Shakespeare became famous as a poet before most people knew that he also wrote plays. To judge by the frequency of admiring allusions and demand for printed copies, Venus and Adonis was the most popular long poem of the Elizabethan age. Like Shakespeare’s subsequent narrative poem The Rape of Lucrece it was written during the period in 1593–94 when the theaters were closed due to plague, and based on the works of the Roman poet Ovid. These works are calling cards which announce Shakespeare’s poetic sophistication, perhaps in response to the jibe in Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit (1592) about “Shake-scene,” the “upstart crow,” the vulgar jack-of-all-trades from the country.
Great swaths of Venus and Adonis are composed in the form of dialogue, while the eye contact between male and female subjects is self-consciously the atricalized. In both their speech patterns and their accompanying actions, Venus and Adonis are turned into dramatic characters, their story into a theatrical encounter, albeit one that relies on a naturalistic rural setting peopled with animals and natural forces that could not have been represented on stage. The Elizabethan reader’s pleasure in the poem lay in its cunning rhetoric, the inventive conceit of its language. The resourceful Venus has many an example, as when she compares herself to a park and Adonis to a deer. The double entendre whereby landscape and body parts become as one is typical of the poem: Shakespeare is trying out that language of indefatigable innuendo that will characterize so many of his subsequent plays. He is also experimenting with the idea that sexual attraction is sparked by contrariness and apparent disdain. The dynamic between a pair of erotically charged horses anticipates not only the relationship of Venus and Adonis, but also those of the speaker of the sonnets and his beloved, not to mention Berowne and Rosaline in Love’s Labour’s Lost and Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado about Nothing.
For most of Venus and Adonis, sexual desire is a source of comedy, whereas in The Rape of Lucrece the story of sexual pursuit is replayed in a darker key. Having made a comic spectacle of the rapacious goddess, Shakespeare makes a tragic spectacle of the raped emblem of chastity. The two poems are opposite sides of the same coin, as may be seen from their structural resemblance: in each, an ardent suitor attempts to gain the reluctant object of her/his sexual desire by means of rhetorical persuasion, fails, and indirectly or directly precipitates the death of the object of desire. Both poems are centrally interested in the way in which linguistic art is instrumental in the pursuit of sexual satisfaction. Nothing provokes desire more than antithesis. The more artless Lucrece is, the more Tarquin wishes to exercise the arts of love upon her.
The Rape of Lucrece is not only Shakespeare’s most sustained imitation of a classical source, it is also a supreme example of the art of “copiousness” that was recommended by sixteenth-century humanist literary theorists: Shakespeare expanded the seventy-three lines of the Lucrece story in Ovid’s Fasti into nearly two thousand. As with Venus and Adonis, the most significant elaborations are those that invest the characters with linguistic arts. Three extended discourses are introduced: Tarquin’s inward disquisition as to whether he should carry through his desire, the disputation between the two characters in the bedroom, and Lucrece’s formal “complaint” after the rape. At the end of the poem, the final consequence of the rape is played through as the Tarquins are heaved off their throne and the Roman republic is established. It is because loss of empire is the ultimate cost which Tarquin pays for his conquest—the military metaphors are all-pervasive—that his victory is a defeat. The oxymoronic structure of the narrative is thus brought to a climax: Tarquin’s gain is his family’s loss, Lucrece’s loss is Rome’s gain. She is the sacrificial victim required for the bringing of a new political order.
Shakespeare was much possessed by death, even when—as in Venus and Adonis and the comedies—he wrote in the genres of life and love. Venus expostulates against Death because he is the destroyer of beauty. She proposes to Adonis that the beautiful have a duty to reproduce themselves, not to hoard their loveliness in the manner of a miser (or, in the bawdy subtext, a masturbator). The first seventeen of Shakespeare’s sonnets are a set of variations on the same theme. Throughout the entire collection of 154 sonnets, there is a frequent return to questions first explored in Venus and Adonis: not only mortality and endurance, beauty and its transience, but also the paradoxes of self and other, truth and delusion, in the dynamics of desire. Adonis’ eyes are “Two glasses” (i.e., mirrors) where Venus “herself herself beheld / A thousand times.” At the climax of the sonnet sequence, a key pun plays on the same idea: “For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured eye, / To swear against the truth so foul a lie.” The relationship between “I” and “eye,” inner self and the object of the gaze, is an obsession in the sonnets, while “perjured” is an example of another hallmark of the collection, the application of legal language to the promises made and broken by lovers. So, for instance, in Sonnet 33 (“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought”), term after term has legal connotations (“sessions,” “summon,” “dateless,” “canceled,” “expense,” “grievances,” “account,” “restored”).
It is probable that Shakespeare began composing sonnets soon after writing Venus and Adonis—several are woven into Romeo and Juliet and Love’s Labour’s Lost, plays that he wrote soon after the theaters reopened in 1594, and others circulated in manuscript by 1598. But the collection entitled Shakespeare’s Sonnets was not published until 1609. We know neither whether it was authorized nor whether its arrangement of the sequence was purposeful, though some clearly belong together, in that successive sonnets sometimes allude to each other or enact variations on a similar theme.
As one would expect from the hand of a dramatist, there does seem to be a plotline running through the sequence and a “character” to each of the personae. The first 126 poems appear to be written to a man (or a succession of men?). The narrative extends over a considerable period of time and runs the full gamut of emotions. The person addressed is younger than Shakespeare and of higher rank. He is lovely and the image of his mother. The first seventeen poems are exhortations to breed, in the manner of Venus’ address to Adonis: “From fairest creatures we desire increase, / That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.” There is then a modulation toward the idea that the poet’s own work of praise may enable the young man to escape the ravages of time and death. Some sort of relationship is then imagined, with the youth in a position of power and the poet in one of supplication. Absence, travel, “disgrace,” melancholy, estrangement, and reunion are variously implied. The young man appears to have an affair with the poet’s mistress, thus abusing the bond of friendship. But he is eventually forgiven: “Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: / What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?” Later, the poet is discomposed by a rival who claims to have been taught by spirits to write “above a mortal pitch” and who, with “the proud full sail of his great verse,” wins the patronage of the fair youth. The sequence ends with its key motif of the battle between love and time. The final poem to the youth is two lines short of the sonnet form’s customary fourteen. It ends with a pair of empty brackets, signaling some kind of closure or lacuna.
