Right Honourable,

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht Lines to your Lordship; nor how the World will censure me for choosing so strong a Prop to support so weak a Burthen; only if

Your Honour seem but pleas'd, I account my self highly praised, and vow to take Advantage of all idle Hours, till I have honoured you with some graver Labour. But if the first Heir of my Invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a God-father, and never after eare so barren a Land for fear it yield me still so bad a Harvest. I leave it to Your honourable Survey, and Your Honour to Your Heart's Content; which I wish may always answer Your own Wish, and the World's hopeful Expectation.

Your Honour's in all Duty,
Will. Shakespear.

Volume 7: Venus and Adonis
Even as the Sun, with purple coloured Face,
Had ta'n his last Leave of the weeping Morn.
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the Chase:
Hunting he lov'd, but Love he laught to Scorn.
  Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
  And like a bold-fac'd Suter 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer, than my self! (thus she began)
The Fields 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 her self 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 hony Secrets shalt thou know.
  Here come and sit, where Serpent never 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 Summers day will seem an Hour but short,
  Being wasted in such Time-beguiling Sport.
With this she seizeth on his sweating Palm,
The President of Pith and Livelihood,
And trembling in her Passion calls it Balm;
Earth's sovereign Salve to do a Goddess good.
  Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force,
  Couragiously to pluck him from his Horse.
Over one Arm the lusty Coursers Rein,
Under the 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, tho' 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 says she is immodest, blames her miss,
  What follows more, she smothers with a Kiss.
Even as an empty Eagle, sharp by Faste,
Tires with her Beak on Feathers, Flesh and Bone,
Shaking her Wings, devouring all in Haste,
Till either Gorge be stuft, or Prey be gone:
  Even so she kist his Brow, his Cheek his Chin,
  And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forc'd to Consent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing 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 aw'd 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 he is sullen, still he lowers and frets,
'Twixt crimson Shame, and Anger ashie Pale.
  Being red she loves him best, and being white,
  Her Breast is better'd with a more Delight.

Look how he can, she cannot chuse 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 his Lips were ready for his Pay,
  He winks and turns his Lips another Way.
Never did Passenger, in Summers Heat,
More thirst for Drink, than she for this good Turn;
Her Help she sees, but Help she cannot get,
She baths in Water, yet in Fire must burn.
  Oh Pity gan she cry, flint-hearted Boy!
  'Tis but a Kiss I beg, why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now,
Even by the stern, and direful God of War,
Whose sinowy Neck in Battel 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 coy, 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 over-rul'd, I over-sway'd;
Leading him Prisoner in a red Rose Chain.
Strong temper'd Steel, his stronger Strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy Disdain.
  Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy Might,
  For mastring her, that foil'd the God of Fight!
Touch but my Lips with those fair Lips of thine,
(Tho' mine be not so fair, yet they are 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, where thy Beauty lies,
  Then why not Lips on Lips, since Eyes on Eyes?
Art thou asham'd to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink, so shall the Day seem Night,
Love keeps his Revels, where there be but twain.
Be bold to play, our Sport is not in Sight.
  These blew-vein'd Violets whereon we lean
  Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender Spring, upon thy tempting Lip,
Shews thee unripe; yet may'st thou well be tasted.
Make use of Time, let not Advantage slip,
Beauty within it self would 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-natur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in Voice,
O'er-worn, despised, rheumatick 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 can'st 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 as 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 dishevel'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 lye
The 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 wooe thy self, be of thy self rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain of Theft.
  Narcissus so himself, himself forsook,
  And dy'd 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 growths abuse.
  Seeds spring from Seeds, and Beauty breedeth Beauty;
  Thou wert begot, to get it is thy Duty.

Upon the Earths 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 thy self art Dead:
  And so in spight 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 lowring Brows o'rewhelming his fair Sight,
Like misty Vapours, when they blot the Sky,
  Sowring his Cheeks, cries fie, no more of Love,
  The Sun doth burn my Face, I must remove.
Ah me! (quoth Venus) Young and so unkind!
What bare Excuses mak'st 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 loe, I lie between the 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 born so bad 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 Sute?
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 Int'rest, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, liveless Picture, cold and senseless Stone;
Well Painted Idol, Image dull and dead;
Statue contenting but the Eye alone;
Thing like a Man, but of no Woman bred.
  Thou art no Man, tho' 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 her 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 Lilly Fingers one in one.

