This way she runs, and now she will no further,

But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays, 909
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
In hand with all things, nought at all effect-
ing.

Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,

912

'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plas

ter;

916 And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,

920

Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground

below,

'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.

944

The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower.

Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,

And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.

948

But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,

969

But none is best; then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel;

976

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, 981 Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should

pass,

To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.

984

The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,

In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,

992

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him all to naught,
Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves, and grave for
kings,

Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 996

'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow,-truth I must confess,

I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.

1000

1016

'O Jove!' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind;

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 'Fie, fie, fond love! thou art so full of fear 1021 As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves;

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or car,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain, And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again; 1036

1040

So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head: Where they resign their office and their light Who bids them still consort with ugly night, To the disposing of her troubled brain; And never wound the heart with looks again; Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan, Whereat each tributary subject quakes; As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes, [found. Which with cold terror doth men's minds conThis mutiny each part doth so surprise 1049 That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

1045

And, being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd

1052

In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was
drench'd:
[weed,
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or
But stole his blood and seem'd with him to
bleed.
1056

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead: 1060
Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till

now.

'Alas! poor world, what treasure hast thou lost? What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?

1076 Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast

Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;

[him. But true-sweet beauty liv'd and died with

'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss 1084 But when Adonis liv'd, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:

you:

"Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, 1112
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath'd unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.' 1120
With this she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;

1125

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect:

1128

1132

'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite, That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.

1149

'It shall be sparing and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;

It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; 1153 It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward, 1157 Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire; 1160
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:

Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, They that love best their love shall not enjoy.' By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd 1165 Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white; 1168 Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood

Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis' breath;

1172

'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy father's guise,

1180

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.
'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest, 1185
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and
night:

There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'

1183