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Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She veil'd her eye-lids, who, like sluices, stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd ;

But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,

And with his strong course opens them again. O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow! Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow, Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry;

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 which should best become her grief; All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief,

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 expell;

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,
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. O hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous ! Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes, Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:

The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,

With likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought; Adonis lives and death is not to blame; It was not she that call’d him all to nought; Now she adds honour to his hateful name;

She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperial supreme of all mortal things.

No, no (quoth she), sweet Death, I did but jest ;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,
When as 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. 'Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue ; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander ; 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he's author of thy slander :

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet

Could rule them both, without ten women's wit. Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate;

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs; and stories

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.
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, As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves; Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.

Even at this word she hears a merry horn,

Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;

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, Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain, And there, all smother'd up in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again ;

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
To the disposing of her troubled brain ;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
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,
Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound:

This mutiny each part doth so surprise,

That from their dark beds, once more, leap her eyes ; And, being open'd, threw unwilling sight Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd :

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,

But stole his blood, and seem'd with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth; Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; Dumbly she passions, frantickly she doteth; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead.

Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow;

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. 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,
And yet (quoth she) behold two Adons dead !
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead :

Heavy heart's lead melt at mine eyes, as fire !
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
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 ; But true-sweet beauty liv'd and died in him.

Alas,

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 liv'd, 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,

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, The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him:

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,

And never fright the silly lamb that day.
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, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave;

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 ;
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
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, his tusk in his soft groin.
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess
With kissing him I should have killed him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.

With this she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

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She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ear a heavy tale,
As if he heard the woeful words she told :

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 :

Wonder of time (quoth she), this is my spite,

That, you being dead, the day should yet be light. Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend; It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end;

Ne'er settled equally, but high or low;

That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; The bottom poison, and the top o'er-straw'd With sweets, that shall the sharpest sight beguile :

The strongest body shall it make most weak,

Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. 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 ;
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 seems most toward,

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 ;
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 loves shall not enjoy.

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