Sonnets 127–52, by contrast, explore the poet’s relationship with a mistress, a dark-complexioned and sexually voracious woman who has “raven black” brows. Sometimes her dark beauty is wittily defended against the blonde Elizabethan ideal, but more frequently these poems are filled with self-abnegation, misogyny, a lingering sense of the sour taste that comes after sex, and disgust at the way in which the body rules the spirit. The woman is accused of infidelity, including an apparent affair with the “man right fair” who is the poet’s “better angel”—this seems to allude back to the purported relationship between “friend” and “mistress” in the earlier sequence. Some of the “dark lady” poems are seeringly honest about the deceptions that may occur between lovers (“O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust…Therefore I lie with her and she with me, / And in our faults by lies we flattered be”), while others are dazzlingly playful (notably 135–6, with their multiple punning on senses of the word “Will,” including a persistent play on Shakespeare’s own name). The final two sonnets are imitations of a Greek epigram about the fire of love being quenched in a cool well, with clear allusion to the Elizabethan custom of taking mercury baths as a cure for syphilis. The implicit suggestion is that the poet has been venereally infected by the “dark lady.”
Shakespeare’s sonnets are a source of endless biographical fascination because they seem to be the one work in which he speaks in his own voice. “Scorn not the sonnet,” William Wordsworth wrote two centuries later: “With this key, Shakespeare unlocked his heart.” So it is that the sonnets are often believed to bear a wholly different relationship to Shakespeare’s biography from that of the rest of his literary work. There is, however, no intrinsic reason why a sonnet—a highly artificial literary form—should not be a dramatic performance just as a play is. It may perfectly well be argued that for an Elizabethan poet to dash off a sequence of sonnets was a kind of exercise, a proof of artistic skill akin to the work of a composer writing a set of variations on a musical theme. If Shakespeare could imagine Hamlet and Romeo and Viola, he could also have invented the “plot” and “characters” of his sonnets. Robert Browning responded to Wordsworth’s claim: “If so, the less Shakespeare he!” Maybe the sonnets are best read as assays of Shakespeare’s art, demonstrations of his seemingly effortless verbal facility.
Unlike several contemporary sonneteers, Shakespeare does not name names. Because he is so guarded, the circumstances of composition have provoked centuries of speculation. The young man to whom the bulk of the poems are addressed may or may not be synonymous with the mysterious “Mr W. H.” named in the collection’s dedication. The traditional candidates for the role of addressee are the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl of Southampton, though neither of them was a “Mr.” A very strong case has been made for the possibility that “Mr W. H.” is actually a misprint for “Mr W. S.” and that in the dedication Thomas Thorpe, the publisher, is merely acknowledging Shakespeare as the “only begetter” of the sonnets (“begetting” was a common metaphor for authoring).
Dozens of male Elizabethan poets wrote sonnet sequences, but only Shakespeare and Richard Barnfield addressed their poems explicitly to a man. Barnfield wrote in the explicitly homoerotic tradition of ancient Greek pastoral poetry, whereas Shakespeare’s sequence emphasizes the spiritual aspects of the poet’s love for the fair youth. The only sonnets in the collection where “Will” is actually in bed with a lover are addressed to the dark lady. The young man’s “thing” (which has been “pricked out” by nature) is, says the poet in Sonnet 20, “to my purpose nothing”—though this is supremely ambiguous, since it could mean either that he is not interested in a physical relationship or that the prick serves him in the same way as a woman’s “nothing” (vagina). Taken in their entirety, the sonnets associate heterosexual desire with consummation and disgust, homoerotic attraction with spirituality and an intensity that derives in large measure from the impossibility of consummation. Tempting as it may be to infer Shakespeare’s sexuality from this duality, it might be better to read the opposition between dark lady and fair youth as a dramatic device: one is a “character” representing desire in its sexual manifestation, the other in its idealizing and spiritual.
Several short poems of the period have been attributed to Shakespeare, but in only two cases is the attribution absolutely secure. One is a beautifully turned epilogue that meditates on time in an address to Queen Elizabeth at the end of a court performance in February 1599. It remained unknown in manuscript until the late twentieth century. The other is the mysterious poem that has become generally known as “The Phoenix and Turtle” (though Shakespeare did not give it a title).
In 1601, a minor author called Robert Chester published a long allegorical poem entitled Love’s Martyr, in which the mythical phoenix, representing Queen Elizabeth, accepts the devoted service of a turtledove, symbolizing a loyal courtier. The poem was dedicated to John Salusbury of Llewenni, Denbighshire, and seems to have been printed in honor of his being knighted by the queen in June 1601. Salusbury is therefore a prime candidate for the role of the turtledove. When the poem was published, it was accompanied by “Diverse Poetical Essays on the Former Subject; viz. The Turtle and Phoenix,” also dedicated to Salusbury and dated 1601. One of these poetical essays, beginning “Let the bird of loudest lay,” was signed “William Shakespeare” and is unmistakably in his style. The poem seems to be a response to the closing sequence of Chester’s: it imagines a group of birds at the funeral of the phoenix and turtle. Again, the phoenix seems to be Elizabeth, the turtle a loyal subject: “Distance and no space was seen / ’Twixt this turtle and his queen.” But “Distance and no space” is more than a metaphor for the combination of propriety and loyalty required by good courtiership. It is also a metaphysical conundrum. On being invited (and presumably paid) to contribute to Chester’s volume, Shakespeare took the opportunity to rework the union of phoenix and turtle as a philosophical tour de force instead of a piece of routine poetic flattery. A line such as “Either was the other’s mine” may allude back to a lengthy and tedious section of Chester’s poem concerning different kinds of mining, but it works primarily as a brilliant pun on the exchange of selfhood that is the core of true love. Whereas Chester’s ambition was to gain or retain Salusbury’s patronage, Shakespeare rose above the occasion and indulged a vein of serious intellectual play of a kind much closer to the dazzling mind-bending of John Donne. “Single natures, double name, / Neither two nor one was called”: these paradoxes could serve not only as an epitaph for the phoenix and the turtle, but also as an epigraph for the double vision—the “I am not that I am,” the seeing “with parted eye, / When everything seems double”—that shapes Shakespeare’s dramatic universe.
