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Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
O, hard believing love ! how strange it seems
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 nought, Now she adds honour to his hateful name ;
She 'cleps him king of graves, and grave for kings.
Imperial supreme of mortal things.
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
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
Even at this word, she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew.
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fied
Into the deep dark cabins of her head,
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestions 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 minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprize,
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes, And being open'd, threw unwilling sight Upon the wide wound, that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank : whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'a.
No fower 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,
Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now. Upon his hurt she looks so stedfastly, 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,
Heavy hearts' 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 any thing ensuing ?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim, But true sweet beauty liv'd and dy'd in him.
Bonnet or veil, henceforth no creature wear;
But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air
And therefore would he put his-bonnet on,
And straight in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears. To see his face, the lion walks along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
And never fright the silly lamb that day.
Would bring him mulberries, and ripe red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
If he did see his face, why then I know,
"Tis true, true, true, thus was Adonis slain,
And nousling in his flank, the loving swine
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With this she falleth in the place she stood,
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo! two lamps burnt ont in darkness lies.
Wonder of time (quoth she) this is my spright,
That you being dead, the world 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, Finding sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,
Ne'er settled equally to high or low;
That all love's pleasures shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, And shall be blasted in a breathing while, The bottom poison, and the top o'er-straw'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,
It shall be raging mad, and silly mild,
old, the old become a child.
It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear;
Perverse it shall be, when it seems most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
Sith, in his prime, death doth by love destroy,
By this the boy that by her side lay kill'd,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood,