'As burning fever, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and danın'd despair,
Swear nature's death, for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's sight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th' imperial gazer ate 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 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 thyself thyself art made away,
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,

Whereat amazed, 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 repetition of her moans: Passion on passion deeply is redoubled. 'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times, woe! woe!' And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extempʼrally a woeful ditty: How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote;

Nay then,' quoth Adon, you will fall again Into your 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-faced night, desire's foul 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 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 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 bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.

No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. What have you urged, 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 stains, and soon bercaves, As caterpillars 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, 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 lanes 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. Which after him she darts, as one on shore, 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.

Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic 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 suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'er-worn:

And yet she hears no tidings 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 ache,
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 shud-
der :

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds,
Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chace,
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'sy who shall cope him first.
This dismal ery rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters, to surprize her heart;
Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold pale weakness numbs 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 ecstacy, Till cheering up her senses sore dismay'd, She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy, And childish 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 through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither. This way she runs, and now she will no farther, 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, Fall of respect, yet not at all respecting; In hand with all things, nought at all effecting. Here kennel'd in a brake, she finds a hound, And asks the weary caitiff for his master; And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaister: And here she meets another sadly scolding, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. When he had ceased his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grini, Against the welkin vollies out his voice; Another and another answers him,

Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go. Look how the world's poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs and prodigies,

Whereon, with fearful eyes, they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies:

So she, at these sad signs, draws up her breath, And sighing it again, exclaims on death.

Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love,' thus chides she death, Grimm-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean?

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath?

Who when he lived, 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 weed, thou pluck'st a flower: Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not death's ebon dart to strike him dead. Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest 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 vigour,
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 sluices stopp'd
The crystal tide, that from her two cheeks fair,
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd.

But through the flood-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 other's

sorrow:

Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry.
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain;
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving which should best become her grief:
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief.

But none is best, then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting-for foul weather.
By this, far off, she hears some huntsman hollow:
A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well.
The dire imagination she did follow,
This sound of hope doth labour to expel:
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
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 extremes, 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 honour to his hateful name: She 'cleeps him king of graves, and grave for kings,

Imperial supreme of mortal things.

'No, no,' quoth she, sweet death, I did but jest ; Yet pardon me, I felt, a kind of fear,

When as I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe. Then gentle shadow (truth I must confess) I rail'd on thee fearing my love's decease. "Tis not my fault: the boar provoked 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 woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.' Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;

And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate : Teils him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories, His victories, his triumphis, 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, hemm'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,
Whereat 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 boar's conquest on her fair delight.
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew.
Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks back into 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.
Where they resign'd their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain:

Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again: Who like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestions gives a deadly groan; Whereat each tributary subject quakes, As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, Which with cold terrors doth men's 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 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 she 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 sight 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 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 tire, So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world! what treasure hast thou lost! Vhat face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? What canst thou boast

Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?

The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trin,

But true sweet beauty lived and died 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.

Bat when Adonis lived, sun 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 gaudy 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 walks along

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;

To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him: If he had spoke, the wolf would 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 cher. ries;

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, '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 persuade 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 am I accursed.' With this she 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 lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.

Wonder of tinie! quoth she, this is my spight, 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 to high or low; That all love's pleasures 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'er-straw'd With sweets, that shall the sharpest sight beguile. The strong body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise 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 trea

sures;

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 dissension 'twixt the son and fire; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to sire. 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 Comparing it to her Adonis' breath: smell,

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 she compares to tears. 'Poor flower l' 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;
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."
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid,
Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their