LINGUISTIC MEDIUM: Venus and Adonis is in a six-line stanza rhyming ababaa, Lucrece in a seven-line stanza rhyming ababbcc (known as “rhyme royal”), both staple meters for poetic romance. Shakespeare’s sonnets, like most other English examples of the period, are shaped as three quatrains and a couplet (typically rhyming ababcdcdefefgg), in contrast to the Petrarchan or Italian structure of an octave and a sestet. “Let the Bird of Loudest Lay” and “To the Queen” are both written in trochaic tetrameters (as is, for example, the Fairies’ song at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream).
DATE: Venus and Adonis was published in 1593, The Rape of Lucrece in 1594, “To the Queen” was written for a court performance on February 20, 1599. “Let the Bird of Loudest Lay” was commissioned for a book published in 1601. The date of the sonnets is much disputed: the published volume was registered for publication in May 1609, but the vogue for sonneteering was at its height around the 1592–94 closure of the theaters due to plague. According to Francis Meres, some of Shakespeare’s “sugared sonnets” were circulating “among his private friends” in manuscript by 1598 (variant manuscript texts exist for several of them). Sonnet 107 apparently alludes to Queen Elizabeth’s death (spring 1603). Analysis of rare words suggests that 1–103 and 127–54 may date from the 1590s, 104–26 from the early 1600s.
SOURCES: Venus and Adonis is based on a story in book 10 of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, with some use of other Ovidian stories such as those of the lovely boys Narcissus (book 3) and Hermaphroditus (book 4). Lucrece derives from book 2 of Ovid’s Fasti and perhaps a translation from Livy’s History in William Painter’s Pallace of Pleasure (1566). The sonnets draw on, but also parody, an array of sonneteering conventions in the tradition that goes back to Petrarch; Ovidian interests such as desire and narcissism, time and change, and the durability of poetry are also pervasive.
TEXT: The well-printed 1593 Quarto of Venus and Adonis was reprinted in 1594, 1595?, 1596, 1599, 1599, 1602?, 1602, 1602, 1617, making it by a considerable margin Shakespeare’s bestseller in print. The well-printed 1594 Quarto of Lucrece was a little less popular but still much in demand (reprinted 1598, 1600, 1600, 1607, 1616). “To the Queen” remained in manuscript until 1972. “Let the Bird of Loudest Lay” was included in LOVES MARTYR OR, ROSALINS COMPLAINT. Allegorically shadowing the truth of Loue, in the constant Fate of the Phoenix and Turtle (1601), a verse collection dedicated to Sir John Salusbury, which included work by John Marston, George Chapman, and Ben Jonson appended to a long allegorical poem by the little-known Robert Chester; Shakespeare’s contribution is untitled and only became generally known as “The Phoenix and Turtle” (i.e., turtledove) from 1807. SHAKE-SPEARES SONNETS. Never before Imprinted was published in 1609, with “A Louers complaint. BY WILLIAM SHAKE-SPEARE” filling up the final leaves (not included in this edition). Littered with printing errors, it was little noticed upon publication and not reprinted. In 1640, John Benson published a collection of Poems: Written by Wil. Shake-speare. Gent., mainly based on the 1609 volume, but with considerable additions and alterations. The sonnets and poems did not enter the tradition of “Complete Works” Shakespeare until Edmond Malone edited them for his supplement to the 1778 Samuel Johnson/George Steevens edition.
EXCLUSIONS: The Passionate Pilgrim, a tiny volume containing 20 sonnets and song lyrics, was attributed to Shakespeare on publication in late 1598 or 1599. It is a mix of five poems by Shakespeare (two of the sonnets, and three lyrics from Love’s Labour’s Lost), some by others and some of uncertain authorship. We exclude it, since the Shakespearean poems appear elsewhere in our Complete Works, albeit in variant texts. “A Lover’s Complaint” was published with the sonnets and attributed to Shakespeare, but his authorship has often been doubted, and recent scholarship (notably Brian Vickers, Shakespeare, “A Lover’s Complaint” and John Davies of Hereford, 2007) has devastated the claim to Shakespearean authenticity and made a strong case for the authorship of John Davies of Hereford (1565?–1618), an admirer and imitator of Shakespeare. Various other short poems, notably several epigrams and epitaphs, have early attributions to Shakespeare, but none sufficiently secure to merit inclusion. Edited and annotated texts of The Passionate Pilgrim and “A Lover’s Complaint” are downloadable from our Web site, www.rscshakespeare.co.uk.
Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD 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 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 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,
William Shakespeare
EVEN as1 the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him3 to the chase.
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
5 Sick-thoughted5 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 to9 all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
10 More white and red10 than doves or roses are:
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith12 that the world hath ending with thy life.
‘Vouchsafe,13 thou wonder, to alight thy steed
And rein his proud14 head to the saddle-bow.
15 If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed15
A thousand honey secrets16 shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set,18 I’ll smother thee with kisses.
‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,19
20 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 wasted24 in such time-beguiling sport.’
25 With this she seizeth on his sweating25 palm,
The precedent26 of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,27
Earth’s sovereign28 salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged,29 desire doth lend her force
Courageously30 to pluck him from his horse.
