THE

POEMS

OF

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF

TICHFIELD.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: 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 SHAKSPEARE.

*I. e. plough.

† Lord Southampton was at this period twenty years old.

VENUS AND ADONIS.

[Our author himself has told us that this poem was his first composition. It was entered in the Stationers' books by Richard Field, on the 18th of April, 1593; and again by Harrison, sen., on the 23rd of June, 1594; in which year it was probably published.]

Vilia miretur vulgus, mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministrat aqua.—Ovid.

EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn:
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.

"Thrice fairer than myself (thus she began),
The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves and roses are;

Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed,
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.

Here come and sit, where serpent never hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses.

"And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:

A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport."

With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent* of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:

Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force,
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under the other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;

She red and hot, as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens (O how quick is love!);
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:

Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;

And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, "If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open." He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks; Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs, To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:

He says, she is immodest, blames her miss; † What follows more, she smothers with a kiss. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff'd, or prey be gone,

Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends, she doth anew begin. Forced to content, § but never to obey, Panting he lies, and breathing in her face; She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey, And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,

Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;

Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank,||

Perforce will force it overflow the bank.