Imatges de pàgina
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Where they refign'd their office and their light
To the difpofing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them ftill confort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their fuggeftion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary fubject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for paffage, 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;

And, being open'd, threw unwilling fight
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd
In his foft flank; whofe wonted lily white

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd :
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But ftole his blood, and feem'd with him to bleed.

This folemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly fhe paffions, franticly fhe 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 fo ftedfastly,

That her fight dazzling makes the wound feem three;
And then the reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face feems twain, each feveral limb is doubled;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

My tongue cannot exprefs my grief for one,
And yet, quoth fhe, 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 fhall I die by drops of hot defire.

Alas, poor world, `what treasure haft thou loft!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whofe tongue is mufick now? what canft thou boast
Of things long fince, or any thing enfuing?

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The flowers are fweet, 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 ftrive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lofe, you need not fear;

The fun doth fcorn 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 whofe brim the gawdy fun 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 fee his face, the lion walk'd along

Behind fome hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself, when he hath fung,

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.

When he beheld his fhadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds fuch pleasure took,
That fome would fing, fome 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-fnouted boar,
Whose downward eye ftill looketh for a grave,
Ne'er faw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave;

If he did fee his face, why then I know,
He thought to kifs him, and hath kill'd him fo.

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

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving fwine
Sheath'd, unaware, his tufk in his foft groin.

Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confefs
With kiffing 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 fhe ftood,
And ftains 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 fhe told :

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,

Where lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies:

Two glaffes, 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 fhe, this is my spite,

That, you being dead, the day thould yet be light.

Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophefy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend;
It shall be waited on with jealousy,

Find fweet beginning, but unfavoury end 5
Ne'er fettled equally, too high or low;
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.

It shall be fickle, falfe, and full of fraud,
And shall be blafted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erftraw'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 fufpect, where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear, where it should most miftruft;

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 fon and fire;
Subject and fervile to all discontents,
As dry combuftious matter is to fire;

Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love beft, their love shall not enjoy.

By this, the boy that by her fide lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her fight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower fprung up, chequer'd with white;
Refembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-fprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;

And fays, within her bofom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death:

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping fap, which the compares to tears.

Poor flower, quoth fhe, this was thy father's guise, (Sweet iffue of a more sweet-fmelling fire) For every little grief to wet his eyes:.

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grow unto himself was his defire,

And fo '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 breaft
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy reft,

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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