30 Over one arm the lusty31 courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender32 boy,
Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden34 appetite, unapt to toy,
35 She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded37 bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens. O, how quick is love!
The steed is stallèd up,39 and even now
40 To tie the rider she begins to prove:40
Backward she pushed him, as she would41 be thrust,
And governed42 him in strength though not in lust.
So43 soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
45 Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown
And ‘gins to chide,46 but soon she stops his lips
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,47
‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’
He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears
50 Doth quench the maiden50 burning of his cheeks,
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss:53
What follows more, she murders with a kiss.
55 Even as an empty55 eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires56 with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge58 be stuffed or prey be gone:
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
60 And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forced to content,61 but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth in her face.
She feedeth on the steam, as on a pray,63
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
65 Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewed with such distilling66 showers.
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastened in her arms Adonis lies.
Pure shame and awed69 resistance made him fret,
70 Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank71
Perforce72 will force it overflow the bank.
Still she entreats and prettily73 entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.
75 Still is he sullen, still he lours75 and frets,
’Twixt76 crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:
Being red, she loves him best, and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.
Look79 how he can, she cannot choose but love,
80 And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft bosom never to remove81
Till he take truce with her contending82 tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet,
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless84 debt.
85 Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper86 peering through a wave,
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what she did crave,
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
90 He winks90 and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger91 in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.92
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get,
She bathes in water,94 yet her fire must burn:
95 ‘O, pity,’ ’gan she cry, ‘flint-hearted boy!
’Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?96
‘I have been wooed, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,98
Whose sinewy99 neck in battle ne’er did bow,
100 Who conquers where he comes in every jar,100
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.
‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrollèd104 crest,
105 And for my sake hath learned to sport105 and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,
Scorning his churlish107 drum and ensign red,
Making my arms108 his field, his tent my bed.
‘Thus he that overruled I overswayed,109
110 Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain.
Strong-tempered111 steel his stronger strength obeyed,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foiled114 the god of fight.
115 ‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine —
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red —
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What see’st thou in the ground? Hold up thy head.
Look in mine eyeballs, there119 thy beauty lies,
120 Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
‘Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink121 again,
And I will wink, so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels123 where there are but twain:
Be bold124 to play, our sport is not in sight.
125 These blue-veined125 violets whereon we lean
Never can blab nor know not what we mean.
‘The tender spring127 upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip,
130 Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.
‘Were I hard-favoured,133 foul or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured,134 crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
135 O’erworn,135 despisèd, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted,136 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 canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,
140 Mine eyes are grey140 and bright and quick in turning:
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow142 burning,
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.
145 ‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip146 upon the green,
Or like a nymph147 with long dishevelled hair
Dance on the sands and yet no footing148 seen.
Love is a spirit149 all compact of fire,
150 Not gross150 to sink, but light and will aspire.
‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie,
These forceless152 flowers like sturdy trees support me:
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list154 to sport me.
155 Is love so light,155 sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should think it heavy156 unto thee?
‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?157
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?158
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected:
160 Steal thine own freedom and complain on160 theft.
Narcissus161 so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow162 in the brook.
‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties164 to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
165 Herbs for their smell and sappy165 plants to bear.
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse:
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty.
Thou wast begot: to get168 it is thy duty.
‘Upon the earth’s increase169 why shouldst thou feed,
170 Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine172 may live when thou thyself art dead:
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.’
175 By this175 the lovesick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan,177 tirèd in the midday heat,
With burning178 eye did hotly overlook them,
Wishing Adonis had his team179 to guide,
180 So180 he were like him and by Venus’ side.
And now Adonis with a lazy sprite181
And with a heavy, dark, disliking182 eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight183
Like misty vapours184 when they blot the sky,
185 Souring185 his cheeks, cries, ‘Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face. I must remove.’
‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young and so unkind,
What bare188 excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
190 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 that sun and thee:
195 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 done197
Between this heavenly198 and earthly sun.
‘Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
200 Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth:
Art thou a woman’s son and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want202 of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother203 borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.204
205 ‘What am I that thou shouldst contemn205 me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?206
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,
210 And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.
‘Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue213 contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:
215 Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,215
For men will kiss even by216 their own direction.’
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause,
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth219 her wrong:
220 Being220 judge in love, she cannot right her cause;
And now she weeps and now she fain221 would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments222 break.
Sometime she shakes her head and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
225 Sometime her arms enfold him like a band,
She would,226 he will not in her arms be bound:
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks228 her lily fingers one in one.
‘Fondling,229’ she saith, ‘since I have hemmed thee here
230 Within the circuit of this ivory pale,230
I’ll be a park231 and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt on mountain232 or in dale,
Graze on my lips and, if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
235 Within this limit235 is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass236 and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks,237 brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park,
240 No dog shall rouse240 thee, though a thousand bark.’
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
Love made those hollows, if243 himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
245 Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there love lived and there he could not die.
These lovely caves,247 these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking:
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?249
250 Struck250 dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,251
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn.
Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing,
255 The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing: ‘
Pity!’ she cries, ‘Some favour, some remorse!257’
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.
But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by,259
260 A breeding260 jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser261 doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein and to her straight264 goes he.
265 Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths266 he breaks asunder,
The bearing267 earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder,
The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,
270 Controlling what he was controllèd with.
His ears up-pricked, his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest272 now stand on end,
His nostrils drink the air and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
275 His eye, which scornfully glisters275 like fire,
Shows his hot courage276 and his high desire.
Sometime he trots, as if he told277 the steps
With gentle278 majesty and modest pride,
Anon279 he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
280 As who should280 say, ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’
What recketh he283 his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering284 ‘Holla’, or his ‘Stand, I say’?
