"For there his smell with others being mingled, The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;

Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies.

"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still;
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved by any.

"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.

"Where did I leave?"-"No matter where," quoth he;

"Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: The night is spent."-"Why, what of that?" quoth she.

"I am," quoth he, "expected of my friends; And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall." "In night," quoth she, "desire sees best of all.

"But if thou fall, 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 true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.

"Now of this dark night I perceive the reason: Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine, Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,

To shame the sun by day, and her by night.

"And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies,
To cross the curious workmanship of Nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature ;
Making it subject to the tyranny

Of mad mischances and much misery;

"As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood, The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood: Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,

Swear Nature's death for framing thee so fair.

"And not the least of all these maladies,
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late 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 dark 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,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do
slay,

Or butcher-sire, that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use more gold begets.

22

“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 have 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 mine

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 on to 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 usurp'd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

"Love comforteth like sunshine 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 laund 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.

Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd 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:

"Ah me!" she cries, and twenty times, "Woe, woe!"

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.