Fondling, faith she, since I have hemm'd thee here,
Within the Circuit of this Ivory Pale,
I'll be the 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 rouze thee, tho' 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 liv'd, and there he cou'd not die.
These loving 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 with Scorn.
Now which Way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her Words are done, her Woes the more encreasing:
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 loe, from forth a Copp's that Neighbours 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 ty'd unto a Tree,
  Breaketh his Rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven Girts he breaks asunder;
The bearing Earth with his hard Hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow Womb resounds like Heavens Thunder:
  The Iron Bit he crushes 'tween his Teeth,
  Controlling what he was controlled with.
His Ears up prick'd his braided hanging Mane
Upon his compast Crest now stands an end:
His Nostrils drink the Air, and forth again,
As from a Furnace Vapours doth he lend:
  His Eye, which scornfully glisters like Fire,
  Shews his hot Courage, and his high Desire.
Sometimes 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, loe, thus my Strength is try'd;
  And thus I do to captivate the Eye
  Of the fair Breeder, that is standing by.
What recketh he his Riders angry Stir,
His flatt'ring Holla, or his Stand, I say?
What cares he now for Curb, or pricking Spur?
For rich Caparisons, or Trappings gay?
  He sees his Love, and nothing else he sees:
  For nothing else with his proud Sight agrees.

Look when a Painter wou'd surpass the Life,
In Limning out a well proportion'd Steed,
His Art, with Natures Workmanship at Strife,
As if the Dead the Living should exceed:
  So did his Horse excell a common One,
  In Shape, in Courage, Colour, Pace and Bone.
Round Hooft, short Jointed, Fetlocks shag and long,
Broad Breast, full Eyes, small Head, and Nostril wide,
High Crest, short Ears, strait 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.
Sometimes 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 where he run, or flie, they know not whether.
  For through his Mane and Tail the high Wind Sings,
  Fanning the Hairs, which heave 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 seehim wooe 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 Male-content,
He vails his Tail; that like a falling plume,
Cool Shadow to his melting Buttocks lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor Flies in his Fume:
  His Love perceiving how he is inrag'd,
  Grew Kinder, and his Fury was asswag'd.

His teasty Master goes about to take him,
When loe! 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 chasing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boystrous 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 bar'd the Aidance of the Tongue.
An Oven, that is stop'd, or River staid,
Burneth more hotly swelleth with more Rage:
So of concealed Sorrow may be said;
Free vent of Words Loves Fire doth asswage:
  But when the Hearts Attorney once is mute,
  The Client breaks, as desperate in his Sute.
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 ascance 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 Cheeks feels:
  His tender Cheeks receive her soft-Hands print,
  As apt, as new-fallen Snow takes any Dint.
Oh 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 Lilly prison'd in a Jail of Snow,
Or Ivory in an Alablaster Band,
So white a Friend ingirts so white a Foe!
  This beauteous Combat, wilful and unwilling,
  Shew'd like to 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 my Help I would assure thee,
  Tho' nothing but my Body's Bane would cure thee.
Give me my Hand (saith he) why dost thou feel it?
Give me thy 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 crys, let go, and let me go,
My Day's Delight is past, my Horse is gone,
And 'tis your Fault, I am berest him so.
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone.
  For all my Mind, my Thought, my busie 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 Cole, 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 tho' thy Horse be gone.
How like a Jade he stood, ty'd to a Tree,
Servilely mastred with a leathern Reign!
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 Hiew, 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,
Tho' 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 I 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 unfinisht?
Who plucks the Bud before one Leaf put forth?
If springing Things be any Jot diminisht,
They wither in their Prime, prove nothing worth.
  The Colt that's backt, and burthen'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 Alarm it will not ope the Gate.
  Dismiss your Vows, your fained Tears, your Flattry;
  For where a Heart is hard, they make no Battry.
What, canst thou talk? (quoth she) hast thou a Tongue?
O! would thou had'st not, or I had no hearing!
Thy Mermaid's Voice hath done me double Wrong!
I had my Load before, now prest with bearing.
  Melodious Discord! heavenly Tune harsh sounding!
  Earth's deep sweet Musick! and Heart's deep sorewounding!
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 of me, that were but sensible.
  Tho' neither Eyes, nor Ears to hear nor see,
  Yet should I be in love, by touching thee.