285 What cares he now for curb285 or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons286 or trappings gay?
He sees his love and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look when a painter would surpass the life
290 In limning out290 a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed:
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.294
295 Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks295 shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
High crest,297 short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
300 Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometime he scuds301 far off and there he stares,
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather:
To bid303 the wind a base he now prepares,
And where304 he run or fly they know not whether:
305 For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who306 wave like feathered 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 see him woo her,
310 She puts310 on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at311 his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements312 with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails314 his tail that like a falling plume
315 Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent.
He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume:316
His love, perceiving how he was enraged,
Grew kinder and his fury was assuaged.
His testy319 master goeth about to take him,
320 When, lo, the unbacked320 breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching,321 swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As323 they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.
325 All swoll’n with chafing,325 down Adonis sits,
Banning326 his boist’rous and unruly beast;
And now the happy327 season once more fits
That lovesick love328 by pleading may be blest:
For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong
330 When it is barred the aidance330 of the tongue.
An oven that is stopped331 or river stayed
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So333 of concealèd sorrow may be said
Free vent334 of words love’s fire doth assuage,
335 But when the heart’s attorney335 once is mute,
The client336 breaks, as desperate in his suit.
He sees her coming and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet339 hides his angry brow,
340 Looks on the dull earth with disturbèd mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,341
For all342 askance he holds her in his eye.
O, what a sight it was, wistly343 to view
How she came stealing to the wayward344 boy,
345 To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy:
But347 now her cheek was pale and by and by
It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.
Now was she just before349 him as he sat,
350 And like a lowly lover down she kneels,
With one fair hand she heaveth351 up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:
His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print,
As apt354 as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.
355 O, what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing,356
His eyes saw her eyes, as357 they had not seen them,
Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdained the wooing:
And all this dumb play359 had his acts made plain
360 With tears, which chorus-like360 her eyes did rain.
Full361 gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prisoned362 in a jail of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band,363
So white a friend engirts364 so white a foe:
365 This beauteous combat, wilful365 and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.366
Once more the engine367 of her thoughts began,
‘O fairest mover368 on this mortal round,
Would thou wert369 as I am, and I a man,
370 My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound,370
For one sweet look thy371 help I would assure thee,
Though nothing but my body’s bane372 would cure thee.’
‘Give me my hand,’ saith he, ‘why dost thou feel it?’
‘Give me my heart’, saith she, ‘and thou shalt have it.
375 O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel375 it,
And being steeled, soft sighs can never grave376 it.
Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard,377
Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.’
‘For shame!’ he cries, ‘Let go and let me go:
380 My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone,
And ’tis your fault I am bereft381 him so.
I pray you hence382 and leave me here alone,
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey384 from the mare.’
385 Thus she replies, ‘Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection387 is a coal that must be cooled,
Else, suffered,388 it will set the heart on fire.
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none,
390 Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
‘How like a jade391 he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely mastered with a leathern rein,
But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee,393
He held such petty bondage in disdain,
395 Throwing the base thong395 from his bending crest,
Enfranchising396 his mouth, his back, his breast.
‘Who sees his true-love in397 her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
400 His other agents400 aim at like delight?
Who is so faint401 that dares not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold?
‘Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy,
And learn of404 him, I heartily beseech thee,
405 To take advantage on405 presented joy.
Though406 I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee.
O, learn to love: the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect,408 never lost again.’
‘I know not love,’ quoth409 he, ‘nor will not know it,
410 Unless it be a boar and then I chase it,
’Tis much to borrow and I will not owe411 it.
My412 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 but414 with a breath.
415 ‘Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinished?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing417 things be any jot diminished,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that’s backed and burdened419 being young
420 Loseth his pride and never waxeth420 strong.
‘You hurt my hand with wringing, let us part
And leave this idle422 theme, this bootless chat.
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart:
To love’s alarms424 it will not ope the gate.
425 Dismiss your vows, your feignèd tears, your flattery,
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.426’
‘What, canst thou talk?’ quoth she, ‘Hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing.
Thy mermaid’s429 voice hath done me double wrong:
430 I had my load before, now pressed430 with bearing:
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh sounding,
Ear’s deep-sweet music and heart’s deep-sore wounding.
‘Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward434 beauty and invisible,
435 Or were I deaf, thy outward parts435 would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:436
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
‘Say that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
440 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 stillatory443 of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by smelling.
445 ‘But O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four.446
Would they not wish the feast might ever last
And bid suspicion448 double-lock the door,
Lest jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
450 Should by his stealing in disturb the feast?’
Once more the ruby-coloured portal451 opened,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield,
Like a red morn that ever yet betokened453
Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,
455 Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws456 to herdmen and to herds.
This ill presage457 advisedly she marketh,
Even as the wind is hushed before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin459 before he barketh,
460 Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere462 his words begun.
And at his look she flatly463 falleth down,
For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth:
465 A smile recures465 the wounding of a frown.
But blessèd bankrupt that by love466 so thriveth,
The silly boy, believing she is dead,
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red,
And all amazed brake off his late intent,469
470 For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning471 love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall472 the wit that can so well defend her!
For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.
475 He wrings475 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 marred.
He kisses her and she, by her good will,
480 Will never rise, so480 he will kiss her still.
The night of sorrow now is turned to day.
Her two blue windows482 faintly she upheaveth,
Like the fair sun when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth:
485 And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumined with her eye,
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fixed,
As if from thence they borrowed all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mixed,
490 Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine,490
But hers, which through the crystal 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 drenched494 or in the fire?
495 What hour is this? Or495 morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die or life desire?
But now I lived and life was death’s annoy,497
But now I died and death was lively joy.
‘O, thou didst kill me! Kill me once again!
500 Thy eyes’ shrewd500 tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain
That they have murdered this poor heart of mine,
And these mine eyes, true leaders503 to their queen,
But504 for thy piteous lips no more had seen.
505 ‘Long may they kiss each other for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries506 wear,
And as they last, their verdure507 still endure
To drive infection from the dangerous year
That the star-gazers,509 having writ on death,
510 May say the plague510 is banished by thy breath.
‘Pure lips, sweet seals511 in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself513 I can be well contented,
So514 thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing,
515 Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips515
Set thy seal-manual516 on my wax-red lips.
