It is hard to imagine a world without Shakespeare. Since their composition more than four hundred years ago, Shakespeare’s plays and poems have traveled the globe, inviting those who see and read his works to make them their own.
Readers of the New Folger Editions are part of this ongoing process of “taking up Shakespeare,” finding our own thoughts and feelings in language that strikes us as old or unusual and, for that very reason, new. We still struggle to keep up with a writer who could think a mile a minute, whose words paint pictures that shift like clouds. These expertly edited texts are presented to the public as a resource for study, artistic adaptation, and enjoyment. By making the classic texts of the New Folger Editions available in electronic form as The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), we place a trusted resource in the hands of anyone who wants them.
The New Folger Editions of Shakespeare’s plays, which are the basis for the texts realized here in digital form, are special because of their origin. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, is the single greatest documentary source of Shakespeare’s works. An unparalleled collection of early modern books, manuscripts, and artwork connected to Shakespeare, the Folger’s holdings have been consulted extensively in the preparation of these texts. The Editions also reflect the expertise gained through the regular performance of Shakespeare’s works in the Folger’s Elizabethan Theatre.
I want to express my deep thanks to editors Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine for creating these indispensable editions of Shakespeare’s works, which incorporate the best of textual scholarship with a richness of commentary that is both inspired and engaging. Readers who want to know more about Shakespeare and his plays can follow the paths these distinguished scholars have tread by visiting the Folger either in-person or online, where a range of physical and digital resources exists to supplement the material in these texts. I commend to you these words, and hope that they inspire.
Michael Witmore
Director, Folger Shakespeare Library
Until now, with the release of The Folger Shakespeare (formerly Folger Digital Texts), readers in search of a free online text of Shakespeare’s plays and poems had to be content primarily with using the Moby™ Text, which reproduces a late-nineteenth century version of the plays and poems. What is the difference? Many ordinary readers assume that there is a single text of all these works: what Shakespeare wrote. But Shakespeare’s plays were not published the way modern novels or plays are published today: as a single, authoritative text. In some cases, the plays have come down to us in multiple published versions, represented by various Quartos (Qq) and by the great collection put together by his colleagues in 1623, called the First Folio (F). There are, for example, three very different versions of
Hamlet
, two of
King Lear
,
Henry V
,
Romeo and Juliet
, and others. Editors choose which version to use as their base text, and then amend that text with words, lines or speech prefixes from the other versions that, in their judgment, make for a better or more accurate text.
Other editorial decisions involve choices about whether an unfamiliar word could be understood in light of other writings of the period or whether it should be changed; decisions about words that made it into Shakespeare’s text by accident through four hundred years of printings and misprinting; and even decisions based on cultural preference and taste. When the Moby™ Text was created, for example, it was deemed “improper” and “indecent” for Miranda to chastise Caliban for having attempted to rape her. (See
The Tempest
, 1.2: “Abhorred slave,/Which any print of goodness wilt not take,/Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee…”). All Shakespeare editors at the time took the speech away from her and gave it to her father, Prospero.
The editors of the Moby™ Shakespeare produced their text long before scholars fully understood the proper grounds on which to make the thousands of decisions that Shakespeare editors face. The Folger Library Shakespeare Editions, on which the Folger Shakespeare texts depend, make this editorial process as nearly transparent as is possible, in contrast to older texts, like the Moby™, which hide editorial interventions. The reader of the Folger Shakespeare knows where the text has been altered because editorial interventions are signaled by square brackets (for example, from
Othello
: “
square bracket
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
square bracket
”), half-square brackets (for example, from
Henry V
: “With
half-square bracket
blood
half-square bracket
and sword and fire to win your right,”), or angle brackets (for example, from
Hamlet
: “O farewell, honest
angle bracket
soldier.
angle bracket
Who hath relieved/you?”). At any point in the text, you can hover your cursor over a bracket for more information.
Because the Folger Shakespeare texts are edited in accord with twenty-first century knowledge about Shakespeare’s texts, the Folger here provides them to readers, scholars, teachers, actors, directors, and students, free of charge, confident of their quality as texts of the plays and pleased to be able to make this contribution to the study and enjoyment of Shakespeare.
Vilia
miretur
vulgus
:
mihi
flavus
Apollo
Pocula
Castalia
plena
ministret
aqua
.
TO
THE
RIGHT
HONORABLE
Henry
Wriothesley
,
Earl
of
Southampton
,
and
Baron
of
Titchfield
.
Right
Honorable
,
I
know
not
how
I
shall
offend
in
dedicating
my
unpolished
lines
to
your
Lordship
,
nor
how
the
world
will
censure
me
for
choosing
so
strong
a
prop
to
support
so
weak
a
burden
;
only
if
your
Honor
seem
but
pleased
,
I
account
myself
highly
praised
and
vow
to
take
advantage
of
all
idle
hours
till
I
have
honored
you
with
some
graver
labor
.
But
if
the
first
heir
of
my
invention
prove
deformed
,
I
shall
be
sorry
it
had
so
noble
a
godfather
and
never
after
ear
so
barren
a
land
,
for
fear
it
yield
me
still
so
bad
a
harvest
.
I
leave
it
to
your
honorable
survey
,
and
your
Honor
to
your
heart’s
content
,
which
I
wish
may
always
answer
your
own
wish
and
the
world’s
hopeful
expectation
.
Your
Honor’s
in
all
duty
,
William
Shakespeare
.
Venus and Adonis
Even
as
the
sun
with
purple-colored
face
Had
ta’en
his
last
leave
of
the
weeping
morn
,
Rose-cheeked
Adonis
hied
him
to
the
chase
.
Hunting
he
loved
,
but
love
he
laughed
to
scorn
.
Sick-thoughtèd
Venus
makes
amain
unto
him
And
,
like
a
bold-faced
suitor
,
gins
to
woo
him
.
Thrice
fairer
than
myself
,
thus
she
began
,
The
field’s
chief
flower
,
sweet
above
compare
,
Stain
to
all
nymphs
,
more
lovely
than
a
man
,
More
white
and
red
than
doves
or
roses
are
,
Nature
that
made
thee
,
with
herself
at
strife
,
Saith
that
the
world
hath
ending
with
thy
life
.
Vouchsafe
,
thou
wonder
,
to
alight
thy
steed
,
And
rein
his
proud
head
to
the
saddlebow
.
If
thou
wilt
deign
this
favor
,
for
thy
meed
A
thousand
honey
secrets
shalt
thou
know
.
Here
come
and
sit
where
never
serpent
hisses
,
And
being
set
,
I’ll
smother
thee
with
kisses
,
And
yet
not
cloy
thy
lips
with
loathed
satiety
,
But
rather
famish
them
amid
their
plenty
,
Making
them
red
and
pale
with
fresh
variety
—
Ten
kisses
short
as
one
,
one
long
as
twenty
.
A
summer’s
day
will
seem
an
hour
but
short
,
Being
wasted
in
such
time-beguiling
sport
.
With
this
she
seizeth
on
his
sweating
palm
,
The
precedent
of
pith
and
livelihood
,
And
,
trembling
in
her
passion
,
calls
it
balm
,
Earth’s
sovereign
salve
to
do
a
goddess
good
.
Being
so
enraged
,
desire
doth
lend
her
force
Courageously
to
pluck
him
from
his
horse
.
Over
one
arm
the
lusty
courser’s
rein
,
Under
her
other
was
the
tender
boy
,
Who
blushed
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
frosty
in
desire
.
The
studded
bridle
on
a
ragged
bough
Nimbly
she
fastens
.