Say, that the Sense of Reason 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 Stillatory of thy Face excelling,
  Comes Breath perfum'd, that breedeth Love by Smelling.
But oh! What Banquet wert thou to the Tast.
Being Nurse and Feeder of the other Four!
Would they not wish the Feast should ever last,
And bid Suspicion double lock the Door,
  Lest Jealousie, 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,
Wrack to the Sea-men, Tempest to the Field,
  Sorrow to Shepherds, Woe unto the Birds,
  Gust and foul Flaws to Herdmen and to Herds.
This ill Presage advisedly she marketh,
Even as the Wind is husht 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 stroke her e'er 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 in Amaze 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 breathed 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 mar'd,
  He kisses her, and she, by her good Will,
  Would 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 World relieveth:
  And as the bright Sun glorifies the Skie,
  So is her Face illumin'd with her Eye.
Whose Beams upon his hairless Face are fixt,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their Shine:
Were never four such Lamps together mixt,
Had not his Clouded, with his Brows repine.
  But hers, which thro' the Chrystal 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 drencht! or in the Fire!
What Hour is this? or Morn, or weary Even?
Do I delight to die? or Life desire?
  But now I liv'd, and Life was Death's Annoy:
  But now I dy'd, and Death was lively Joy.

O! thou didst kill me, kill me once again,
Thy Eyes, shrew'd Tutor, that hard Heart of thine
Have 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 pitious Lips no more had seen.
Long may they kiss each other for this Cure!
Oh 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 my self 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 they Leisure one by one.
What is ten hundred Kisses 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 my self, seek not to know me.
No Fisher but the ungrown Fry forbears,
  The Mellow plum doth fall, the Green sticks fast,
  Or being early pluckt, is sour to taste.

Look, the Worlds Comforter, with weary Gate,
His Days hot Task hath ended in the West!
The Owl (Nights Herald) shreeks, 'tis very late,
The Sheep are gone to Fold, Birds to their Nest.
  The cole-black Clouds, that shadow Heavens 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 Hony Fee of parting tendred is.
  Her Arms do lend his Neck a sweet Embrace,
  Incorporate then they seem, Face grows to Face.
Till breathless he dis-join'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 prest, she faint with Dearth,
  Their Lips together glew'd fall to the Earth.
Now quick Desire hath caught her yielding Prey,
And Glutton-like she seeds, yet never filleth,
Her Lips are Conquerors, his Lips obey,
Paying what Ransom the Insulter willeth;
  Whose Vultur Thought doth pitch the Prize so high,
  That she will draw his Lips rich Treasure dry.
And having felt the Sweetness of the Spoil,
With blind-fold Fury she begins to forrage;
Her Face doth reek and smoak, 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 tam'd with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot Roe, that's tir'd 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 tempring?
And yields at last to every light Impression?
Things out of Hope are compast oft with ventring,
Chiefly in Love, whose Leave exceeds Commission.
  Affection faints not, like a pale fac'd 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 suckt:
Foul Words and Frowns must not repel a Lover
What tho' the Rose have Pricks; Yet it is pluckt.
  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 farewel, and look well to her Heart,
  The which by Cupid's Bow she doth protest,
  He carries thence ingaged 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, Loves 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 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 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 altho' he mount her:
  That worse than Tantalus is her Annoy,
  To clip Elysium, 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 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 assaid, as much, as may be prov'd,
Her pleading hath deserved 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 with-hold me so.
Thou had'st been gone (quoth she) sweet Boy, e'er 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 Javelins Point a churlish Swine to gore,
  Whose Tushes never sheath'd, he wheteth still,
  Like to a mortal Butcher, bent to kill.

On his Bow-back he hath a Battel set
Of bristly Pikes, that ever threat his Foes;
His Eyes, like Glow-Worms, shine when he doth fret,
His Snout digs Sepulchres where e'er he goes:
  Being moved he strikes whate'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 Spears 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 Loves Eye pays tributary Gazes;
Nor thy soft Hand, sweet Lips, and Christal 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 Joynts 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 down right?
Within my Bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
  My boding Heart pants, beats, and takes no Rest,
  But like an Earth-quake shakes thee on my Breast.

For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousie
Doth call himself Affections Centinel,
Gives false Alarms, suggesteth Mutiny,
And in a peaceful Hour doth cry, kill, kill,
  Distempring gentle Love with his Desire,
  As Air and Water doth abate the Fire.
This sour Informer, this bate-breeding Spy,
This Canker, that eats up Loves tender Spring,
This carry-tale, Dissentious Jealousie,
That sometime true News, sometime 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 chasing Boar,
Under whose sharp Fangs, on his Back doth lie
An Image like thy self, all stain'd with Gore;
  Whose Blood upon the fresh Flowers being shed,
  Doth make 'em drop with Grief, and hang the Head.
What should I do? seeing thee so indeed?
That trembling at th' Imagination,
The Thought of it doth make my faint Heart bleed,
And Fear doth teach it Divination?
  I prophecy thy Death, my living Sorrow,
  If thou encounter with the Boar to Morrow.
But if thou needs will 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 Umsits through the which he goes,
  Are like a Labyrinth t' 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, 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; Eccho replies,
  As if another Chase were in the Skies.
By this poor Wat far off, upon a Hill,
Stands on his hinder Legs with listning 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 sore sick, that hears the passing Bell.
Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabled 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 reliev'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 my self, 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, oh, 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 rich Men Thieves, so do thy Lips
  Make modest Diana 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 fram'd thee in high Heaven's Despite,
  To shame the Sun 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 sad 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 beating of the Blood:
  Surfeits, Impostumes, Grief and damn'd Despair,
  Swear Natures Death for framing thee so fair.
And not the least of all these Maladies,
But in one Minutes Sight brings Beauty under:
Both Favour, Savour, Hiew 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, Despight 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 their Obscurity?
  If so, the World will hold thee in Disdain,
  Sith in thy Pride so fair a Hope is slain.
So in thy self thy self art made away,
A Mischief worse, than civil Home-bred Strife,
Or theirs, whose desperate Hands themselves do slay,
Or Butcher's 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 Theam;
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, Desires soul Nurse,
  Your Treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
If Love hath lent you twenty thousand Tongues,
And every Tongue more moving, than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton Mermaids 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 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 Bed-chamber to be bar'd of Rest.
  No Lady, no, my Heart longs not to groan,
  But soundly 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. 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 usurps his Name;
Under whose simple Semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh Beauty, blotting it with Blame;
  Which the hot Tyrant strains, and soon bereaves,
  As Caterpillers do the tender Leaves.

Love comforteth like Sun-shine after Rain:
But Lust's Effect is Tempest after Sun.
Love's gentle Spring doth always fresh remain;
Lust's Winter comes, e'er 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 Calls 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 thro' the dark Lanes runs apace!
Leaves Love upon her Back deeply distrest.
  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 Shoar,
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 amaz'd, as one, that unaware
Hath dropt 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 Repitition of her Moans.
Passion on Passion deeply is redoubled.
  Ay me! she cries, and twenty times woe! woe!
  And twenty Eccho's twenty times cry so.
She marking them, begins a wailing Note,
And sings extemp'rally a woful 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 Quire of Eccho's answers so.
Her Song was tedious, and out-wore the Night,
For Lovers Hours are long, tho' 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 shrill-tongu'd Tapsters answering every Call,
Soothing the Humor of fantastick Wits?
  She said, '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
  The 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 suckt an earthly Mother,
  May lend thee Light, as thou dost lend to other.
This said, she hasteth to a Mirtle Grove,
Musing the Morning is so much o'er-worn;
And yet she hears no Tydings of her Love:
She hearkens for his Hounds, and for his Horn.
  Anon she hears them chaunt 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 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 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 Curt'sie who shall cope him first.