‘A thousand kisses buys my heart from me,
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches519 unto thee?
520 Are they not quickly told520 and quickly gone?
Say for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?’
‘Fair queen,523’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,
Measure524 my strangeness with my unripe years,
525 Before I know525 myself, seek not to know me.
No fisher but the ungrown fry526 forbears:
The mellow527 plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early plucked is sour to taste.
‘Look, the world’s comforter529 with weary gait
530 His day’s hot task hath ended in the west,
The owl,531 night’s herald, shrieks, ’tis very late,
The sheep are gone to fold,532 birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light
Do summon us to part and bid good night.
535 ‘Now let me say “Goodnight”, and so say you:
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’
‘Goodnight’, quoth she and ere he says ‘Adieu’
The honey fee of parting tendered538 is.
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace:
540 Incorp’rate540 then they seem, face grows to face,
Till, breathless, he disjoined541 and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit,544 yet complain on drouth:
545 He with her plenty545 pressed, she faint with dearth,
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth.
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
550 Paying what ransom the insulter550 willeth,
Whose vulture551 thought doth pitch the price so high
That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,553
With blindfold fury she begins to forage:554
555 Her face doth reek and smoke,555 her blood doth boil,
And careless556 lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion,557 beating reason back,
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack.558
Hot, faint and weary, with her hard embracing,
560 Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe561 that’s tired with chasing,
Or like the froward562 infant stilled with dandling,
He now obeys and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.564
565 What wax so565 frozen but dissolves with temp’ring,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope567 are compassed oft with vent’ring,
Chiefly in love, whose568 leave exceeds commission:
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
570 But then woos best, when most his choice570 is froward.
When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,571
Such nectar from his lips she had not sucked.
Foul573 words and frowns must not repel a lover:
What though the rose574 have prickles, yet ’tis plucked!
575 Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,575
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,
580 Bids him farewell and look well to580 her heart,
The which, by Cupid’s581 bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incagéd in his breast.
‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I’ll waste583 in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.584
585 Tell me, love’s master, shall we meet tomorrow?
Say, shall we? Shall we? Wilt thou make the match?586’
He tells her, ‘No’, tomorrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.
‘The boar?’ quoth she, whereat a sudden pale,
590 Like lawn590 being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek: she trembles at his tale
And on his neck her yoking592 arms she throws.
She sinketh down still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.
595 Now is she in the very lists595 of love,
Her champion596 mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,597
He will not manage598 her, although he mount her,
That599 worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,
600 To clip600 Elysium and to lack her joy.
Even so poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,601
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw:602
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,603
As those poor birds that helpless604 berries saw.
605 The warm effects,605 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 assayed608 as much as may be proved.
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee:
610 She’s love, she loves and yet she is not loved.
‘Fie,611 fie!’ he says, ‘You crush me! Let me go!
You have no reason to withhold me so.’
‘Thou hadst613 been gone’, quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
615 O, be advised!615 Thou know’st not what it is
With javelin’s point a churlish616 swine to gore,
Whose tushes617 never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal618 butcher bent to kill.
‘On his bow-back619 he hath a battle set
620 Of bristly pikes620 that ever threat his foes,
His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret,621
His snout digs sepulchres622 where’er he goes:
Being moved,623 he strikes whate’er is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.
625 ‘His brawny625 sides with hairy bristles armed
Are better proof626 than thy spear’s point can enter,
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed,
Being ireful628 on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
630 As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
‘Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which love’s eyes pays tributary632 gazes,
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,633
Whose full perfection all the world amazes,
635 But having thee at vantage635 — wondrous dread! —
Would root636 these beauties as he roots the mead.
‘O, let him keep his loathsome cabin637 still:
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul638 fiends.
Come not within his danger by thy will:639
640 They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,641
I feared thy fortune and my joints did tremble.
‘Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white?
Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
645 Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright?645
Within my bosom whereon thou dost lie,
My boding647 heart pants, beats and takes no rest,
But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breast.
‘For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy649
650 Doth call himself affection’s sentinel,650
Gives false alarms, suggesteth651 mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry ‘Kill, kill!’
Distemp’ring653 gentle love in his desire,
As air and water do abate654 the fire.
655 ‘This sour informer, this bate-breeding655 spy,
This canker656 that eats up love’s tender spring,
This carry-tale,657 dissentious jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine ear
660 That if I love thee, I thy death should fear,
‘And more than so,661 presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry, chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his663 back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stained with gore,
665 Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.
‘What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,667
That668 tremble at th’imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
670 And fear doth teach it divination;670
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar tomorrow.
‘But if thou needs wilt673 hunt, be ruled by me,
Uncouple674 at the timorous flying hare,
675 Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,675
Or at the roe676 which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,
And on thy well-breathed678 horse keep with thy hounds.
‘And when thou hast on foot679 the purblind hare,
680 Mark the poor wretch: to overshoot680 his troubles,
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses682 with a thousand doubles.
The many musets683 through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze684 his foes.
685 ‘Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep
To make the cunning686 hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies687 keep
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth689 with a herd of deer —
690 Danger deviseth shifts,690 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 ado694 the cold fault cleanly out.
695 Then do they spend their mouths:695 echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
‘By this, poor Wat,697 far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with list’ning ear
To harken if his foes pursue him still.
700 Anon their loud alarums700 he doth hear,
And now his grief may be comparèd well
To one sore702 sick that hears the passing-bell.
‘Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled703 wretch
Turn and return,704 indenting with the way.
705 Each envious705 briar his weary legs do scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many
And, being low, never relieved708 by any.
‘Lie quietly and hear a little more —
710 Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise —
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar:
Unlike myself712 thou hear’st me moralize,
Applying this to that and so to so —
For love can comment upon every woe.
