VENUS and ADONIS.
VEN as the Sun, with purple-colour'd Face,
Had ta'en his laft Leave of the weeping Morn,
Rofe-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the Chafe :
Hunting he lov'd, but Love he laugh'd to fcorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd Suitor 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer than my felf! (thus fhe began)
The Fields fweet Flower! fweet above compare!
Stain to all Nymphs! more lovely than a Man!
More white and red, than Doves or Rofes are!
Nature, that made thee, with her self at ftrife,
Saith, that the World hath ending with thy Life.
Vouchfafe thou Wonder! to alight thy Steed,
And rein his proud Head to the Saddle-Bow;
If thou wilt deign this Favour, for thy Meed,
A thousand honey Secrets fhalt thou know.
Here come and fit, where Serpent never hiffes,
And being fet, I'll fmother thee with Kiffes.
And yet not cloy thy Lips with loathed Satiety,
But rather famifh them amid their Plenty;
Making them red and pale with fresh Variety:
Ten Kiffes fhort as one, one long as twenty.
A Summer's Day will feem an Hour but fhort,
Being wafted in fuch Time-beguiling Sport.
With this the feizeth on his fweating Palm,
The Prefident of Pith and Livelihood,
And trembling in her Paffion calls its Balm;
Earth's Sovereign Salve to do a Goddess good.
Being fo enrag'd, Defire doth lend her Force,
Courageously to pluck him from his Horse.
Over one Arm the lufty Courfer's Rein,
Under the 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 frofty in Defire.
The ftudded Bridle, on a ragged Bough,
Nimbly fhe faftens (O how quick is Love!)
The Steed is ftalled up, and even now
To tie the Rider fhe begins to prove.
Backward fhe pufh'd him, as fhe would be thruft,
And govern'd him in Strength, tho not in Luft.
So foon was fhe along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their Elbows and their Hips:
Now doth fhe ftroke his Cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but foon fhe ftops his Lips:
And kiffing speaks, with luftful Language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy Lips fhall never open.
He burns with bafhful Shame; fhe with her Tears,
Doth quench the maiden burning of his Cheeks:
Then with her windy Sighs, and golden Hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again fhe feeks.
He fays fhe is immodeft, blames her miss;
What follows more, fhe fmothers with a Kifs.
Even as an empty Eagle, fharp by Faste,
Tires with her Beak on Feathers, Flesh and Bone,
Shaking her Wings, devouring all in Hafte,
Till either Gorge be ftuft, or Prey be gone:
Even fo fhe kift his Brow, his Cheek, his Chin,
And where fhe ends, he doth anew begin.
Forc'd to confent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her Face:
She feedeth on the Steam, as on a Prey,í
And calls it heav'nly Moisture! Air of Grace!
Wishing her Cheeks were Gardens full of Flowers,
So they were dew'd with fuch diftilling Showers.
Look how a Bird lies tangled in a Net,
So faften'd in her Arms Adonis lies:
Pure Shame and aw'd Refiftance made him fret,
Which bred more Beauty in his angry Eyes.
Rain added to a River that is rank,
Perforce will force it overflow the Bank.
Still the entreats, and prettily entreats:
For to a pretty Ear fhe tunes her Tale.
Still he is fullen, ftill he lowers and frets,
"Twixt crimson Shame, and Anger afhy Pale.
Being red the loves him beft, and being white,
Her Breast is better'd with a more Delight.
Look how he can, fhe cannot chufe but love,
And by her fair immortal Hand fhe fwears,
From his foft Bofom never to remove,
Till he take Truce with her contending Tears
Which long have rain'd, making her Cheeks all wet,
And one sweet Kifs fhall pay this countless Debt.
Upon this Promife did he raise his Chin,
Like a Dive-dapper peering thro a Wave,
Who being look'd on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what he did crave;
But when his Lips were ready for his Pay,
He winks and turns his Lips another Way.
Never did Paffenger, in Summer's Heat,
More thirst for Drink, than fhe for this good Turn;
Her Help fhe fees, but Help the cannot get,
She baths in Water, yet in Fire muft burn.
Oh Pity, gan fhe cry, flint-hearted Boy!
'Tis but a Kifs I beg, why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now,
Ev'n by the ftern and direful God of War,
Whofe finewy Neck in Battel ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every Jar:
Yet hath he been my Captive and my Slave,
And begg'd for that, which thou unask'd fhalt have.
Over my Altars hath he hung his Lance,
His batter'd Shield, his uncontrolled Creft;
And for my fake hath learn'd to fport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, fmile and jest;
Scorning his churlith Drum, and Enfign red,
Making my Arms his Field, his Tent my Bed.
Thus he, that over-rul'd, I over-fway'd;
Leading him Prifoner in a red-Rofe Chain.
Strong temper'd Steel, his ftronger Strength obey'd,
Yet was he fervile to my coy Difdain.
Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy Might,
For maftring her, that foil'd the God of Fight!
Touch but my Lips with those fair Lips of thine,
(Tho mine be not fo fair, yet they are red)
The Kifs fhall be thine own, as well, as mine;
What feeft thou on the Ground? Hold up thy Head:
Look in mine Eye-balls, where thy Beauty lies,
Then why not Lips on Lips, fince Eyes on Eyes?
Art thou afham'd to kifs? Then wink again,
And I will wink, fo fhall the Day feem Night,
Love keeps his Revels, where there be but twain;
Be bold to play, our Sport is not in fight.
These blue-vein'd Violets, whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender Spring, upon thy tempting Lip,
Shews thee unripe; yet may'ft thou well be tafted:
Make ufe of Time, let not Advantage flip,
Beauty within it felf would not be wafted.
Fair Flowers, that are not gather'd in their Prime,
Rot and confume themselves in little time.
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-natur'd, crooked, churlifh, harfh in Voice,
O'erworn, defpifed, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-fighted, barren, lean, and lacking Juice:
Then mightft thou paufe, for then I were not for thee,
But, having no Defects, why doft abhor me?
Thou can'ft not fee one Wrinkle in my Brow,
Mine Eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning;
My Beauty, as the Spring, doth yearly grow;
My Flesh as foft and plump, my Marrow burning;
My fmooth moift Hand, were it with thy Hand felt,
Would in thy Palm diffolve, or feem to melt.
|