O
,
how
quick
is
love
!
The
steed
is
stallèd
up
,
and
even
now
To
tie
the
rider
she
begins
to
prove
.
Backward
she
pushed
him
as
she
would
be
thrust
,
And
governed
him
in
strength
though
not
in
lust
.
So
soon
was
she
along
as
he
was
down
,
Each
leaning
on
their
elbows
and
their
hips
.
Now
doth
she
stroke
his
cheek
,
now
doth
he
frown
And
gins
to
chide
,
but
soon
she
stops
his
lips
And
kissing
speaks
,
with
lustful
language
broken
,
If
thou
wilt
chide
,
thy
lips
shall
never
open
.
He
burns
with
bashful
shame
;
she
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
she
seeks
.
He
saith
she
is
immodest
,
blames
her
miss
;
What
follows
more
she
murders
with
a
kiss
.
Even
as
an
empty
eagle
,
sharp
by
fast
,
Tires
with
her
beak
on
feathers
,
flesh
,
and
bone
,
Shaking
her
wings
,
devouring
all
in
haste
Till
either
gorge
be
stuffed
or
prey
be
gone
,
Even
so
she
kissed
his
brow
,
his
cheek
,
his
chin
,
And
where
she
ends
she
doth
anew
begin
.
Forced
to
content
but
never
to
obey
,
Panting
he
lies
and
breatheth
in
her
face
.
She
feedeth
on
the
steam
as
on
a
prey
And
calls
it
heavenly
moisture
,
air
of
grace
,
Wishing
her
cheeks
were
gardens
full
of
flowers
,
So
they
were
dewed
with
such
distilling
showers
.
Look
how
a
bird
lies
tangled
in
a
net
,
So
fastened
in
her
arms
Adonis
lies
.
Pure
shame
and
awed
resistance
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
she
entreats
,
and
prettily
entreats
,
For
to
a
pretty
ear
she
tunes
her
tale
.
Still
is
he
sullen
,
still
he
lours
and
frets
,
’Twixt
crimson
shame
and
anger
ashy
pale
;
Being
red
,
she
loves
him
best
,
and
being
white
,
Her
best
is
bettered
with
a
more
delight
.
Look
how
he
can
,
she
cannot
choose
but
love
,
And
by
her
fair
immortal
hand
she
swears
From
his
soft
bosom
never
to
remove
Till
he
take
truce
with
her
contending
tears
,
Which
long
have
rained
,
making
her
cheeks
all
wet
,
And
one
sweet
kiss
shall
pay
this
countless
debt
.
Upon
this
promise
did
he
raise
his
chin
Like
a
divedapper
peering
through
a
wave
,
Who
,
being
looked
on
,
ducks
as
quickly
in
;
So
offers
he
to
give
what
she
did
crave
,
But
when
her
lips
were
ready
for
his
pay
,
He
winks
and
turns
his
lips
another
way
.
Never
did
passenger
in
summer’s
heat
More
thirst
for
drink
than
she
for
this
good
turn
.
Her
help
she
sees
,
but
help
she
cannot
get
;
She
bathes
in
water
,
yet
her
fire
must
burn
.
O
,
pity
,
gan
she
cry
,
flint-hearted
boy
!
’Tis
but
a
kiss
I
beg
.
Why
art
thou
coy
?
I
have
been
wooed
,
as
I
entreat
thee
now
,
Even
by
the
stern
and
direful
god
of
war
,
Whose
sinewy
neck
in
battle
ne’er
did
bow
,
Who
conquers
where
he
comes
in
every
jar
,
Yet
hath
he
been
my
captive
and
my
slave
And
begged
for
that
which
thou
unasked
shalt
have
.
Over
my
altars
hath
he
hung
his
lance
,
His
battered
shield
,
his
uncontrollèd
crest
,
And
for
my
sake
hath
learned
to
sport
and
dance
,
To
toy
,
to
wanton
,
dally
,
smile
,
and
jest
,
Scorning
his
churlish
drum
and
ensign
red
,
Making
my
arms
his
field
,
his
tent
my
bed
.
Thus
he
that
overruled
I
overswayed
,
Leading
him
prisoner
in
a
red-rose
chain
;
Strong-tempered
steel
his
stronger
strength
obeyed
,
Yet
was
he
servile
to
my
coy
disdain
.
O
,
be
not
proud
,
nor
brag
not
of
thy
might
For
mastering
her
that
foiled
the
god
of
fight
!
Touch
but
my
lips
with
those
fair
lips
of
thine
;
Though
mine
be
not
so
fair
,
yet
are
they
red
.
The
kiss
shall
be
thine
own
as
well
as
mine
.
What
seest
thou
in
the
ground
?
Hold
up
thy
head
.
Look
in
mine
eyeballs
;
there
thy
beauty
lies
.
Then
why
not
lips
on
lips
,
since
eyes
in
eyes
?
Art
thou
ashamed
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-veined
violets
whereon
we
lean
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
.
Fair
flowers
that
are
not
gathered
in
their
prime
Rot
and
consume
themselves
in
little
time
.
Were
I
hard-favored
,
foul
,
or
wrinkled
old
,
Ill-nurtured
,
crookèd
,
churlish
,
harsh
in
voice
,
O’erworn
,
despisèd
,
rheumatic
,
and
cold
,
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
gray
,
and
bright
,
and
quick
in
turning
;
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
,
Or
like
a
fairy
trip
upon
the
green
,
Or
like
a
nymph
,
with
long
disheveled
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
.
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
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
.
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
.
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
?
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
lovesick
queen
began
to
sweat
,
For
where
they
lay
the
shadow
had
forsook
them
,
And
Titan
,
tired
in
the
midday
heat
,
With
burning
eye
did
hotly
overlook
them
,
Wishing
Adonis
had
his
team
to
guide
,
So
he
were
like
him
and
by
Venus’
side
.
And
now
Adonis
,
with
a
lazy
sprite
And
with
a
heavy
,
dark
,
disliking
eye
,
His
louring
brows
o’erwhelming
his
fair
sight
,
Like
misty
vapors
when
they
blot
the
sky
,
Souring
his
cheeks
,
cries
,
Fie
,
no
more
of
love
!
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
.
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
;
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
.
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
?
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
interest
if
thou
wilt
have
twain
.
Fie
,
liveless
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
,
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
.
And
now
she
weeps
,
and
now
she
fain
would
speak
,
And
now
her
sobs
do
her
intendments
break
.
Sometimes
she
shakes
her
head
,
and
then
his
hand
.
Now
gazeth
she
on
him
,
now
on
the
ground
;
Sometimes
her
arms
enfold
him
like
a
band
.
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
hemmed
thee
here
Within
the
circuit
of
this
ivory
pale
,
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
,
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
.
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
,
Why
,
there
Love
lived
,
and
there
he
could
not
die
.
These
lovely
caves
,
these
round
enchanting
pits
,
Opened
their
mouths
to
swallow
Venus’
liking
.
Being
mad
before
,
how
doth
she
now
for
wits
?
Struck
dead
at
first
,
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
And
from
her
twining
arms
doth
urge
releasing
.
Pity
,
she
cries
,
some
favor
,
some
remorse
!
Away
he
springs
and
hasteth
to
his
horse
.
But
,
lo
,
from
forth
a
copse
that
neighbors
by
,
A
breeding
jennet
,
lusty
,
young
,
and
proud
,
Adonis’
trampling
courser
doth
espy
,
And
forth
she
rushes
,
snorts
,
and
neighs
aloud
.