715 ‘Where did I leave?715’ ‘No matter where’, quoth he,
‘Leave me and then the story aptly716 ends:
The night is spent.’ ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth she.
‘I am’, quoth he, ‘expected of718 my friends,
And now ’tis dark and going I shall fall.’
720 ‘In night’, quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all.
‘But if thou fall, O 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 true724 men thieves: so do thy lips
725 Make modest Dian725 cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.726
‘Now of727 this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia728 for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging729 nature be condemned of treason
730 For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine,
Wherein she framed731 thee, in high heaven’s despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.
‘And therefore hath she bribed the destinies733
To cross734 the curious workmanship of nature,
735 To mingle beauty with infirmities
And pure perfection with impure defeature,736
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances738 and much misery,
‘As burning fevers, agues739 pale and faint,
740 Life-poisoning pestilence740 and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness741 whose attaint
Disorder742 breeds by heating of the blood,
Surfeits,743 impostumes, grief and damned despair:
Swear nature’s death for framing thee so fair.
745 ‘And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under:
Both favour,747 savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th’impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thawed and done,
750 As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.
‘Therefore, despite of fruitless751 chastity,
Love-lacking vestals752 and self-loving nuns
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth754 of daughters and of sons,
755 Be prodigal:755 the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil756 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,
760 If thou destroy760 them not in dark obscurity?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith762 in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
‘So in thyself thyself art made away,763
A mischief764 worse than civil home-bred strife,
765 Or theirs whose765 desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire766 that reaves his son of life:
Foul-cank’ring767 rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that’s put to use768 more gold begets.’
‘Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘you will fall769 again
770 Into your idle over-handled770 theme;
The kiss I gave you is bestowed in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream,
For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul773 nurse,
Your treatise774 makes me like you worse and worse.
775 ‘If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving776 than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton777 mermaids’ songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown:
For know, my heart stands armèd in mine ear
780 And will not let a false sound enter there,
‘Lest781 the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure782 of my breast,
And then my little heart were quite undone,783
In his bedchamber to be barred of rest:
785 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?787
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:
I hate not love, but your device789 in love
790 That lends embracements unto every stranger —
You do it for increase? O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd792 to lust’s abuse!
‘Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating lust on earth usurped his name,
795 Under whose simple semblance795 he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting796 it with blame,
Which797 the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
‘Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
800 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 forgèd lies.
805 ‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say:
The text806 is old, the orator too green.
Therefore in sadness now I will away.
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen,808
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
810 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 laund813 runs apace,
Leaves love upon her back deeply distressed.
815 Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye,816
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarkèd818 friend
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
820 Whose ridges820 with the meeting clouds contend;
So did the merciless and pitchy821 night
Fold in822 the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropped a precious jewel in the flood,824
825 Or stonished825 as night-wand’rers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,
Even so confounded827 in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair828 discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
830 That all the neighbour830 caves, as seeming troubled,
Make831 verbal repetition of her moans:
Passion832 on passion deeply is redoubled,
‘Ay me!’ she cries and twenty times, ‘Woe, woe!’
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
835 She, marking them, begins a wailing note
And sings extemporally836 a woeful ditty:
How love makes young men thrall837 and old men dote,
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty.
Her heavy839 anthem still concludes in woe,
840 And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Her song was tedious and outwore the night,
For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight
In suchlike circumstance, with suchlike sport:
845 Their copious845 stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal847
But idle sounds resembling parasites,848
Like shrill-tongued tapsters849 answering every call,
850 Soothing the humour850 of fantastic wits?
She says ‘’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 cabinet854 mounts up on high
855 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty,
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow,
860 ‘O thou clear860 god and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence862 that makes him bright,
There lives a son863 that sucked an earthly mother
May864 lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.’
865 This said, she hasteth to a myrtle865 grove,
Musing the morning is so much o’erworn,866
And yet she hears no tidings of her love.
She hearkens868 for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
870 And all in haste she coasteth870 to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twined about her thigh to make her stay.
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace
875 Like a milch doe,875 whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.876
By this she hears the hounds are877 at a bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds879 just in his way,
880 The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder:
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals882 her senses and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,883
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
885 Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be so curst,887
They all strain court’sy888 who shall cope him first.
This dismal889 cry rings sadly in her ear,
890 Through which it enters to surprise890 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 fly894 and dare not stay the field.
895 Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,895
Till, cheering up her senses all dismayed,
She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy
And childish error that they are afraid,
Bids899 them leave quaking, bids them fear no more —
900 And with that word she spied the hunted boar,
Whose frothy901 mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews903 spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither.
905 This way runs and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate906 the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens907 bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again.
Her more than haste is mated909 with delays,
910 Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects,911 yet naught at all respecting,
In hand912 with all things, naught at all effecting.
Here kennelled in a brake she finds a hound
And asks the weary caitiff914 for his master,
915 And there another licking of his wound,
Gainst venomed sores the only sovereign plaster.916
And here she meets another, sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding919 noise,
920 Another flap-mouthed920 mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin921 volleys out his voice.
Another and another answer him,
Clapping923 their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratched ears, bleeding as they go.
925 Look, how the world’s poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,926
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing928 them with dreadful prophecies:
So she at these sad signs draws up929 her breath
930 And, sighing it again, exclaims on930 death.
‘Hard-favoured931 tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce932 of love’ — thus chides she Death —
‘Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm,933 what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
935 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 eyes939 to see,
940 But hatefully at random dost thou hit:
Thy mark941 is feeble age, but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim and cleaves942 an infant’s heart.
‘Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had943 spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power —
945 The destinies will curse thee for this stroke —
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower:
Love’s golden arrow947 at him should have fled,
And not death’s ebon948 dart to strike him dead.
‘Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping?
