 Venus and Adonis, by William Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Thomas Poplar. Venus and Adonis, by William Shakespeare. Miriam Eretor Wupus, Nihiflavasapolo, Poplar, Castalia Plena, Ministers, Papua. To the Right Honourable Henry Risley, Earl of Southampton, and Baron of Tichrion. Right Honourable. 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 honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some grave relief. But if the first heir of my invention who 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 honourable survey and your honour to your heart's content, which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world's hopeful expectation. Your honours in all duty, William Shakespeare. Venus and Adonis. Even as the sun with purple-coloured face attain his last leave of the weeping morn, rose-cheeked Adonis hide him to the chase, hunting he loved, but lull he left to scorn. Sick-thoughted Venus makes a mane unto him, and like a bold-faced suitor gives to woo him. Thrice fairer than myself, thou she began, the field's chief flower, sweet above compare, stained to all nymphs more lovely than a man, more white and red than doves or roses are, nature that made thee, with her self-ed strife, set that the world hath ending thy life. Bouch save thou wonder to a light thy steed, and rain is proud head to the saddle-bowl. If thou wilt day in this favour, for thy mead a thousand honey secrets shall thou know. Here come and sit, whenever serpent hisses, and being set, I'll smother thee with kisses, and yet not cloy thy lips with low satiety, but rather vanish them amid their plenty, making them red and pale with fresh variety. Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty, the summer's day will seem an hour but short being wasted in such time-begolling sport. With this she seeseth on his sweating palm the precedent of pith and library, and trembling in her passion calls it balm, earth's sovereign salve to do with God as good. Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force courageously to pluck him from his horse. Over one arm the lusty corset's rain, under her other was the tender boy, who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain with leaden appetite, an apt 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 bow nimbly she fastens, oh, how quick is love! It is stalled up, and even now to tie the rider she begins to prove. Backward she pushed him as she would be thrust, and covered him in strength, though not in lust. So soon was she along as he was down, each leaning on their elbows of their hips. Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, and begins to chide, but soon she stops his lips, and kissing speaks with lustful language broken. If thou who 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 doth fan and blow them dry again, she seeks. He says she is immodest, blames amiss, but 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 in the beginning. 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 due with such distilling showers. Look how a bird lies tangled in a net, so fastened in her arms adonis lies. The o'er shame and odd resistance made him fret, which bred more beauty in his angry eyes. Rain added to a river that his rank perforce will force it over flow the bank. Still she entreats, and Britylian treats, for to a pretty ear she tunes her tale. Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, twix crims and shame and anger as she pale. Being red she loves him best, and being white her best is vetted 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 dive dapper peering through a wave, who, being looked on, ducks his 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 summers 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. Oh pity, ganchi cry, flint-hearted boy, just but a kiss I beg, why of the coy? I have been wooed as I entreat thee now, even by the stern and dire for 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 shall have. Over my altar hath he hung his lance, his battered shield, his uncontrolled crest, and for my sake hath learned to sport and dance, to toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest, scorning his cherlish drum and ensign red, making my arms his field, his tent, my bed. Thus he that overruled I over swayed, leading him prisoner in a red rose chain. Strong tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed, yet was he servile to my coy to stay. Oh be not proud, no bread 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 sees 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? Are thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again, and I will wink, so shall the day seem night. Love keeps his revels for there are between, be bold to play, our sport is not in sight. These blue-veined violets whereon we lean never can blab. No, no, not what we mean. The tender spring upon thy tempting lips shows the unright. 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 wrought and consume themselves in little time. Where I hard-favored, foul, or wrinkled old, ill-nurtured, crooked, cherlish, harsh in voice, or worn despised, 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 upon me? Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow. My 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, where it with thy hand felt, would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt. Bid me discourse, I would 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 it 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 shouldst 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 saw himself, himself forsook, and died to kiss his shadow in the brook. Tortures are made to light, jewels to wear, dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the youths, herbs for their smell and sappy plants to bear, things growing to themselves, clouds of growths, 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 were dead. And so in spite of death thou dost survive, in that thy likeness still is left alive. By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, for where they lay the shadowed 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 sigh. And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite and with a heavy, dark, disliking eye, is lowering brows or whelming his fair sight, like misty vapours when they block the sky, souring his cheeks Christ, fine, no more of love. The sun doth burn my face, I must remove. By me, covenous, young and so unkind, what bare excuses makes thou to be gone? I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wine 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 them doth little harm, thine eye darks forth the fire that burneth me, and were I not immortal, life were done between this heavenly and earthly sun. Art thou a duret, flinty, hard as steel, name more than flint for stone at rain relentless? Art thou a woman, son, and canst not feel what tears to love? How want of love tormenteth? Oh, had thy mother borne so hard a mind, she had not wrought forth thee, but died unkind. What am I that thou shouldst contend me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit? What were thy lips the worst 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. Fine, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, well painted idle, image dull and dead, statue contending but the eye alone, thing like a man but of no womanbred. Thou know 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 judged in love she cannot write her cause. And now she weeps, and now she fame would speak, and now her sobs do her intentments break. Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand now gazeth you on him, now on the ground. Sometimes her arms enfolding 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. Fondly, she said, since I have him be here within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shall be my deer, feed where thou wilt on mountain or in dale. Graves 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, breaks obscure and rough, who 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, for knowing well if there he came to lie, why their 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 does she now, for wits, struck dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor queen of love, in thine own lawful lawn, 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 rule away, and from her twining arms doth urge releasing, pity, she cries, some favour, some remorse, a way he springs and hasteth to his horse. But lo, from forth the cops that neighbours by a breeding genet lusty, young and proud, Adonis trampling coarser to the spy, and forth she rushes, snorts and nays aloud, the strong-necked steed, being tied into a tree, breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. Imperiously he leaps, he nays, he bounds, and now his woven girth she breaks asunder, the bearing earth with his hard, hoofy wounds, whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder, the iron bit he crusheth between his teeth, controlling what he was controlled 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 vapours doth he send, his eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, shows his hot courage and his high desire. Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps with gentle majesty and modest pride. Anon he rears upright, covets 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 wrecketh he his riders' angriest stir, his flattering halal for his stand, I say? What cares he now for curve or pricking spur, for rich comparisons or trappings gave? 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 hoof, short-jointed, fetlocks, shag and long, broad breast, full eyes, small head and nostril wide, high crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, thin mane, thick tail, broad butter, 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 where 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 nays 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 veils his tail that like a falling plume cool shadow through 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 testimaster goes about to take him when, lo, the unbacked breeder full of fear, as a catching, swiftly doth forsake him, with her the horse, and left Adonis there, as they were mad unto the wood they hide 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 thou by pleading may be blessed. For lovers say the heart hath trebled wrong when it is barred the adents of the town. An oven that is stocked or river-stayed burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage. So of concealed sorrow may be said, for event of words loves fire doth assuage, but when the heart's attorney once is mute, the client breaks as desperate it is mute. Aces are coming, and begins to glow even as a dying co-revives with wind, and with his bonnet hides his angry brow, looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, taking no notice that she is so nigh, for all a scance he holds her in his eye. Oh, 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 the cheek was pale, and by and by it flashed forth fire as lightning from the sky. Now was she just before him as his hat, and like a lowly lover down she kneels. With one fair hand she heaveeth up his hat, her other tender hand his fair cheek feels. His tenderer cheek receives her soft hands print, as apt as new-fold snow takes any dint. Oh, 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 chorus like her eyes did rain. Oh, gently now she takes him by the hand, a lily christened in a jable snow, or ivory in an alabaster band, so white a friend, and girt so white a foe. This beautyous combat, willful and unwilling, showed like two silver dubs that sit a-billing. Once more the engine of her thoughts began, Oh, fairest mover on this mortal round, would dowert as I am, and I a man. My heart all holds 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, Sethi, why dost thou feel it? Give me my heart, Sethi, and thou shalt have it. Oh, give it me, lest thy heart-heart do steal it, and being steel 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 palfery from the mare. Thus she replies, thy palfery, 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 bound, but deep desire hath none, therefore no marvel, though thy horse be gone. How, like a jade, is stood tied to the tree, surubilely mastered with a leaven rain. 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, and franchising his mouth, his back, his breast. Who sees his true love in her naked bed, teaching the sheets a whiter view than white? But when his glut nigh so full hath fed his other agents, aim at like delight. Who is so faint that dare not be so bold to touch the fire, the weather being cold? Let me excuse thy course, 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. Oh, learn to love, the lesson is but plain, and once made perfect, never lost again. I know not love, will he, nor will not know it, unless it be a bore, and then I chase it. It is 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 job diminished, they wither in their prime, prove nothing worth. To cope that's backed and burdened, being young, loseeth his pride and never waxeth strong. You hurt my hand with ringing, 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 oak the gate. Dismiss your vows, your fainted tears, your flattery. For where a heart is hard, they make no battery. What? Can't thou talk? Will she? Has thou a tongue? Oh, with thou hadst not, or I had no hearing. Thy mermaids' 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 hearts deep so wounding. And I know 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 would be 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 stilletry of thy face excelling comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by smelling. But oh, what banquet worth 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 and welcome 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 rack 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 barketh, even as the wind is hushed before he prayneth, or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, or as the berry breaks before it stayneth. 