The
strong-necked
steed
,
being
tied
unto
a
tree
,
Breaketh
his
rein
,
and
to
her
straight
goes
he
.
Imperiously
he
leaps
,
he
neighs
,
he
bounds
,
And
now
his
woven
girths
he
breaks
asunder
.
The
bearing
Earth
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
controllèd
with
.
His
ears
up-pricked
,
his
braided
hanging
mane
Upon
his
compassed
crest
now
stand
on
end
.
His
nostrils
drink
the
air
,
and
forth
again
,
As
from
a
furnace
,
vapors
doth
he
send
.
His
eye
,
which
scornfully
glisters
like
fire
,
Shows
his
hot
courage
and
his
high
desire
.
Sometimes
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
,
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
,
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-proportioned
steed
,
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
,
color
,
pace
,
and
bone
.
Round-hoofed
,
short-jointed
,
fetlocks
shag
and
long
,
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
.
Sometimes
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
whe’er
he
run
or
fly
,
they
know
not
whether
,
For
through
his
mane
and
tail
the
high
wind
sings
,
Fanning
the
hairs
,
who
wave
like
feathered
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
,
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
.
He
stamps
and
bites
the
poor
flies
in
his
fume
.
His
love
,
perceiving
how
he
was
enraged
,
Grew
kinder
,
and
his
fury
was
assuaged
.
His
testy
master
goeth
about
to
take
him
When
,
lo
,
the
unbacked
breeder
,
full
of
fear
,
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
swollen
with
chafing
,
down
Adonis
sits
,
Banning
his
boisterous
and
unruly
beast
;
And
now
the
happy
season
once
more
fits
That
lovesick
Love
by
pleading
may
be
blessed
;
For
lovers
say
the
heart
hath
treble
wrong
When
it
is
barred
the
aidance
of
the
tongue
.
An
oven
that
is
stopped
,
or
river
stayed
,
Burneth
more
hotly
,
swelleth
with
more
rage
;
So
of
concealèd
sorrow
may
be
said
,
Free
vent
of
words
love’s
fire
doth
assuage
,
But
when
the
heart’s
attorney
once
is
mute
,
The
client
breaks
,
as
desperate
in
his
suit
.
He
sees
her
coming
and
begins
to
glow
,
Even
as
a
dying
coal
revives
with
wind
,
And
with
his
bonnet
hides
his
angry
brow
,
Looks
on
the
dull
earth
with
disturbèd
mind
,
Taking
no
notice
that
she
is
so
nigh
,
For
all
askance
he
holds
her
in
his
eye
.
O
,
what
a
sight
it
was
wistly
to
view
How
she
came
stealing
to
the
wayward
boy
,
To
note
the
fighting
conflict
of
her
hue
,
How
white
and
red
each
other
did
destroy
!
But
now
her
cheek
was
pale
,
and
by
and
by
It
flashed
forth
fire
as
lightning
from
the
sky
.
Now
was
she
just
before
him
as
he
sat
,
And
like
a
lowly
lover
down
she
kneels
.
With
one
fair
hand
she
heaveth
up
his
hat
;
Her
other
tender
hand
his
fair
cheek
feels
.
His
tend’rer
cheek
receives
her
soft
hand’s
print
As
apt
as
new-fall’n
snow
takes
any
dint
.
O
,
what
a
war
of
looks
was
then
between
them
!
Her
eyes
petitioners
to
his
eyes
suing
,
His
eyes
saw
her
eyes
as
they
had
not
seen
them
;
Her
eyes
wooed
still
,
his
eyes
disdained
the
wooing
;
And
all
this
dumb
play
had
his
acts
made
plain
With
tears
which
,
choruslike
,
her
eyes
did
rain
.
Full
gently
now
she
takes
him
by
the
hand
,
A
lily
prisoned
in
a
jail
of
snow
,
Or
ivory
in
an
alabaster
band
,
So
white
a
friend
engirts
so
white
a
foe
.
This
beauteous
combat
,
willful
and
unwilling
,
Showed
like
two
silver
doves
that
sit
a-billing
.
Once
more
the
engine
of
her
thoughts
began
:
O
,
fairest
mover
on
this
mortal
round
,
Would
thou
wert
as
I
am
and
I
a
man
,
My
heart
all
whole
as
thine
,
thy
heart
my
wound
!
For
one
sweet
look
thy
help
I
would
assure
thee
,
Though
nothing
but
my
body’s
bane
would
cure
thee
.
Give
me
my
hand
,
saith
he
.
Why
dost
thou
feel
it
?
Give
me
my
heart
,
saith
she
,
and
thou
shalt
have
it
.
O
,
give
it
me
,
lest
thy
hard
heart
do
steel
it
,
And
being
steeled
,
soft
sighs
can
never
grave
it
.
Then
love’s
deep
groans
I
never
shall
regard
Because
Adonis’
heart
hath
made
mine
hard
.
For
shame
,
he
cries
,
let
go
,
and
let
me
go
.
My
day’s
delight
is
past
,
my
horse
is
gone
,
And
’tis
your
fault
I
am
bereft
him
so
.
I
pray
you
hence
,
and
leave
me
here
alone
,
For
all
my
mind
,
my
thought
,
my
busy
care
,
Is
how
to
get
my
palfrey
from
the
mare
.
Thus
she
replies
:
Thy
palfrey
,
as
he
should
,
Welcomes
the
warm
approach
of
sweet
desire
.
Affection
is
a
coal
that
must
be
cooled
;
Else
,
suffered
,
it
will
set
the
heart
on
fire
.
The
sea
hath
bounds
,
but
deep
desire
hath
none
;
Therefore
no
marvel
though
thy
horse
be
gone
.
How
like
a
jade
he
stood
tied
to
the
tree
,
Servilely
mastered
with
a
leathern
rein
;
But
when
he
saw
his
love
,
his
youth’s
fair
fee
,
He
held
such
petty
bondage
in
disdain
,
Throwing
the
base
thong
from
his
bending
crest
,
Enfranchising
his
mouth
,
his
back
,
his
breast
.
Who
sees
his
truelove
in
her
naked
bed
,
Teaching
the
sheets
a
whiter
hue
than
white
,
But
when
his
glutton
eye
so
full
hath
fed
,
His
other
agents
aim
at
like
delight
?
Who
is
so
faint
that
dares
not
be
so
bold
To
touch
the
fire
,
the
weather
being
cold
?
Let
me
excuse
thy
courser
,
gentle
boy
,
And
learn
of
him
,
I
heartily
beseech
thee
,
To
take
advantage
on
presented
joy
;
Though
I
were
dumb
,
yet
his
proceedings
teach
thee
.
O
,
learn
to
love
;
the
lesson
is
but
plain
And
,
once
made
perfect
,
never
lost
again
.
I
know
not
love
,
quoth
he
,
nor
will
not
know
it
,
Unless
it
be
a
boar
,
and
then
I
chase
it
.
’Tis
much
to
borrow
,
and
I
will
not
owe
it
.
My
love
to
love
is
love
but
to
disgrace
it
,
For
I
have
heard
it
is
a
life
in
death
That
laughs
and
weeps
,
and
all
but
with
a
breath
.
Who
wears
a
garment
shapeless
and
unfinished
?
Who
plucks
the
bud
before
one
leaf
put
forth
?
If
springing
things
be
any
jot
diminished
,
They
wither
in
their
prime
,
prove
nothing
worth
.
The
colt
that’s
backed
and
burdened
being
young
Loseth
his
pride
and
never
waxeth
strong
.
You
hurt
my
hand
with
wringing
.
Let
us
part
,
And
leave
this
idle
theme
,
this
bootless
chat
.
