But none is best: then join they all together, By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; This sound of hope doth labor to expel; Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, 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 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely; Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought; Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame; It was not she that call'd him all to naught; She clepes 1 him king of graves, and grave for kings; Imperious 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, Then, gentle shadow, (truth I must confess) 'Tis not my fault; the boar provoked 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, 2 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. For he being dead, with him is beauty slain; Fie, fie, fond Love! thou art so full of fear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves." As falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; 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, So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Where they resign their office and their light Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, Whereat each tributary subject quakes; This mutiny each part doth so surprise, That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; And, being open'd, threw unwilling light 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; 1 Cut. 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; 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 any thing ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim; But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : |