To the RIGHT HONORABLE HENRIE WRIOTHESLEY, Earle of Southampton, and Baron of Titchfield. I RIGHT HONOURABLE, KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my vnpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor bow the worlde will censure me for choosing so strong a proppe to support so weake a burthen, onely if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take aduantage of all idle houres, till I baue honoured you with some grauer labour. But if the first beire of my inuention proue deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father: and neuer after eare so barren a land, for fear it yeeld me still so bad a baruest, I leaue it to your Honourable suruey, and your Honor to your hearts content which I wish may alwaies answere your owne wish, and the worlds bopefull expectation. Your Honors in all dutie, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Venus and Adonis. EVEN as the sun with purple colour'd face 'Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began, Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, 'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, 'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety, A summer's day will seem an hour but short, ΙΟ 20 With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm, Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, The studded bridle on a ragged bough To tie the rider she begins to prove: Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, So soon was she along as he was down, 30 40 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 He saith she is immodest, blames her miss; 50 Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin, Forced to content, but never to obey, Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, Rain added to a river that is rank Perforce will force it overflow the bank. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, 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, Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; Till he take truce with her contending tears, 60 70 80 Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; |