Remove
your
siege
from
my
unyielding
heart
;
To
love’s
alarms
it
will
not
ope
the
gate
.
Dismiss
your
vows
,
your
feignèd
tears
,
your
flatt’ry
,
For
where
a
heart
is
hard
,
they
make
no
batt’ry
.
What
,
canst
thou
talk
?
quoth
she
.
Hast
thou
a
tongue
?
O
,
would
thou
hadst
not
,
or
I
had
no
hearing
!
Thy
mermaid’s
voice
hath
done
me
double
wrong
;
I
had
my
load
before
,
now
pressed
with
bearing
:
Melodious
discord
,
heavenly
tune
harsh
sounding
,
Ears’
deep
sweet
music
,
and
heart’s
deep
sore
wounding
.
Had
I
no
eyes
but
ears
,
my
ears
would
love
That
inward
beauty
and
invisible
.
Or
were
I
deaf
,
thy
outward
parts
would
move
Each
part
in
me
that
were
but
sensible
.
Though
neither
eyes
,
nor
ears
,
to
hear
nor
see
,
Yet
should
I
be
in
love
by
touching
thee
.
Say
that
the
sense
of
feeling
were
bereft
me
,
And
that
I
could
not
see
,
nor
hear
,
nor
touch
,
And
nothing
but
the
very
smell
were
left
me
,
Yet
would
my
love
to
thee
be
still
as
much
,
For
from
the
stillatory
of
thy
face
excelling
Comes
breath
perfumed
that
breedeth
love
by
smelling
.
But
,
O
,
what
banquet
wert
thou
to
the
taste
,
Being
nurse
and
feeder
of
the
other
four
!
Would
they
not
wish
the
feast
might
ever
last
,
And
bid
Suspicion
double-lock
the
door
,
Lest
Jealousy
,
that
sour
unwelcome
guest
,
Should
by
his
stealing
in
disturb
the
feast
?
Once
more
the
ruby-colored
portal
opened
,
Which
to
his
speech
did
honey
passage
yield
,
Like
a
red
morn
,
that
ever
yet
betokened
Wrack
to
the
seaman
,
tempest
to
the
field
,
Sorrow
to
shepherds
,
woe
unto
the
birds
,
Gusts
and
foul
flaws
to
herdmen
and
to
herds
.
This
ill
presage
advisedly
she
marketh
.
Even
as
the
wind
is
hushed
before
it
raineth
,
Or
as
the
wolf
doth
grin
before
he
barketh
,
Or
as
the
berry
breaks
before
it
staineth
,
Or
like
the
deadly
bullet
of
a
gun
,
His
meaning
struck
her
ere
his
words
begun
.
And
at
his
look
she
flatly
falleth
down
,
For
looks
kill
love
,
and
love
by
looks
reviveth
;
A
smile
recures
the
wounding
of
a
frown
.
But
blessèd
bankrout
,
that
by
love
so
thriveth
!
The
silly
boy
,
believing
she
is
dead
,
Claps
her
pale
cheek
till
clapping
makes
it
red
,
And
,
all
amazed
,
brake
off
his
late
intent
;
For
sharply
he
did
think
to
reprehend
her
,
Which
cunning
Love
did
wittily
prevent
.
Fair
fall
the
wit
that
can
so
well
defend
her
!
For
on
the
grass
she
lies
as
she
were
slain
,
Till
his
breath
breatheth
life
in
her
again
.
He
wrings
her
nose
,
he
strikes
her
on
the
cheeks
,
He
bends
her
fingers
,
holds
her
pulses
hard
,
He
chafes
her
lips
—
a
thousand
ways
he
seeks
To
mend
the
hurt
that
his
unkindness
marred
.
He
kisses
her
,
and
she
,
by
her
good
will
,
Will
never
rise
,
so
he
will
kiss
her
still
.
The
night
of
sorrow
now
is
turned
to
day
.
Her
two
blue
windows
faintly
she
upheaveth
Like
the
fair
sun
when
in
his
fresh
array
He
cheers
the
morn
and
all
the
earth
relieveth
;
And
as
the
bright
sun
glorifies
the
sky
,
So
is
her
face
illumined
with
her
eye
,
Whose
beams
upon
his
hairless
face
are
fixed
As
if
from
thence
they
borrowed
all
their
shine
.
Were
never
four
such
lamps
together
mixed
,
Had
not
his
clouded
with
his
brow’s
repine
.
But
hers
,
which
through
the
crystal
tears
gave
light
,
Shone
like
the
moon
in
water
seen
by
night
.
O
,
where
am
I
?
quoth
she
.
In
earth
or
heaven
,
Or
in
the
ocean
drenched
,
or
in
the
fire
?
What
hour
is
this
?
Or
morn
or
weary
even
?
Do
I
delight
to
die
or
life
desire
?
But
now
I
lived
,
and
life
was
death’s
annoy
;
But
now
I
died
,
and
death
was
lively
joy
.
O
,
thou
didst
kill
me
;
kill
me
once
again
.
Thy
eyes’
shrewd
tutor
,
that
hard
heart
of
thine
,
Hath
taught
them
scornful
tricks
and
such
disdain
That
they
have
murdered
this
poor
heart
of
mine
,
And
these
mine
eyes
,
true
leaders
to
their
queen
,
But
for
thy
piteous
lips
no
more
had
seen
.
Long
may
they
kiss
each
other
for
this
cure
!
O
,
never
let
their
crimson
liveries
wear
,
And
,
as
they
last
,
their
verdure
still
endure
To
drive
infection
from
the
dangerous
year
,
That
the
star-gazers
,
having
writ
on
death
,
May
say
the
plague
is
banished
by
thy
breath
!
Pure
lips
,
sweet
seals
in
my
soft
lips
imprinted
,
What
bargains
may
I
make
,
still
to
be
sealing
?
To
sell
myself
I
can
be
well
contented
,
So
thou
wilt
buy
,
and
pay
,
and
use
good
dealing
;
Which
purchase
if
thou
make
,
for
fear
of
slips
,
Set
thy
seal
manual
on
my
wax-red
lips
.
A
thousand
kisses
buys
my
heart
from
me
,
And
pay
them
at
thy
leisure
,
one
by
one
.
What
is
ten
hundred
touches
unto
thee
?
Are
they
not
quickly
told
and
quickly
gone
?
Say
for
non-payment
that
the
debt
should
double
,
Is
twenty
hundred
kisses
such
a
trouble
?
Fair
queen
,
quoth
he
,
if
any
love
you
owe
me
,
Measure
my
strangeness
with
my
unripe
years
.
Before
I
know
myself
,
seek
not
to
know
me
.
No
fisher
but
the
ungrown
fry
forbears
.
The
mellow
plum
doth
fall
;
the
green
sticks
fast
Or
,
being
early
plucked
,
is
sour
to
taste
.
Look
the
world’s
comforter
with
weary
gait
His
day’s
hot
task
hath
ended
in
the
west
.
The
owl
,
night’s
herald
,
shrieks
;
’tis
very
late
.
The
sheep
are
gone
to
fold
,
birds
to
their
nest
,
And
coal-black
clouds
that
shadow
heaven’s
light
Do
summon
us
to
part
and
bid
good
night
.
Now
let
me
say
goodnight
,
and
so
say
you
.
If
you
will
say
so
,
you
shall
have
a
kiss
.
Good
night
,
quoth
she
,
and
ere
he
says
Adieu
,
The
honey
fee
of
parting
tendered
is
.