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 reviveeth, a smile that cures the wounding of a frown, but blessed bankrupt that by love so thriveeth. The silly boy, believing she is dead, claps her pale cheek till clapping makes it red, and all amazed break off his late intent, for sharply he did think to reprehend her, which cunning love did wittily prevent. Therefore the wit that can so well defend her, for on the grass she lies as she was slain, till his breath breatheth life in her again. He rings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, he bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, he chafes her lips. In a thousand ways he seeks to mend the hurt that is 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, for two blue windows faintly she upheaveeth, like the fair sun when in his fresh array he cheers the morn, and all the world relieves. 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. Where never four such lamps together mixed had not his clouded with his browser-eye, but hers, which through the crystal tears gave light, shone like the moon in water seen by night. Oh, where am I? Was she in earth or heaven, or in the ocean drenched during the fire? What hour is this? Or morn, or where even? Do I delight to die, or life desire? Now I lived, and life was death's annoy, but now I died, and death was lively joy. Oh, 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. Oh, never let their crimson livery's wear. And as they last, their verge are still endure to drive infection from the dangerous year. That the stargazers, 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 may, 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? To save a non-payment that the debt shall double? Is twenty-hundred kisses such a trouble? Hare queen, but thee, if any love you owe me, measure my strangeness with my unripe ears, before I know myself seek not to know me. No fissure but the ungrown fryer for bears. The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, for 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, it is very late. The sheep are gone to fold, verged to the nest, and cold black clouds that shadow heavens like, do summon us to part and bid good night. Now, let me say good night, and so say you. If you will say so, you shall have a kiss. Good night! Will she? And ere he says adieu the honey-fear parting tendered is, her arms to 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, were on their surfeit, yet complain on drowth. He, with her plenty pressed, she faint with dirt, their lips together glued, fall to the earth. Now, quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, and glutton like she feeds, yet never filleth. Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, paying what ransom the insultor willeth, whose vulture thought hath pitched the price so high, that she will draw his lips rich treasure dry. Then, having felt the sweetness of the spoil, with blindfold fury she begins to forage. Her face stethreek 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 rack. Hot, faint and weary with her heart embracing, like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling, or as the fleet-foot row that's tired with chasing, or like the forward infant still with dandling, he now obeys. And now no more resisteth, while she takes all she can, not all she listseth. What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering, and yields at last to every light impression. Things out of hope are compassed off with venturing, chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission. Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, but then woos best when most his choices roared. When he did frown, oh, 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 trickles, yet is plucked. Where 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 so that he may depart. She has resolved no longer to restrain him, bids him farewell and look well to her heart. The witch by Cupid's bow she doth protest, he carries thence and cages it 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, loves master, shall we meet tomorrow? Say, shall we? Shall we? Will they make the match? He tells her no. Tomorrow he intends to hunt the boar with certain of his friends. The boar? Both she, where at a sudden pale like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, usurps her cheek. She trembles at his tail, 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 his imaginary she doth prove, he will not manage her, although he mount her. That worse than tantalus is her annoy, to clip bellish him and to lack her joy. Even as poor birds deceived with painted grapes, do surfeit by the eye and find the maw, even so she languisher than her mishaps, as those poor birds that helpless very saw. The warm effects which she and him finds missing, she seeks to kindle with continual kissing. But all in vain, good queen it will not be. She hath usaid as much as may be proved. Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee. She's love. She loves. And yet she is not loved. Five, five, he says, you crush me, let me go, you have no reason to withhold me so. Thou hadst been gone, both she, sweet boy, at this, but that thou toldst me thou which tunt the boar. Oh, be advised, thou knowst not what it is with Javelin's point of chelish swine-de-gore, whose tushes never sheathed, he whetteth still like to a mortal butcher 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 sepulchres where ere he goes. Being moved, he strikes what ere is in his way, and whom he strikes his crooked, tuscious sleigh. 