this: 'He, he, fair lords, 'tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me.'
Even here, she sheathed in her harmless breast A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed: That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed. Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged sprite and through her wounds doth fly Life's lasting date from cancelled destiny.
Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed, Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew; Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed, Himself on her self-slaught'red body threw; And from the purple fountain Brutus drew The murd'rous knife, and, as it left the place, Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase;
And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side, Who like a late-sacked island vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pure and red remained, And some looked black, and that false Tarquin stained.
About the mourning and congealed face Of that black blood a wat'ry rigol goes, Which seems to weep upon the tainted place; And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Corrupted blood some watery token shows; And blood untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrified.
'Daughter, dear daughter,' old Lucretius cries, 'That life was mine which thou hast here deprived. If in the child the father's image lies, Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. If children predecease progenitors, We are their offspring, and they none of ours.
'Poor broken glass, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance my old age new born; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn; O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, And shivered all the beauty of my glass, That I no more can see what once I was.
'O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer, If they surcease to be that should survive. Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And leave the falt'ring feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive. Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee.'
By this, starts Collatine as from a dream, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place; And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And counterfeits to die with her a space; Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, And live to be revenged on her death.
The deep vexation of his inward soul Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue; Who, mad that sorrow should his use control Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid That no man could distinguish what he said.
Yet sometime 'Tarquin' was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more; At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er; Then son and father weep with equal strife Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.
The one doth call her his, the other his, Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. The father says 'She's mine'. 'O, mine she is,' Replies her husband: 'do not take away My sorrow's interest; let no mourner say He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wailed by Collatine.'
'O,' quoth Lucretius, 'I did give that life Which she too early and too late hath spilled.' 'Woe, woe,' quoth Collatine, 'she was my wife; I owed her, and 'tis mine that she hath killed.' 'My daughter' and 'my wife' with clamours filled The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece' life, Answered their cries, 'my daughter' and 'my wife'.
Brutus, who plucked the knife from Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show. He with the Romans was esteemed so As silly jeering idiots are with kings, For sportive words and utt'ring foolish things.
But now he throws that shallow habit by Wherein deep policy did him disguise, And armed his long-hid wits advisedly To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes. 'Thou wronged lord of Rome,' quoth he, 'arise; Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school.
'Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds? Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds. Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.
'Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations, But kneel with me and help to bear thy part To rouse our Roman gods with invocations That they will suffer these abominations, Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced, By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased.
'Now by the Capitol that we adore, And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store, By all our country rights in Rome maintained, And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complained Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife.'
This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, And kissed the fatal knife to end his vow, And to his protestation urged the rest, Who, wond'ring at him, did his words allow; Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow, And that deep vow which Brutus made before He doth again repeat, and that they swore.
When they had sworn to this advised doom, They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence, To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence; Which being done with speedy diligence, The Romans plausible did give consent To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

Venus and AdonisPoem byWilliam Shakespeare
Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase; Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn; Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began, The field's chief flower, sweet above compare, Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, More white and red than doves or roses are; Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow; If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know: Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;
And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed 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 precedent of pith and livelihood, And trembling in her passion, calls it balm, Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good: Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, Under her other was the tender boy, Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain, With leaden appetite, unapt to toy; She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly she fastens: -- O, how quick is love! -- The steed is stalled up, and even now To tie the rider she begins to prove: Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along as he was down, Each leaning on their elbows and their hips: Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips; And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'
He burns with bashful shame: she with her tears Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks; Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs To fan and blow them dry again she seeks: He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss; What follows more she murders with a kiss.
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone; Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends she doth anew begin.
Forced to content, but never to obey, Panting he lies and breatheth in her face; She feedeth on the steam as on a prey, And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace; Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies; Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes: Rain added to a river that is rank Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale; Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale: Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Her best is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave; But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer's heat More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. Her help she sees, but help she cannot get; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: O, pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy! Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now, Even by the stern and direful god of war, Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow, Who conquers where he comes in every jar; Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.
Over my altars hath he hung his lance, His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest, And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance, To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest, Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
Thus he that overruled I oversway'd, Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain: Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!
Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, -- Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red -- The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head: Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again, And I will wink; so shall the day seem night; Love keeps his revels where they are but twain; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight: These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
The tender spring upon thy tempting lip Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted: Make use of time, let not advantage slip; Beauty within itself should not be wasted: Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time.
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice, Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee But having no defects, why dost abhor me?
Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow; Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning: My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning; My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'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 lie; These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me; Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn till night, even where I list to sport me: Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou 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 woo thyself, be of thyself rejected, Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft. Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear: Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse: Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty; Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.
Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed? By law of nature thou art bound to breed, That thine may live when thou thyself art dead; And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, In that thy likeness still is left alive.'
By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, For where they lay the shadow had forsook them, And Titan, tired in the 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 louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapours when they blot the sky, Souring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love! The sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'
Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind? What bare excuses makest thou to be gone! I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending sun: I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs; If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.
The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee: The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me; And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly sun.
Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth? Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth? O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit? What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute: Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again, And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, Well-painted idol, image dun and dead, Statue contenting but the eye alone, Thing like a man, but of no woman bred! Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction.'
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he 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 lily fingers one in one.
Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain Then be my deer, since I am such a park; No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple: Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple; Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking. Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!
Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say? Her words are done, her woes are more increasing; The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge releasing. Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!' Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.
But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, Adonis' trampling courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder; The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with.
His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end; His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, With gentle majesty and modest pride; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried, And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'
What recketh he his rider's angry stir, His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'? What cares he now for curb or pricking spur? For rich caparisons or trapping gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, His art with nature's workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed; So did this horse excel a common one In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather; To bid the wind a base he now prepares, And whether he run or fly they know not whether; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave 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 woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy malcontent, He veils his tail that, like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent: He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume. His love, perceiving how he is enraged, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.
His testy master goeth about to take him; When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear, Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there: As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boisterous and unruly beast: And now the happy season once more fits, That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest; For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: So of concealed sorrow may be said; Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage; But when the heart's attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.
He sees her coming, and begins to glow, Even as a dying coal revives with wind, And with his bonnet hides his angry brow; Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, Taking no notice that she is so nigh, For all askance he holds her in his eye.
O, what a sight it was, wistly to view How she came stealing to the wayward boy! To note the fighting conflict of her hue, How white and red each other did destroy! But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.
Now was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels; With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels: His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print, As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.
O, what a war of looks was then between them! Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing; His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them; Her eyes 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 lily prison'd in a gaol of snow, Or ivory in an alabaster band; So white a friend engirts so white a foe: This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began: O fairest mover on this mortal round, Would thou wert as I am, and I a man, My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound; For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!
Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?' Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it: O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it, And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it: Then love's deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'
For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go; My day's delight is past, my horse is gone, And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so: I pray you hence, and leave me here alone; For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.'
Thus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should, Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire: Affection is a coal that must be cool'd; Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire: The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none; Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree, Servilely master'd with a leathern rein! But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee, He held such petty bondage in disdain; Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.
Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed, His other agents aim at like delight? Who is so faint, that 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 not know it, Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it; Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it; My love to love is love but to disgrace it; For I have heard it is a life in death, That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.
Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth? If springing things be any jot diminish'd, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth: The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.
You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part, And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat: Remove your siege from my unyielding heart; To love's alarms it will not ope the gate: Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery; For where a heart is hard they make no battery.'
What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue? O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing! Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong; I had my load before, now press'd with bearing: Melodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding, Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.
Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love That inward beauty and invisible; Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible: Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me, And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, And nothing but the very smell were left me, Yet would my love to thee be still as much; For from the stillitory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by smelling.
But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste, Being nurse and feeder of the other four! Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid Suspicion double-lock the door, Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'
Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd, Which to his speech did honey passage yield; Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
This ill presage advisedly she marketh: Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth, Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, His meaning struck her ere his words begun.
And at his look she flatly falleth down, For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth; A smile recures the wounding of a frown; But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth! The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;
And all amazed brake off his late intent, For sharply he did think to reprehend her, Which cunning love did wittily prevent: Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her! For on the grass she lies as she were slain, Till his breath breatheth life in her again.
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd: He kisses her; and she, by her good will, Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.
The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day: Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth; And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumined with her eye;
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd, As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine. Were never four such lamps together mix'd, Had not his clouded with his brow's repine; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light, Shone like the moon in water seen by night.
O, where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven, Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire? What hour is this? or morn or weary even? Do I delight to die, or life desire? But now I lived, and life was death's annoy; But now I died, and death was lively joy.
O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again: Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.
Long may they kiss each other, for this cure! O, never let their crimson liveries wear! And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year! That the star-gazers, having writ on death, May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.
Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted, What bargains may I make, still to be sealing? To sell myself I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing; Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.
A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. What is ten hundred touches unto thee? Are they not quickly told and quickly gone? Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years: Before I know myself, seek not to know me; No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears: The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste.
Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west; The owl, night's herald, shrieks, ''Tis very late;' The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light Do summon us to part and bid good night.