Her
arms
do
lend
his
neck
a
sweet
embrace
;
Incorporate
then
they
seem
;
face
grows
to
face
,
Till
,
breathless
,
he
disjoined
and
backward
drew
The
heavenly
moisture
,
that
sweet
coral
mouth
,
Whose
precious
taste
her
thirsty
lips
well
knew
,
Whereon
they
surfeit
,
yet
complain
on
drouth
.
He
with
her
plenty
pressed
,
she
faint
with
dearth
,
Their
lips
together
glued
,
fall
to
the
earth
.
Now
quick
desire
hath
caught
the
yielding
prey
,
And
gluttonlike
she
feeds
yet
never
filleth
.
Her
lips
are
conquerors
,
his
lips
obey
,
Paying
what
ransom
the
insulter
willeth
,
Whose
vulture
thought
doth
pitch
the
price
so
high
That
she
will
draw
his
lips’
rich
treasure
dry
.
And
having
felt
the
sweetness
of
the
spoil
,
With
blindfold
fury
she
begins
to
forage
.
Her
face
doth
reek
and
smoke
,
her
blood
doth
boil
,
And
careless
lust
stirs
up
a
desperate
courage
,
Planting
oblivion
,
beating
reason
back
,
Forgetting
shame’s
pure
blush
and
honor’s
wrack
.
Hot
,
faint
,
and
weary
with
her
hard
embracing
,
Like
a
wild
bird
being
tamed
with
too
much
handling
,
Or
as
the
fleet-foot
roe
that’s
tired
with
chasing
,
Or
like
the
froward
infant
stilled
with
dandling
,
He
now
obeys
and
now
no
more
resisteth
,
While
she
takes
all
she
can
,
not
all
she
listeth
.
What
wax
so
frozen
but
dissolves
with
temp’ring
And
yields
at
last
to
every
light
impression
?
Things
out
of
hope
are
compassed
oft
with
vent’ring
,
Chiefly
in
love
,
whose
leave
exceeds
commission
.
Affection
faints
not
like
a
pale-faced
coward
But
then
woos
best
when
most
his
choice
is
froward
.
When
he
did
frown
,
O
,
had
she
then
gave
over
,
Such
nectar
from
his
lips
she
had
not
sucked
.
Foul
words
and
frowns
must
not
repel
a
lover
.
What
though
the
rose
have
prickles
,
yet
’tis
plucked
.
Were
beauty
under
twenty
locks
kept
fast
,
Yet
love
breaks
through
and
picks
them
all
at
last
.
For
pity
now
she
can
no
more
detain
him
.
The
poor
fool
prays
her
that
he
may
depart
.
She
is
resolved
no
longer
to
restrain
him
,
Bids
him
farewell
,
and
look
well
to
her
heart
,
The
which
,
by
Cupid’s
bow
she
doth
protest
,
He
carries
thence
encagèd
in
his
breast
.
Sweet
boy
,
she
says
,
this
night
I’ll
waste
in
sorrow
,
For
my
sick
heart
commands
mine
eyes
to
watch
.
Tell
me
,
Love’s
master
,
shall
we
meet
tomorrow
?
Say
,
shall
we
,
shall
we
?
Wilt
thou
make
the
match
?
He
tells
her
no
,
tomorrow
he
intends
To
hunt
the
boar
with
certain
of
his
friends
.
The
boar
!
quoth
she
,
whereat
a
sudden
pale
,
Like
lawn
being
spread
upon
the
blushing
rose
,
Usurps
her
cheek
.
She
trembles
at
his
tale
,
And
on
his
neck
her
yoking
arms
she
throws
.
She
sinketh
down
,
still
hanging
by
his
neck
;
He
on
her
belly
falls
,
she
on
her
back
.
Now
is
she
in
the
very
lists
of
love
,
Her
champion
mounted
for
the
hot
encounter
.
All
is
imaginary
she
doth
prove
;
He
will
not
manage
her
,
although
he
mount
her
,
That
worse
than
Tantalus’
is
her
annoy
,
To
clip
Elysium
and
to
lack
her
joy
.
Even
so
poor
birds
,
deceived
with
painted
grapes
,
Do
surfeit
by
the
eye
,
and
pine
the
maw
;
Even
so
she
languisheth
in
her
mishaps
As
those
poor
birds
that
helpless
berries
saw
.
The
warm
effects
which
she
in
him
finds
missing
She
seeks
to
kindle
with
continual
kissing
.
But
all
in
vain
;
good
queen
,
it
will
not
be
.
She
hath
assayed
as
much
as
may
be
proved
.
Her
pleading
hath
deserved
a
greater
fee
.
She’s
Love
,
she
loves
,
and
yet
she
is
not
loved
.
Fie
,
fie
,
he
says
,
you
crush
me
.
Let
me
go
.
You
have
no
reason
to
withhold
me
so
.
Thou
hadst
been
gone
,
quoth
she
,
sweet
boy
,
ere
this
,
But
that
thou
toldst
me
thou
wouldst
hunt
the
boar
.
O
,
be
advised
!
Thou
know’st
not
what
it
is
With
javelin’s
point
a
churlish
swine
to
gore
,
Whose
tushes
,
never
sheathed
,
he
whetteth
still
Like
to
a
mortal
butcher
bent
to
kill
.
On
his
bow-back
he
hath
a
battle
set
Of
bristly
pikes
that
ever
threat
his
foes
.
His
eyes
like
glowworms
shine
when
he
doth
fret
.
His
snout
digs
sepulchers
where’er
he
goes
.
Being
moved
,
he
strikes
whate’er
is
in
his
way
,
And
whom
he
strikes
his
crookèd
tushes
slay
.
His
brawny
sides
,
with
hairy
bristles
armed
,
Are
better
proof
than
thy
spear’s
point
can
enter
.
His
short
thick
neck
cannot
be
easily
harmed
.
Being
ireful
,
on
the
lion
he
will
venter
.
The
thorny
brambles
and
embracing
bushes
,
As
fearful
of
him
,
part
,
through
whom
he
rushes
.
Alas
,
he
naught
esteems
that
face
of
thine
,
To
which
Love’s
eyes
pays
tributary
gazes
,
Nor
thy
soft
hands
,
sweet
lips
,
and
crystal
eyne
,
Whose
full
perfection
all
the
world
amazes
;
But
having
thee
at
vantage
—
wondrous
dread
!
—
Would
root
these
beauties
as
he
roots
the
mead
.
O
,
let
him
keep
his
loathsome
cabin
still
!
Beauty
hath
naught
to
do
with
such
foul
fiends
.
Come
not
within
his
danger
by
thy
will
.
They
that
thrive
well
take
counsel
of
their
friends
.
When
thou
didst
name
the
boar
,
not
to
dissemble
,
I
feared
thy
fortune
,
and
my
joints
did
tremble
.
Didst
thou
not
mark
my
face
?
Was
it
not
white
?
Sawest
thou
not
signs
of
fear
lurk
in
mine
eye
?
Grew
I
not
faint
,
and
fell
I
not
downright
?
Within
my
bosom
,
whereon
thou
dost
lie
,
My
boding
heart
pants
,
beats
,
and
takes
no
rest
,
But
,
like
an
earthquake
,
shakes
thee
on
my
breast
.
For
where
Love
reigns
,
disturbing
Jealousy
Doth
call
himself
Affection’s
sentinel
,
Gives
false
alarms
,
suggesteth
mutiny
,
And
in
a
peaceful
hour
doth
cry
Kill
,
kill
!
Distemp’ring
gentle
Love
in
his
desire
As
air
and
water
do
abate
the
fire
.
