And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight; 1030 Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew; Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Where they resign their office and their light 1040 Whereat each tributary subject quakes; That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; 1050 And, being open'd, threw unwilling light No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth; 1060 Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye, That makes more gashes where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. 'My tongue cannot express my grief for one, Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire! '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 But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. '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 you: But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair: 'And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; The wind would blow it off and, being gone, Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of his tender years, 1091 They both would strive who first should dry his tears. 'To see his face the lion walk'd along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, I100 When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. 'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so. "Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain: IIII 'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, II 20 She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; 1130 Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, 'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. 'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: 1139 That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. 'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, 'It shall be sparing and too full of riot, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treas ures; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful and too severe, 1150 And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. 'It shall be cause of war and dire events, 1160 Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd, She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath, And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, 1171 She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears, Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. 'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy father's guise Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire- 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; Thon art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, 1180 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.' 1189 Thus weary of the world, away she hies, Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. |