In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen
(Although assail'd with fortune fierce and keen,)
Virtue preserved from feil destruction's blast,
Led on by heaven, and crown'd with joy at last.
In Helicanus may you well descry
A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty:
In reverend Cerimon there well appears,
The worth that learned charity aye wears.

. Ever.

For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame
Had spread their cursed deed, and honour'd name
Of Pericles, to rage the city turn;
That him and his they in his palace burn.
The gods for murder seemed so content
To punish them; although not done, but meant.
So on your patience evermore attending,
New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.
[Exit Gower,

VENUS' AND ADONIS.

Vilia miretur vulgus, mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.

Ovid. Amor. 1. i. El. 15.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY WRIOTHESLY, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichfield.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

I know not how I shall offend, in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship; nor how the world will censure me, for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden: only if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till Í 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 godfather, and never after ear 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. SHAKSPEARE.

EVEN as the sun, with purple-colour'd face, Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chace: Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn. Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him. Thrice fairer than myself! thus she began, The field's 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 herself at strife, Saith, that the world hath ending with thy life. Vouchsafe, thon 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 honey 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 loath'd 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 summer's 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 enraged, desire doth lend her force,
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under the other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, anapt 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 stall'd 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, though 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 fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd, or prey be gone?
Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forced to consent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her face:
And calls it, heavenly moisture! air of grace!
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
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 awed 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 ashy 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 choose 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, Ile winks, and turns his lips another way. Never did passenger, in summer's heat, More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn; Her help she sees, but help she cannot get, She bathes 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 entreat thee now, Even by the stern and direful god of war,

Whose sinewy neck in battle 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-ruled, 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 mast'ring her, that foil'd the god of fight!

Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, (Though mine be not so fair, yet they are red) The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine; What seest thou on 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 ashamed 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 blue-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 itself should 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-natured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'er-worn, despised, rheumatic and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, Then might'st thou pause, for then I were not for thee,

But, having no defects, why dost abhor me?

Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow, Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turn

ing;

My beauty, as the spring, doth yearly grow; My Hesh 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 inchant 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 lie, These 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 woo thyself, be of thyself rejected, Steal thine own freedom, and complain of theft. Narcissus so himself, himself forsook, And died 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 growth's abuse: Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth

beauty;

Thou wert begot, to get it is thy duty.

Upon the earth's 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 thyself art dead: And so, in spite 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 low'ring brows, o'erwhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky; Souring 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 makest 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, lo, I lie between the sun and thee!

The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eyes dart forth the fire that burneth me, And, were I not immortal, life were done, Between this heav'nly and this 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? Oh! had thy mother born so bad a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

'What am I, that thon shouldst contemn me thus? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?

What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak fair: but speak fair words, or else be mate. Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again, And one for intrest, if thou wilt have twain. Fie, lifeless 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, though 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 gobs do her intendments break. Sometimes she shakes her head, and then 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 lily fingers one in one. 'Fondling,' saith 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, though 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 lived, and there he could not die. These loving caves, these round enchanted 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 increasing:
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, lo! from forth a copse 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 tied 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 heaven's thun-"
der.

The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.