This
sour
informer
,
this
bate-breeding
spy
,
This
canker
that
eats
up
Love’s
tender
spring
,
This
carry-tale
,
dissentious
Jealousy
,
That
sometimes
true
news
,
sometimes
false
doth
bring
,
Knocks
at
my
heart
and
whispers
in
mine
ear
That
if
I
love
thee
,
I
thy
death
should
fear
;
And
more
than
so
,
presenteth
to
mine
eye
The
picture
of
an
angry
chafing
boar
,
Under
whose
sharp
fangs
on
his
back
doth
lie
An
image
like
thyself
,
all
stained
with
gore
,
Whose
blood
upon
the
fresh
flowers
being
shed
Doth
make
them
droop
with
grief
and
hang
the
head
.
What
should
I
do
,
seeing
thee
so
indeed
,
That
tremble
at
th’
imagination
?
The
thought
of
it
doth
make
my
faint
heart
bleed
,
And
fear
doth
teach
it
divination
.
I
prophesy
thy
death
,
my
living
sorrow
,
If
thou
encounter
with
the
boar
tomorrow
.
But
if
thou
needs
wilt
hunt
,
be
ruled
by
me
.
Uncouple
at
the
timorous
flying
hare
,
Or
at
the
fox
,
which
lives
by
subtlety
,
Or
at
the
roe
,
which
no
encounter
dare
.
Pursue
these
fearful
creatures
o’er
the
downs
,
And
on
thy
well-breathed
horse
keep
with
thy
hounds
,
And
when
thou
hast
on
foot
the
purblind
hare
,
Mark
the
poor
wretch
,
to
overshoot
his
troubles
How
he
outruns
the
wind
and
with
what
care
He
cranks
and
crosses
with
a
thousand
doubles
.
The
many
musets
through
the
which
he
goes
Are
like
a
labyrinth
to
amaze
his
foes
.
Sometimes
he
runs
among
a
flock
of
sheep
To
make
the
cunning
hounds
mistake
their
smell
,
And
sometimes
where
earth-delving
conies
keep
To
stop
the
loud
pursuers
in
their
yell
,
And
sometimes
sorteth
with
a
herd
of
deer
.
Danger
deviseth
shifts
;
wit
waits
on
fear
.
For
there
his
smell
with
others
being
mingled
,
The
hot
scent-snuffing
hounds
are
driven
to
doubt
,
Ceasing
their
clamorous
cry
till
they
have
singled
With
much
ado
the
cold
fault
cleanly
out
.
Then
do
they
spend
their
mouths
;
echo
replies
As
if
another
chase
were
in
the
skies
.
By
this
,
poor
Wat
,
far
off
upon
a
hill
,
Stands
on
his
hinder
legs
with
list’ning
ear
To
hearken
if
his
foes
pursue
him
still
.
Anon
their
loud
alarums
he
doth
hear
,
And
now
his
grief
may
be
comparèd
well
To
one
sore
sick
that
hears
the
passing
bell
.
Then
shalt
thou
see
the
dew-bedabbled
wretch
Turn
and
return
,
indenting
with
the
way
.
Each
envious
brier
his
weary
legs
do
scratch
;
Each
shadow
makes
him
stop
,
each
murmur
stay
,
For
misery
is
trodden
on
by
many
And
,
being
low
,
never
relieved
by
any
.
Lie
quietly
,
and
hear
a
little
more
.
Nay
,
do
not
struggle
,
for
thou
shalt
not
rise
.
To
make
thee
hate
the
hunting
of
the
boar
,
Unlike
myself
thou
hear’st
me
moralize
,
Applying
this
to
that
,
and
so
to
so
,
For
love
can
comment
upon
every
woe
.
Where
did
I
leave
?
No
matter
where
,
quoth
he
;
Leave
me
,
and
then
the
story
aptly
ends
.
The
night
is
spent
.
Why
,
what
of
that
?
quoth
she
.
I
am
,
quoth
he
,
expected
of
my
friends
,
And
now
’tis
dark
,
and
going
I
shall
fall
.
In
night
,
quoth
she
,
desire
sees
best
of
all
.
But
if
thou
fall
,
O
,
then
imagine
this
:
The
earth
,
in
love
with
thee
,
thy
footing
trips
,
And
all
is
but
to
rob
thee
of
a
kiss
.
Rich
preys
make
true
men
thieves
;
so
do
thy
lips
Make
modest
Dian
cloudy
and
forlorn
,
Lest
she
should
steal
a
kiss
and
die
forsworn
.
Now
of
this
dark
night
I
perceive
the
reason
:
Cynthia
for
shame
obscures
her
silver
shine
Till
forging
Nature
be
condemned
of
treason
For
stealing
moulds
from
heaven
that
were
divine
,
Wherein
she
framed
thee
,
in
high
heaven’s
despite
,
To
shame
the
sun
by
day
and
her
by
night
.
And
therefore
hath
she
bribed
the
Destinies
To
cross
the
curious
workmanship
of
Nature
,
To
mingle
beauty
with
infirmities
,
And
pure
perfection
with
impure
defeature
,
Making
it
subject
to
the
tyranny
Of
mad
mischances
and
much
misery
,
As
burning
fevers
,
agues
pale
and
faint
,
Life-poisoning
pestilence
and
frenzies
wood
,
The
marrow-eating
sickness
,
whose
attaint
Disorder
breeds
by
heating
of
the
blood
;
Surfeits
,
impostumes
,
grief
,
and
damned
despair
Swear
Nature’s
death
for
framing
thee
so
fair
.
And
not
the
least
of
all
these
maladies
But
in
one
minute’s
fight
brings
beauty
under
.
Both
favor
,
savor
,
hew
,
and
qualities
,
Whereat
th’
impartial
gazer
late
did
wonder
,
Are
on
the
sudden
wasted
,
thawed
,
and
done
,
As
mountain
snow
melts
with
the
midday
sun
.
Therefore
,
despite
of
fruitless
chastity
,
Love-lacking
vestals
and
self-loving
nuns
,
That
on
the
Earth
earth
would
breed
a
scarcity
And
barren
dearth
of
daughters
and
of
sons
,
Be
prodigal
.
The
lamp
that
burns
by
night
Dries
up
his
oil
to
lend
the
world
his
light
.
What
is
thy
body
but
a
swallowing
grave
Seeming
to
bury
that
posterity
Which
by
the
rights
of
time
thou
needs
must
have
If
thou
destroy
them
not
in
dark
obscurity
?
If
so
,
the
world
will
hold
thee
in
disdain
Sith
in
thy
pride
so
fair
a
hope
is
slain
.
So
in
thyself
thyself
art
made
away
,
A
mischief
worse
than
civil
homebred
strife
,
Or
theirs
whose
desperate
hands
themselves
do
slay
,
Or
butcher
sire
that
reaves
his
son
of
life
.
Foul
cank’ring
rust
the
hidden
treasure
frets
,
But
gold
that’s
put
to
use
more
gold
begets
.
Nay
,
then
,
quoth
Adon
,
you
will
fall
again
Into
your
idle
over-handled
theme
.
The
kiss
I
gave
you
is
bestowed
in
vain
,
And
all
in
vain
you
strive
against
the
stream
,
For
,
by
this
black-faced
night
,
desire’s
foul
nurse
,
Your
treatise
makes
me
like
you
worse
and
worse
.