Now let me say 'Good night,' and so say you; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.' Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says 'Adieu,' The honey fee of parting tender'd is: Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace; Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.
Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth: He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth; Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, Paying what ransom the insulter willeth; Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high, That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry:
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, With blindfold fury she begins to forage; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage, Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.
Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired 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 tempering, And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing, Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O, had she then gave over, Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover; What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd: Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him; The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolved no longer to restrain him; Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest, He carries thence incaged in his breast.
Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow, For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet 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 cheek; she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws: She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion mounted for the hot encounter: All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.
Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes, Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw, Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. The warm effects which she in him finds missing She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain; good queen, it will not be: She hath assay'd as much as may be proved; Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee; She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved. Fie, fie,' he says, 'you crush me; let me go; You have no reason to withhold me so.'
Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this, But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. O, be advised! thou know'st not what it is With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes never sheathed 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'er he goes; Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way, And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.
His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd, Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture: The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes; But having thee at vantage, -- wondrous dread! -- Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.
O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still; Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends: Come not within his danger by thy will; They that thrive well take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.
Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.
For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy Doth call himself Affection's sentinel; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!' Distempering gentle Love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire.
This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, This canker that eats up Love's tender spring, This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, Knocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry-chafing boar, Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore; Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.
What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That tremble at the imagination? The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination: I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.
But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox which lives by subtlety, Or at the roe which no encounter dare: Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.
And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles How he outruns the wind and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many musets through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer: Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
For there his smell with others being mingled, The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies.
By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, To harken if his foes pursue him still: Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way; Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never relieved by any.
Lie quietly, and hear a little more; Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise: To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize, Applying this to that, and so to so; For love can comment upon every woe.
Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he, Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: The night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she. I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends; And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.' In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all
But if thou fall, O, then imagine this, The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.
Now of this dark night I perceive the reason: Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine; Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite, To shame the sun by day and her by night.
And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies To cross the curious workmanship of nature, To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad mischances and much misery;
As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood: Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.
And not the least of all these maladies But in one minute's fight brings beauty under: Both favour, savour, hue and qualities, Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder, Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done, As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.
Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, That on the earth would breed a scarcity And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.
What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
So in thyself thyself art made away; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life. Foul-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 theme: The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream; For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there;
Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast; And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest. No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
What have you urged that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger: I hate not love, but your device in love, That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase: O strange excuse, When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!
Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled, Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust's effect is tempest after sun; Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done; Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness, now I will away; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen: Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended, Do burn themselves for having so offended.'
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace, Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, And homeward through the dark laund runs apace; Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd. Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.
Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood, Or stonish'd 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 cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!' And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty; How love makes young men thrall and old men dote; How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty: Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Her song was tedious and outwore the night, For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short: If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight In such-like circumstance, with suchlike 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-tongued tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;' And would say after her, if she said 'No.'
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow: O thou clear god, and patron of all light, From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, Musing the morning is so much o'erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love: She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn: Anon she hears them chant 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 ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay; Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder; Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds 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 courtesy who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprise her heart; Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part: Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy; Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd, She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy, And childish error, that they are afraid; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more: -- And with that word she spied the hunted boar,
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: This way runs, and now she will no further, But back retires to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; She treads the path that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting; In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound, And asks the weary caitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster; And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice; Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies; So she at these sad signs draws up her breath And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love,' -- thus chides she Death, -- Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, Who when he lived, 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 infant's heart.
Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower: Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest 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 vigour, Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'
Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt; But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best: then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo; A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous! Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous: The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought; Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame; It was not she that call'd him, all-to naught: Now she adds honours to his hateful name; She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things.
No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear When as I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow, -- truth I must confess, -- I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.
'Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander; Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he's author of thy slander: Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With Death she humbly doth insinuate; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories.
O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemm'd 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 falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;
Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, Shrinks backward 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 their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain; Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again; Who like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,
Whereat each tributary subject quakes; As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;
And, being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd: No 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, franticly 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 til now.
Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye, That makes more gashes where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
My tongue cannot express my grief for one, And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead: Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire! So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or any thing ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim; But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.
Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you: But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:
And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; The wind would blow it off and, being gone, Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
To see his face the lion walk'd along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him; If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey And never fright the silly lamb that day.
When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave: If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.
'Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain: He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, Who did not whet his teeth at him again, But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill'd him first; But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I 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 ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woeful words she told; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;
Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect: Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.
Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.
It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.
It shall be sparing and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child.
It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, Put fear to 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 combustious matter is to fire: Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'
By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'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 crops 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 breast as in his blood.
Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's 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 herself and not be seen.