This dismal Cry rings sadly in her Ear,
Thro' which it enters to surprise her Heart:
Who overcome by Doubt and bloodless Fear,
With cold, pale Weakness nums 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 Ecstasie,
'Till cheering up her Senses sore dismaid,
She tells them 'tis a causeless Fantasy,
And childsh Error, that they are afraid,
  Bids them leave quaking, wills 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 thro' all her Sinews spred,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither.
  This Way she runs, and now she will no further,
  But Back retires to rate the Boar for Murder.
A thousand Spleens bear her a thousand Ways,
She treads the Paths, that she untreads again;
Her more, than Haste is marred with Delays;
Like the Proceedings of a drunken Brain,
  Full of Respect, yet not at all respecting;
  In Hand with all things not at all affecting.
Here kennell'd in a Brake she finds an Hound,
And asks the weary Caitif for his Master;
And there another licking of his VVound,
'Gainst venom'd Sores the only soveraign Plaister;
  And here she meets another sadly scolding,
  To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

VVhen he had ceas'd his ill resounding Noise,
Another flap-mouth'd Mourner, black and grim,
Against the VVelkin vollies out his Voice;
Another and another answer him,
  Clapping their proud Tails to the Ground below;
  Shaking their scratcht Ears, bleeding as they go.
Look how the VVorld's poor People are amaz'd
At Apparitions, Signs and Prodigies;
VVhereon, with fearful Eyes, they long have gaz'd,
Infusing them with dreadful Prophecies,
  So she, at these sad Signs, draws up her Breath,
  And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
Hard-favoured Tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful Divorce of Love (thus chides she Death)
Grim-grinning Ghost, Earths VVorm, what dost thou mean
To stifle Beauty, and to steal his Breath?
  VVho when he liv'd, 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 VVeed, thou plukest a Flower:
  Loves golden Arrow at him should have fled,
  And not Death's Ebon Dart to strike him dead.

Dost thou drink Tears, that thou provok'st 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 Vigor,
  Since her best Work is ruin'd with thy Rigour.
Here overcome, as one full of Despair,
She veil'd her Eye-lids, which like Sluces stop'd
The Crystal Tide, that from her two Cheeks fair,
In the sweet Channel of her Bosom drop'd.
  But through the Floud-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 her Tears, Tears in her Eye,
Both Crystals, where they view'd each others Sorrow;
Sorrow, that friendly Sighs sought still to dry.
  But like a stormy Day, now Wind, now Rain,
  Sighs dry her Cheeks, Tears makes them wet again.
Variable Passions throng her constant Woe,
As striving which shou'd best become her Grief.
All entertain'd, each Passion labours so,
That every present Sorrow seemeth chief.
  But none is best, then join they altogether,
  Like many Clouds consulting for foul Weather.
By this, far off, she hears some Huntsman hollow.
A Nurse's Song ne'er pleas'd her Babe so well:
The dire Imagination, she did follow,
This Sound of Hope doth labour to expell:
  For now reviving Joy bids her rejoyce,
  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 sometime 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 Extreams,
Despair and Hope make thee ridiculous!
  The one doth flatter thee in Thoughts unlikely,
  With likely Thoughts, the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the Web, that she had wrought,
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame.
It was not she, that call'd him all to nought,
Now she adds Honor to his hateful Name:
  She cleeps him King of Graves, and Grave for Kings;
  Imperial Supreme of all mortal things.
No, no (quoth she) sweet Death I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of Fear,
VVhen as I met the Boar, that bloody Beast,
VVhich knows no Pity but is still severe.
  Then gentle Shadow (truth I must confess)
  I rail'd on thee fearing my Loves Decease.
'Tis not my fault: the Boar provok'd 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 VVoman yet
  Cou'd rule them both without ten VVomens VVit.