If
love
have
lent
you
twenty
thousand
tongues
,
And
every
tongue
more
moving
than
your
own
,
Bewitching
like
the
wanton
mermaids’
songs
,
Yet
from
mine
ear
the
tempting
tune
is
blown
;
For
know
my
heart
stands
armèd
in
mine
ear
And
will
not
let
a
false
sound
enter
there
,
Lest
the
deceiving
harmony
should
run
Into
the
quiet
closure
of
my
breast
,
And
then
my
little
heart
were
quite
undone
,
In
his
bed-chamber
to
be
barred
of
rest
.
No
,
lady
,
no
,
my
heart
longs
not
to
groan
But
soundly
sleeps
while
now
it
sleeps
alone
.
What
have
you
urged
that
I
cannot
reprove
?
The
path
is
smooth
that
leadeth
on
to
danger
.
I
hate
not
love
,
but
your
device
in
love
,
That
lends
embracements
unto
every
stranger
.
You
do
it
for
increase
.
O
strange
excuse
,
When
reason
is
the
bawd
to
lust’s
abuse
!
Call
it
not
love
,
for
Love
to
heaven
is
fled
Since
sweating
Lust
on
Earth
earth
usurped
his
name
,
Under
whose
simple
semblance
he
hath
fed
Upon
fresh
beauty
,
blotting
it
with
blame
,
Which
the
hot
tyrant
stains
and
soon
bereaves
,
As
caterpillars
do
the
tender
leaves
.
Love
comforteth
like
sunshine
after
rain
,
But
Lust’s
effect
is
tempest
after
sun
.
Love’s
gentle
spring
doth
always
fresh
remain
;
Lust’s
winter
comes
ere
summer
half
be
done
.
Love
surfeits
not
,
Lust
like
a
glutton
dies
.
Love
is
all
truth
,
Lust
full
of
forgèd
lies
.
More
I
could
tell
,
but
more
I
dare
not
say
;
The
text
is
old
,
the
orator
too
green
.
Therefore
in
sadness
now
I
will
away
.
My
face
is
full
of
shame
,
my
heart
of
teen
.
Mine
ears
,
that
to
your
wanton
talk
attended
,
Do
burn
themselves
for
having
so
offended
.
With
this
he
breaketh
from
the
sweet
embrace
Of
those
fair
arms
which
bound
him
to
her
breast
And
homeward
through
the
dark
laund
runs
apace
,
Leaves
Love
upon
her
back
deeply
distressed
.
Look
how
a
bright
star
shooteth
from
the
sky
,
So
glides
he
in
the
night
from
Venus’
eye
,
Which
after
him
she
darts
,
as
one
on
shore
Gazing
upon
a
late-embarkèd
friend
Till
the
wild
waves
will
have
him
seen
no
more
,
Whose
ridges
with
the
meeting
clouds
contend
;
So
did
the
merciless
and
pitchy
night
Fold
in
the
object
that
did
feed
her
sight
;
Whereat
amazed
,
as
one
that
unaware
Hath
dropped
a
precious
jewel
in
the
flood
,
Or
stonished
,
as
night
wand’rers
often
are
,
Their
light
blown
out
in
some
mistrustful
wood
,
Even
so
confounded
in
the
dark
she
lay
,
Having
lost
the
fair
discovery
of
her
way
.
And
now
she
beats
her
heart
,
whereat
it
groans
,
That
all
the
neighbor
caves
,
as
seeming
troubled
,
Make
verbal
repetition
of
her
moans
.
Passion
on
passion
deeply
is
redoubled
.
Ay
me
!
she
cries
,
and
twenty
times
,
Woe
,
woe
!
And
twenty
echoes
twenty
times
cry
so
.
She
marking
them
begins
a
wailing
note
And
sings
extemporally
a
woeful
ditty
How
love
makes
young
men
thrall
and
old
men
dote
,
How
love
is
wise
in
folly
,
foolish
witty
.
Her
heavy
anthem
still
concludes
in
woe
,
And
still
the
choir
of
echoes
answer
so
.
Her
song
was
tedious
and
outwore
the
night
,
For
lovers’
hours
are
long
,
though
seeming
short
.
If
pleased
themselves
,
others
they
think
delight
In
suchlike
circumstance
with
suchlike
sport
.
Their
copious
stories
,
oftentimes
begun
,
End
without
audience
and
are
never
done
.
For
who
hath
she
to
spend
the
night
withal
But
idle
sounds
resembling
parasits
,
Like
shrill-tongued
tapsters
answering
every
call
,
Soothing
the
humor
of
fantastic
wits
?
She
says
,
’Tis
so
,
they
answer
all
,
’Tis
so
,
And
would
say
after
her
if
she
said
No
.
Lo
,
here
the
gentle
lark
,
weary
of
rest
,
From
his
moist
cabinet
mounts
up
on
high
And
wakes
the
morning
,
from
whose
silver
breast
The
sun
ariseth
in
his
majesty
,
Who
doth
the
world
so
gloriously
behold
That
cedar
tops
and
hills
seem
burnished
gold
.
Venus
salutes
him
with
this
fair
good
morrow
:
O
thou
clear
god
and
patron
of
all
light
,
From
whom
each
lamp
and
shining
star
doth
borrow
The
beauteous
influence
that
makes
him
bright
,
There
lives
a
son
that
sucked
an
earthly
mother
May
lend
thee
light
,
as
thou
dost
lend
to
other
.
This
said
,
she
hasteth
to
a
myrtle
grove
,
Musing
the
morning
is
so
much
o’erworn
,
And
yet
she
hears
no
tidings
of
her
love
;
She
hearkens
for
his
hounds
and
for
his
horn
.
Anon
she
hears
them
chant
it
lustily
,
And
all
in
haste
she
coasteth
to
the
cry
.
And
as
she
runs
,
the
bushes
in
the
way
Some
catch
her
by
the
neck
,
some
kiss
her
face
,
Some
twined
about
her
thigh
to
make
her
stay
.
She
wildly
breaketh
from
their
strict
embrace
,
Like
a
milch
doe
whose
swelling
dugs
do
ache
,
Hasting
to
feed
her
fawn
hid
in
some
brake
.
By
this
she
hears
the
hounds
are
at
a
bay
,
Whereat
she
starts
like
one
that
spies
an
adder
Wreathed
up
in
fatal
folds
just
in
his
way
,
The
fear
whereof
doth
make
him
shake
and
shudder
;
Even
so
the
timorous
yelping
of
the
hounds
Appalls
her
senses
and
her
spirit
confounds
.
For
now
she
knows
it
is
no
gentle
chase
,
But
the
blunt
boar
,
rough
bear
,
or
lion
proud
,
Because
the
cry
remaineth
in
one
place
,
Where
fearfully
the
dogs
exclaim
aloud
.
Finding
their
enemy
to
be
so
curst
,
They
all
strain
court’sy
who
shall
cope
him
first
.
This
dismal
cry
rings
sadly
in
her
ear
,
Through
which
it
enters
to
surprise
her
heart
,
Who
,
overcome
by
doubt
and
bloodless
fear
,
With
cold-pale
weakness
numbs
each
feeling
part
.
Like
soldiers
when
their
captain
once
doth
yield
,
They
basely
fly
and
dare
not
stay
the
field
.
Thus
stands
she
in
a
trembling
ecstasy
,
Till
,
cheering
up
her
senses
all
dismayed
,
She
tells
them
’tis
a
causeless
fantasy
And
childish
error
that
they
are
afraid
,
Bids
them
leave
quaking
,
bids
them
fear
no
more
—
And
with
that
word
she
spied
the
hunted
boar
,
Whose
frothy
mouth
bepainted
all
with
red
,
Like
milk
and
blood
being
mingled
both
together
,
A
second
fear
through
all
her
sinews
spread
,
Which
madly
hurries
her
she
knows
not
whither
;
This
way
she
runs
,
and
now
she
will
no
further
But
back
retires
to
rate
the
boar
for
murder
.