950 What may a heavy950 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,953
Since her best work is ruined with thy rigour.954’
955 Here overcome as one full of despair,
She vailed956 her eyelids who like sluices stopped
The crystal tide957 that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropped,
But through the floodgates breaks the silver rain
960 And with his strong course960 opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow:961
Her eye seen in the tears, tears in her eye,
Both crystals,963 where they viewed each other’s sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry,
960 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable967 passions throng her constant woe
As striving who should best become968 her grief:
All entertained,969 each passion labours so
965 That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best. Then join they all together
Like many clouds consulting for972 foul weather.
By this,973 far off she hears some huntsman hollo.
A nurse’s song ne’er pleased her babe so well:
970 The dire imagination975 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,
975 Being prisoned in her eye like pearls in glass,
Yet sometimes falls an orient981 drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass
To wash the foul983 face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drowned.
985 O hard-believing985 love, how strange it seems
Not to believe and yet too credulous!
Thy weal987 and woe are both of them extremes,
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
990 In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought:991
Adonis lives and Death is not to blame.
It was not she that called993 him all to naught,
Now she adds honours to his hateful name:
995 She clepes995 him king of graves and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme996 of all mortal things.
‘No, no,’ quoth she, ‘sweet Death, I did but jest,
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear
Whenas999 I met the boar, that bloody beast,
1000 Which knows no pity, but is still severe:1000
Then, gentle shadow1001 — truth I must confess —
I railed on1002 thee, fearing my love’s decease.
‘’Tis not my fault, the boar provoked my tongue:
Be wreaked1004 on him, invisible commander,
1005 ’Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong —
I did but act,1006 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,
1010 Her rash suspect1010 she doth extenuate,
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate,1012
Tells him of trophies,1013 statues, tombs and stories,
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.
1015 ‘O Jove,1015’ 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 mutual1018 overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
1020 And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
‘Fie, fie, fond1021 love, thou art as full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemmed with1022 thieves:
Trifles, unwitnessèd with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking1024 grieves.’
1025 Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late1026 forlorn.
As falcons to the lure,1027 away she flies,
The grass stoops not she treads on it so light,
And in her haste unfortunately1029 spies
1030 The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight,
Which seen, her eyes, are murdered with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew,
Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
1035 And there, all smothered 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 cabins1038 of her head,
Where they resign their office1039 and their light
1040 To the disposing1040 of her troubled brain,
Who bids them still1041 consort with ugly night
And never wound the heart with looks again,
Who,1043 like a king perplexèd in his throne,
By their suggestion1044 gives a deadly groan,
1045 Whereat each tributary subject1045 quakes,
As when the wind,1046 imprisoned in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound.1048
This mutiny each part doth so surprise1049
1050 That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes,
And, being opened, threw unwilling light1051
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trenched1052
In his soft flank,1053 whose wonted lily white
With purple1054 tears, that his wound wept, had drenched.
1055 No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed,
But stole1056 his blood and seemed with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth.
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumbly she passions,1059 franticly she doteth,
1060 She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopped, her joints forget to bow,1061
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.1062
Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly
That her sight dazzling1064 makes the wound seem three,
1065 And then she reprehends her mangling1065 eye
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several1067 limb is doubled,
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
‘My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
1070 And yet’, quoth she, ‘behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turned to fire, my heart to lead.
Heavy heart’s lead melt at mine eyes’ red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
1075 ‘Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What 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 trim,1079
1080 But true sweet beauty lived and died with him.
‘Bonnet1081 nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor sun nor1082 wind will ever strive to kiss you,
Having no fair1083 to lose, you need not fear:
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you,
1085 But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
Lurked like two thieves to rob him of his fair,
‘And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy1088 sun would peep.
The wind would blow it off and, being gone,
1090 Play with his locks, then would Adonis weep,
And straight,1091 in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
‘To see his face the lion walked along
Behind some hedge because he would not fear1094 him.
1095 To1095 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 silly1098 lamb that day.
‘When he beheld his shadow1099 in the brook,
1100 The fishes spread on it their golden gills,
When he was by,1101 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.
1105 ‘But this foul, grim1105 and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward1106 eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne’er saw the beauteous livery1107 that he wore:
Witness the entertainment that he gave.
If he did see his face, why then I know
1110 He thought to kiss him and hath killed him so.
“Tis true, ’tis true! Thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet1113 his teeth at him again
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there,1114
1115 And, nuzzling1115 in his flank, the loving swine
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
‘Had I been toothed like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have killed him first,
But he is dead and never did he bless1119
1120 My youth with his — the more am I accurst.’
With this, she falleth in the place she stood
And stains her face with his congealèd blood.
She looks upon his lips and they are pale,
She takes him by the hand and that is cold
1125 She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told.
She lifts the coffer-lids1127 that close his eyes,
Where, lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies:
Two glasses,1129 where herself herself beheld
1130 A thousand times and now no more reflect,
Their virtue1131 lost wherein they late excelled,
And every beauty robbed of his1132 effect.
‘Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.
1135 ‘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’er1139 settled equally, but high or low,
1140 That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.
‘It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,
Bud and be blasted1142 in a breathing while,
The bottom poison and the top o’erstrawed1143
With sweets1144 that shall the truest sight beguile:
1145 The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.
‘It shall be sparing1147 and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures.1148
The staring1149 ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
1150 Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures.
It shall be raging mad and silly1151 mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.
‘It shall suspect where is1153 no cause of fear,
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust,
1155 It shall be merciful and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just,1156
Perverse1157 it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to1158 valour, courage to the coward.
‘It shall be cause of war and dire events
1160 And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire,1160
Subject and servile to all discontents,1161
As dry combustious1162 matter is to fire:
Sith1163 in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.’
1165 By this, the boy that by her side lay killed
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled,
A purple1168 flower sprung up, chequered with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
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 reft1174 from her by death.
1175 She crops the stalk and in the breach1175 appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.
‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father’s guise,1177
Sweet issue1178 of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For every little grief to wet his eyes.
1180 To grow unto himself1180 was his desire,
And so ’tis thine: but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.