‘Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight.
These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean
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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.
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Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime
Rot, and consume themselves in little time.
‘Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
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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 grey and bright and quick in turning.
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My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
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,
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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.
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‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
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 me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
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That thou should think it heavy unto thee?
‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected;
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
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Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:
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Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot, to get it is thy duty.
‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
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By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.’
By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
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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.
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And now Adonis with a lazy sprite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours 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 remove.’
‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun
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I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.
‘The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
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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 relenteth;
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Art thou a woman’s son and canst not feel
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,
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Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair, but speak fair words, or else be mute.
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.
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‘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 complexion,
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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 cause.
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And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.
Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground.
Sometime her arms infold him like a band:
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She would, he will not in her arms be bound.
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.
‘Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemm’d thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
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I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
‘Within this limit is relief enough,
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Sweet bottom grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park,
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’
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At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
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Why there love liv’d, 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 before, what needs a second striking?
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 the more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
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And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
‘Pity,’ she cries, ‘some favour, some remorse!’
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.
But lo from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
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Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck’d steed being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds
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And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.
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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, vapours doth he send;
His eye which scornfully glisters like fire
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Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo thus my strength is tried:
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And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’
What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
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For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportion’d steed,
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His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed:
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
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Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
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Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather.
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And where he run or fly, they know not whether,
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
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Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.
He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her:
She answers him, as if she knew his mind.
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
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Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that like a falling plume
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;
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He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love perceiving how he was enrag’d,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d.
His testy master goeth about to take him,
When lo the unback’d breeder, full of fear,
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Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him;
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As they were mad unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
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Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast.
And now the happy season once more fits
That love-sick love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong,
When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue.
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An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works Page 16
