Imatges de pàgina
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Where they resign’d their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain ;
Who bids them still confort 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 ;
A's when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
Which with cold terrors doth men's mind confound:

This mutiny each part doth so surprise,
That from their dark beds, once more, leap her eyes ;

1

And, being open'd, threw unwilling fight
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 the hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead.

Her voice is stopp’d, her joints forget to bow;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so stedfastly,
That her fight 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 fighs are blown away, my falt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead :

Heavy heart's lead melt at mine eyes, as fire !
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world, what treasure haft thou loft!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing ?
Whose tongue is mufick 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 liv'd and dy'd in him.

;

Bonnet or veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor fun 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 liv'd, fun 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 gawdy 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 fome hedge, because he would not fear him
To recreate himself, when he hath sung,
The tyger would be tame, and gently hear him:

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
And never fright the filly lamb that day.

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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 fight, 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 fo.

'Tis true, 'tis true ; thus was Adonis slain;
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who would not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to perswade him there ;

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath’d, unaware, his tulk 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 I am accurft.

With this the falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ear a heavy tale,
As if he heard the 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 loft, wherein they late excell’d,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect :

Wonder of time, quoth she, this is my spite,
That, you 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, too high or low;
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.

It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,
And shall be blasted in a breathing-while ;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets, that shall the sharpest fight beguile :

The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wife 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 filly-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 miftrust;
It shall be merciful, and too severe,
And most deceiving, when it seems most just;

Perverse it shall be, when it seems most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

It shall be cause of war, and dire events,
And fet diffention 'twixt the son and fire ;
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 love shall not enjoy.

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d,
A purple flower sprung up, 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 bofom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:

the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

She crops

Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy father's guise,
(Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling fire)
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 of an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.

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