Imatges de pàgina

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, impostumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
Swear nature's death for framing thee fo 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 th’ imperial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day 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 fons,

Be prodigal : the lamp that burns by night,


his oil, to lend the world his light.

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that pofterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in their obscurity?

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride fo fair a hope is slain.

So in thyself thyself art made away ;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or their’s, whose desperate hands themselves do flay,
Or butcher-fire, 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 faļl again

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-fac'd 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 my ear,
And will not let a false found 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 foundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth unto danger;
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.

You do it for increase: 0 strange excuse !
When reason is the bawd to luft's abuse.

Call it not love, for love to heaven is filed,
Since sweating luft on earth usurps his name ;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;

Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth, like sun-line after rain,
But luft's effect is tempest after sun,
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Luft'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 lawns 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 ;

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Which after him the darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him feen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend;

So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware
Hath 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;
Paffion on paffion deeply is redoubled :

Ab me! she cries, and twenty times, woe, woe!
And twenty echoes twenty times cry fo.

She marking them, begins a wailing note,
And sings extemp’rally 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 answers fo.

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short :
If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight
In such like circumstance, with such like sport:

Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal,
But idle sounds, resembling parasites,
Like Thrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?

She said, 'tis so: they answer all, 'tis fo;
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 hafteth 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 chaunt it luftily,
And all in haste the coasteth to the cry.

And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay ;
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,

Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ake,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreath'd up in fatal folds, just in his

way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder :

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses, and her spright 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 fo curst,
They all strain court'fy who shall cope him first.

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