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VENUS AND ADONIS.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the paths that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain;
Full of respect, yet not at all respecting,
In hand with all things, nought at all affecting.
Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master;
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
And her he meets another sadly scowling,
whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he had ceas'd his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin vollies out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
do she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
And, sighing it again, exclaims on death.

Hard-favor'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love (thus chides she death)
Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost
thou mean

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ?

If he be dead,-O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it-
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.

Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower;
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such
weeping?

What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.

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 fuir
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.

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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 expel;
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'a

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 naught;
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 is 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.

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As faulcon 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 terrors doth men's mind con-

found:

This mutiny each part doth so surprize,

Bonnet or 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 surg,
The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him :
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his pre
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

That from their dark beds, once more, leap her Would bring him mulberries, and ripe red cher

eyes;

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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.

Alas, 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 anything ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and

trim;

But true-sweet beauty liv'd and dy'd in him.

ries;

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 would 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 kill'd him first-
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more I am accurst.
With this she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

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, to high or low;
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe

VENUS AND ADONIS

It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud,
And shall be blasted in a breathing-while:
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'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 trea-

sures:

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, when 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 cumbustious matter is to fire;
Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love best, their love shall not enjoy.

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,

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A purple flower spung up, chequer'd with white;
Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis breath;
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy father's guise.
(Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire)
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.

Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast,
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute of an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd,
Holding their course to Paphos, where ther
queen

Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Titchfield.

THE love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would stew greater: mean time, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your Lordship's in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

THE ARGUMENT.

Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus) after rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew he had caused his own father-in-law, Servins Tullius, to be cruelly mur- himself, and was (according to his estate) royally entertained and lodged dered, and, contrary to the Roman faws and customs, not requiring or by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night, he treacherously stealeth înto staying for the people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom; her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to be-away. Lncrece in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatched messengers, lege Ardea. During which siege, the principal men of the army meet-one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They ing one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Public their discourses after supper, every one commended the virtues of his Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the own wife; among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome: revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal sud and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that denly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent, they all rowed which every one had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and bearing the (though it were late in the night) spinning amongst her maids: the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the king: wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece' and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the government changed from kings to consuls.

FROM the besieg'd Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire,
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,
And girdle with embracing flames the waist
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

|Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apology be made
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher

Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting

Haply that name of chaste unhapp❜ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beau-His
ties,

With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him
lent

In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decayed and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expir'd date, cancel'd ere well begun:
Honour and beauty in the owner's arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt

The golden hap which their superiors want..

But some untimely thought did instigate
His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those;
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.
O rash-false heat, wrapt in repentant cold,
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old!

When at Collatium this false lord arrived,
Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue strived
Which of them both should underprop her fame
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for

shame;

When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.

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