Imatges de pàgina

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 on his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.

Now is the 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 Elyfium, and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries faw:

The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain ; good queen, it will not be :
She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd ;
Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee ;
She’s Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.

Fie, fie, he says, you crush me ; let me go ;
You have no reason to withhold me fo.

Thou hadst been gone, quoth she, sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'st me, thou would'st hunt the boar.
O be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,

Whose tushes never-sheath'd he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

On his bow-back he hath a battle fet
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 mov'd, he strikes what e'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.

His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter ;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed ;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture :

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes.

Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eye pays tributary gazes ;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ;

But having thee at vantage (wond'rous 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?


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 centinel
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill ;

Diftemp’ring gentle love with his desire,
As air and water doth abate the fire.

This four informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissensious jealousy,
That sometimes true news, sometimes false doth bring,

Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:

And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore ;

Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the head.

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That trembling 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 rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty,
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare :

Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch to overshut his troubles,
How he out-runs the wind, and with what care
He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles :

The many musits through the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

Sometime he runs among the 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 forteth 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 ądo 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 hearken if his foes pursue him still.;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;

And now his grief may be compared well
To one fore-sick, that hears the passing bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay :

For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low, never reliey'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 thyself, 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 fees 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.

make rich men thieves; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Left 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 The fram’d thee in high heaven's despite,
To shame the fun 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 fad mischances and much misery;

« AnteriorContinua »