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They'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city

Abused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'
Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,
All the expected good we're like to hear
For this play at this time, is only in
The merciful construction of good women; 10
For such a one we show'd 'em if they smile,
And say 'twill do, I know, within a while
All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,
If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.

VENUS AND
AND ADONIS.

(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
Pocula Castalia pléna ministret aqua.'

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,

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'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,
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 her 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.

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Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth 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: 70
Rain added to a river that is rank

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.

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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,
He winks, and turns his lips another way. 90

Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good

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?

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'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,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,

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

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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,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him and by Venus' side. 180

And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapors when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks cries Fie, no more of
love!

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The sun doth burn my face: I must ro move.'

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And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relent-
eth ?

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
Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again, 209
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.
Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man's com-
plexion,

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

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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,
And from her twining arins doth urge releas-

ing.

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'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,

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