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And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
Ah me! she cries, and twenty times, woe, woe!
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemp'rally a woeful ditty; How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote; How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty :
Her heavy antbem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answers so.
End without audience, and are never done.
She said, 'tis so: they answer all,'tis so;
And would say after her, if she said no.
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That cedar-tops and bills seem burnish'd gold.
May lend thee ligbt, as thou dost lend to other.
Anon sbe hears them chaunt it lastily,
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ake,
Hasting to feed her fawo, hid in some brake. By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder Wreath'd op in fatal folds, just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder:
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses, and her spright confounds.
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.
Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more ;
And with that word sbe spy'd 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.
Full of respect, yet not at all respecting,
Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,
And, sighing it again, exclaims on death. Hard-favour'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 bis breath,
Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.
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 bast 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,
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 ber 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. 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 seemetb chief,
But none is best ; then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her, it is Adonis' voice.
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd. O bard-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 sbe that call’d bim all to naught; Now she adds honour to his bateful 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;
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. Tbus 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 bim 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. 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.
Éven at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
Wbich seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew.
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled