They'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city Abused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!' VENUS AND (WRITTEN ABOUT 1592.) INTRODUCTION. Venus and Adonis was entered in the Stationers' register on April 18, 1593, and was published the same year. The poem became popular at once, and before the close of 1602 it had been reprinted no fewer than six times. "As the soul of Euphorbus," wrote Meres in his Wit's Treasury (1598), “was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honytongued Shakespeare; witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his private friends, &c." Ovid has told the story of the love of Venus for Adonis and the death of the beautiful hunter by a wild boar's tusk; the coldness of Adonis, his boyish disdain of love, was an invention of later times. It is in this later form that Shakespeare imagines the subject; and in his treatment of it he has less in common with Ovid than with a short poem by a contemporary writer of sonnets and lyrical poems, Henry Constable, which appeared in a collection of verse published in 1600, under the name of England's Helicon. It is uncertain which of the two poems, Constable's or Shakespeare's, was the earlier written. When Venus and Adonis appeared Shakespeare was twentynine years of age; the Earl of Southampton, to whom it was dedicated, was not yet twenty. In the dedication the poet speaks of these "unpolisht lines" as "the first heire of my invention." Did he mean by this that Fenus and Adonis was written before any of his plays, or before any plays that were strictly original-his own "invention ?" or does he, setting plays altogether apart, which were not looked upon as literature, in a high sense of the word, call it his first poem because he had written no earlier narrative or lyrical verse? We cannot be sure. It is possible, but not likely, that he may have written this poem before he left Stratford, and have brought it up with him to London. More probably it was written in London, and perhaps not long before its publication. The year 1593, in which the poem appeared, was a year of plague; the London theatres were closed: it may be that Shakespeare, idle in London, or having returned for a while to Stratford, then wrote the poem. Whenever written, it was elaborated with peculiar care. The subject of the poem is sensual, but with Shakespeare it becomes rather a study or analysis of passion and the objects of passion, than in itself passionate. Without being dramatic, the poem contains the materials for dramatic poetry, set forth at large. The descriptions of English landscape and country life are numerous, and give a spirit of breezy life and health to portions of the poem which could ill afford to lose anything that is fresh and healthful. Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD. RIGHT HONORABLE, 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 honor seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honored you with some graver labor. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honorable survey, and your honor to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation. Your honor's in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow; If thou wilt deign this favor, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know: Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses; And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty, 20 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, Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, 31 Forced to content, but never to obey, So they were dew'd with such distilling showers. Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes: 70 Perforce will force it overflow the bank. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale; Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale: Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Her best is better'd with a more delight. Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave; But when her lips were ready for his pay, Never did passenger in summer's heat turn. Her help she sees, but help she cannot get ; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: O, pity,' 'gan she cry, flint-hearted boy! 'Tis hut a kiss I beg; why art thou coy? 'Over my altars hath he hung his lance, His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest, And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance, To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest, Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. Thus he that overruled I oversway'd, Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain: 110 Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight! '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 seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head : Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes ? 120 'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again, And I will wink; so shall the day seem night; Love keeps his revels where they are but twain ; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight: These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. 'The tender spring upon thy tempting lip Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted : Make use of time, let not advantage slip; Beauty within itself should not be wasted: 130 Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. 'Were I hard-favor'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold, Thick-sighted, 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; Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, 140 My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning; My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. 'Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie; 151 These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me ; Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn till night, even where I list to sport By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, For where they lay the shadow had forsook them, And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat, And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, The sun doth burn my face: I must ro move.' And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee: 'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel 200 What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth ? O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. 'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this ? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit? What were thy lips the worse for one poor [mite: kiss? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be For men will kiss even by their own direction.' This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong; Being judge in love, she cannot right her slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple; Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why, there Love lived and there he could not die. These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking. Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking ? 250 Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, 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 ; The time is spent, her object will away, ing. 'Pity,' she cries, some favor, some remorse!' Away he springs and hasteth to his horse. But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, Adonis' trainpling courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, 261 Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof le wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder; The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with. 270 His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end; His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a furnace, vapors doth he send : His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire, |