A
thousand
spleens
bear
her
a
thousand
ways
;
She
treads
the
path
that
she
untreads
again
;
Her
more
than
haste
is
mated
with
delays
,
Like
the
proceedings
of
a
drunken
brain
,
Full
of
respects
,
yet
naught
at
all
respecting
,
In
hand
with
all
things
,
naught
at
all
effecting
.
Here
kenneled
in
a
brake
she
finds
a
hound
And
asks
the
weary
caitiff
for
his
master
,
And
there
another
licking
of
his
wound
,
’Gainst
venomed
sores
the
only
sovereign
plaster
,
And
here
she
meets
another
,
sadly
scowling
,
To
whom
she
speaks
,
and
he
replies
with
howling
.
When
he
hath
ceased
his
ill-resounding
noise
,
Another
flapmouthed
mourner
,
black
and
grim
,
Against
the
welkin
volleys
out
his
voice
;
Another
and
another
answer
him
,
Clapping
their
proud
tails
to
the
ground
below
,
Shaking
their
scratched
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
;
So
she
at
these
sad
signs
draws
up
her
breath
And
,
sighing
it
again
,
exclaims
on
Death
.
Hard-favored
tyrant
,
ugly
,
meager
,
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
lived
,
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
vigor
Since
her
best
work
is
ruined
with
thy
rigor
.
Here
overcome
as
one
full
of
despair
,
She
vailed
her
eyelids
,
who
,
like
sluices
,
stopped
The
crystal
tide
that
from
her
two
cheeks
fair
In
the
sweet
channel
of
her
bosom
dropped
;
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
eye
seen
in
the
tears
,
tears
in
her
eye
,
Both
crystals
,
where
they
viewed
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
.
Variable
passions
throng
her
constant
woe
As
striving
who
should
best
become
her
grief
;
All
entertained
,
each
passion
labors
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
hallow
;
A
nurse’s
song
ne’er
pleased
her
babe
so
well
.
The
dire
imagination
she
did
follow
This
sound
of
hope
doth
labor
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
prisoned
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
drowned
.
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
makes
thee
ridiculous
:
The
one
doth
flatter
thee
in
thoughts
unlikely
;
In
likely
thoughts
the
other
kills
thee
quickly
.
Now
she
unweaves
the
web
that
she
hath
wrought
;
Adonis
lives
,
and
Death
is
not
to
blame
;
It
was
not
she
that
called
him
all
to
naught
;
Now
she
adds
honors
to
his
hateful
name
.
She
clepes
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
Whenas
I
met
the
boar
,
that
bloody
beast
,
Which
knows
no
pity
but
is
still
severe
.
Then
,
gentle
shadow
—
truth
I
must
confess
—
I
railed
on
thee
,
fearing
my
love’s
decease
.
’Tis
not
my
fault
;
the
boar
provoked
my
tongue
.
Be
wreaked
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
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
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
as
full
of
fear
As
one
with
treasure
laden
,
hemmed
with
thieves
;
Trifles
unwitnessèd
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
.
As
falcons
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
murdered
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
smothered
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
perplexèd
in
his
throne
,
By
their
suggestion
gives
a
deadly
groan
,
Whereat
each
tributary
subject
quakes
,
As
when
the
wind
imprisoned
in
the
ground
,
Struggling
for
passage
,
Earth’s
earth’s
foundation
shakes
,
Which
with
cold
terror
doth
men’s
minds
confound
.
This
mutiny
each
part
doth
so
surprise
That
from
their
dark
beds
once
more
leap
her
eyes
And
,
being
opened
,
threw
unwilling
light
Upon
the
wide
wound
that
the
boar
had
trenched
In
his
soft
flank
,
whose
wonted
lily
white
With
purple
tears
,
that
his
wound
wept
,
had
drenched
.
No
flower
was
nigh
,
no
grass
,
herb
,
leaf
,
or
weed
,
But
stole
his
blood
and
seemed
with
him
to
bleed
.
This
solemn
sympathy
poor
Venus
noteth
.
Over
one
shoulder
doth
she
hang
her
head
.
Dumbly
she
passions
,
frantically
she
doteth
.
She
thinks
he
could
not
die
,
he
is
not
dead
.
Her
voice
is
stopped
,
her
joints
forget
to
bow
,
Her
eyes
are
mad
that
they
have
wept
till
now
.
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
And
yet
,
quoth
she
,
behold
two
Adons
dead
.
My
sighs
are
blown
away
,
my
salt
tears
gone
;
Mine
eyes
are
turned
to
fire
,
my
heart
to
lead
.
Heavy
heart’s
lead
,
melt
at
mine
eyes’
red
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
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
.
Having
no
fair
to
lose
,
you
need
not
fear
;
The
sun
doth
scorn
you
,
and
the
wind
doth
hiss
you
.
But
when
Adonis
lived
,
sun
and
sharp
air
Lurked
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
walked
along
Behind
some
hedge
because
he
would
not
fear
him
.
To
recreate
himself
when
he
hath
song
,
The
tiger
would
be
tame
and
gently
hear
him
.
If
he
had
spoke
,
the
wolf
would
leave
his
prey
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
Would
bring
him
mulberries
and
ripe-red
cherries
;
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
killed
him
so
.
’Tis
true
,
’tis
true
.
Thus
was
Adonis
slain
:
He
ran
upon
the
boar
with
his
sharp
spear
,
Who
did
not
whet
his
teeth
at
him
again
,
But
by
a
kiss
thought
to
persuade
him
there
,
And
nuzzling
in
his
flank
,
the
loving
swine
Sheathed
unaware
the
tusk
in
his
soft
groin
.
Had
I
been
toothed
like
him
,
I
must
confess
,
With
kissing
him
I
should
have
killed
him
first
,
But
he
is
dead
,
and
never
did
he
bless
My
youth
with
his
.
The
more
am
I
accursed
!
With
this
,
she
falleth
in
the
place
she
stood
And
stains
her
face
with
his
congealèd
blood
.
She
looks
upon
his
lips
,
and
they
are
pale
.
She
takes
him
by
the
hand
,
and
that
is
cold
.
She
whispers
in
his
ears
a
heavy
tale
As
if
they
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
excelled
,
And
every
beauty
robbed
of
his
effect
.
Wonder
of
time
,
quoth
she
,
this
is
my
spite
,
That
,
thou
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
unsavory
end
,
Ne’er
settled
equally
,
but
high
or
low
,
That
all
love’s
pleasure
shall
not
match
his
woe
.
It
shall
be
fickle
,
false
,
and
full
of
fraud
,
Bud
and
be
blasted
in
a
breathing
while
,
The
bottom
poison
and
the
top
o’erstrawed
With
sweets
that
shall
the
truest
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
treasures
.
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
where
it
shows
most
toward
,
Put
fear
to
valor
,
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
combustious
matter
is
to
fire
.
Sith
in
his
prime
Death
doth
my
love
destroy
,
They
that
love
best
their
loves
shall
not
enjoy
.
By
this
the
boy
that
by
her
side
lay
killed
Was
melted
like
a
vapor
from
her
sight
,
And
in
his
blood
that
on
the
ground
lay
spilled
A
purple
flower
sprung
up
,
checkered
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
in
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
conveyed
,
Holding
their
course
to
Paphos
,
where
their
queen
Means
to
immure
herself
and
not
be
seen
.
FINIS