Thus hoping, that Adonis is alive,
Her rash Suspect she doth extenuate:
And that his Beauty may the better thrive,
VVith 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, hem'd with Thieves:
Trifles (unwitnessed with Eye or Ear)
Thy coward Heart, with false bethinking grieves.
  Even at this Word she hears a merry Horn,
  VVhereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
As Faulcon to the Lure, away she flies:
The Grass stoops not, she treads on it so light,
And in her Haste unfortunately spies
The foul Boars Conquest on her fair Delight.
  VVhich seen, her Eyes, as murder'd with the View,
  Like Stars, asham'd 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.

VVhere they resign'd their Office and their Light
To the disposing of her troubled Brain:
VVho bids them still consort with ugly Night,
And never wound the Heart with looks again;
  VVho like a King perplexed in his Throne,
  By their Suggestions gives a deadly Groan.
VVhereat each Tributary Subject quakes,
As when the VVind, imprison'd in the Ground,
Strugling for passage, Earths Foundation shakes,
VVhich with cold Terrors doth Mens Minds confound.
  This Mutiny each Part doth so surprize,
  That from their dark Beds, once more, leap her Eyes.
And, being open'd, threw unwilling Sight
Upon the wide VVound, that the Boar had trench'd
In his soft Flank: whose wonted Lilly 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, frantickly she Doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not Dead.
  Her Voice is stop'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 sight dazling, 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 Hearts Lead melt at mine Eyes as Fire:
  So shall I Die by Drops of hot Desire.
Alas, poor World, what Treasure has thou lost!
What Face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose Tongue is Musick 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 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 liv'd, Sun and sharp Air
  Lurk'd like two Thieves, to rob him of his Fair.
And therfore wou'd he put his Bonnet on,
Under whose Brim the gaudy Sun wou'd peep;
The VVind wou'd blow it off, and being gone,
Play with his Locks, then wou'd Adonis weep:
  And straight, in Pity of his tender Years,
  They both wou'd strive who first shou'd dry his Tears.
To see his Face, the Lyon walks along
Behind some Hedge, because he wou'd not fear him:
To Recreate himself when he hath Sung,
The Tygre wou'd be tame, and gently hear him:
  If he had spoke, the Wolf wou'd leave his Prey,
  And never fright the silly Lamb that Day.

When he beheld his Shadow in a Brook
There 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, true, 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 nousling in his Flank, the loving Swine,
  Sheath'd unaware, his 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 Mouth with his; the more I am accurst.
  With this she falleth in the Place she stood,
  And stains her Face with his congealen 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 woful VVords she told:
  She lifts the Coffer-lids that close his Eyes,
  VVhere loe! two Lamps, burnt out in Darkness lies!

Two Glasses, where her self her self beheld
A thousand times, and now, no more reflect,
Their Vertue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every Beauty robb'd of his Effect.
  Wonder of time (quoth she) this is my Spight,
  That, you being dead, the Day should yet be light.
Since thou art Dead, loe! here I prophesy,
Sorrow on Love hereafter shall attend:
It shall we waited on with Jealousy,
Find sweet Beginning, but unsavory End,
  Ne'er setled equally, to high or low;
  That all Love's Pleasures shall not match his Woe.
It shall be sickle, false, and full of Fraud,
And shall be blasted in a breathing while,
The Bottom Poison, and the Top o'er-straw'd
With Sweets, that shall the sharpest 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 to full of Riot,
Teaching decrepit Age to tred the Measures;
The staring Ruffian shall it keep in Quiet,
Pluck down the Rich, inrich 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, when it seems most toward,
  Put Fear to Valour, Courage to the Coward.

It shall be Cause of War, and dire Events,
And set Dissention 'twixt the Son and Sire;
Subject and servile to all Discontents,
As dry combustuous 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 checker'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 he compares to Tears.
Poor Flower (quoth she) this was thy Father's 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 is my Breast,
Thou art the next of Blood, and 'tis thy Right:
Loe, 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.

Thus weary of the World, away she hies,
And yokes her silver Doves, by whose swift Aid,
Their Mistress mounted, thro' the empty Skies
In her light Chariot quickly is conveyed,
  Holding their Course to Paphos, where their Queen
  Means to immure her self, and not be seen.

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