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 vent her. The thorny brambles and embracing bushes as fearful of him bark through whom he rushes. Alas, he not esteems that face of thine to which love's eyes pay tributary gazes, nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystalline, whose full perfection all the world amazes. But having thee advantage, wondrous dread would root these beauties as he roots the mead. Oh, let him keep his lothsome cabin still. Beauty hath not to do with such foul fiends. Come not within his danger by thy will. Thay that thrive well, take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar not to disemble, I feared thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white? Saust thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint and fell I not down right? Within my bosom whereon thou dost lie, my boating 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, suggests doth mutiny, and in a peaceful hour doth cry, kill, kill, distempering gentle love in his desire as air and water do abate the fire. This sour informer, this bait-breeding spy, this canker that eats up love's tender spring, this carry-tailed, 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 me so indeed, that tremble at the imagination? The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, and fear doth teach a 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 row which no encounter dare. Pursue these fearful creatures of the Downes, and on thy well-breed 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 than any musics through the which he goes are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep to make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, and sometime when earth-delving conies keep to stop the loud pursuers in their yell, and sometime 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 the clamorous cry till they have singled with much adieu the cold vault clean thee out. Then do they spend their mouths, echo replies as if another chase were in the skies. By this poor walt far off upon a hill stands on his hindre legs with listening ear to hearken of his foes pursuers still. Anon their louder lorams he doth hear, and now his grief may be compared well to one sore sick that hears the passing bell. Then shall they see the duvet-devil wretch turn and return indenting with the way each envious briar 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. Like 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 hears me moralize. Applying this to that and so to so, for love can comment upon every woe, where did I leave? No matter where, quote he, leave me. And then the story happily ends. The night is spent. Why, what of that, quote she? I am, quote he, expected of my friends, and now it is dark, and going I shall fall. In night, quote she, desire sees best of all, but if thou fall, oh, then imagine this, the earth in love with thee thy footing trips, and all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich praise make true men thieves, so do thy lips make modest die and cloudy and forlorn, lest she should steal a kiss and die for sworn. 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 moles 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 has she bribed the destinies to cross the curious workmanship of nature to mingle beauty with infirmities and pure perfection with impure defeature, making her subject to the tyranny of madness, chances and much misery, as burning fevers, agues, pale and faint, life poisoning pestilence and frenzies would, the marrow-eating sickness whose attained disorder breeds by heating of the blood. Surfits, impostumes, grief and damned despair swear nature's death for framing thee so fair, and not the beast of all these maladies, but in one minute's fight brings beauty under. Both favour, savour, cue and qualities were at the impartial gaze elated wonder, or on the sudden wasted, thawed and done, as mountain snow melts with the midday sun. Therefore, despite a fruitless chastity, love lacking vestals and self-loving nuns that on the 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 rites of time thou needs must have if thou destroy them not in dark obscurity? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, sit in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. So in thy self, thy self art made away a mischief worse than civil home-bread strife, or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, or butcher's sire that reaps his son of life. Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use, more gold begets. Nay, then, for that you will fall again into your idle overhandled 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 desires 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 Walton Mermaid's songs, yet from mine ere the tempting tune is blown, for, no, my heart stands armoured in mine ere, 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 bedchamber to be barred of rest. No, lady, no, my heart longs not to groan, but soundly sleeps, for 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 baud to lust's abuse. Call it not love, for love to heaven has fled since sweating lust on earth reserved his name, under whose simple semblance he hath fed upon fresh beauty, yet 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 hath be done. Love's herpets not. Lust, like a glutton, dies. Love is all truth, lust full of forged 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, teen, mine ears, that you at 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 lawn runs a pace, 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 embargoed friend, to 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 objects that did feed her sight. Were I amazed, as one that unaware hath dropped a precious jewel in the flood, or astonished, as night wanderers 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 where it had grown that all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, make verbal repetition of the moments. Passion on passion deeply is retuffled. I mean, she cries, and twenty times, whoa, whoa, and twenty echoes, twenty times cry so. She, marking them, begins a wailing note and sings extemporarily a woeful ditty, how love makes young men thrall and old men don't, how love is wise and folly, foolish, witty. Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe and still the choir of echoes answer so. The song was tedious and out wore the night, for lovers hours along though seeming short. If pleased themselves, others they think delight in such-like circumstance with such-like sport. Their copious stories oftentimes begun and end without audience and are never done. For who has she to spend the night with all, but idle sounds resembling parasites, like shrill tongue tapsters answering every call, soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says, tis so, they answer all, tis so, and would say after her if she said no. Though here the gentle lark weary of rest from his moist cabinet bounce up on high and wakes the morning from whose silver breast the sun arises in his majesty, who doth the world so gloriously behold that cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold. Venus salutes him with his fair good morrow, O thou clear God and patron of all light, from whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow the cutious influence that makes him bright. There lives a sun 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'er worn, and yet she hears no tidings of her love. She hearkens for his hounds and for his horns, and on she hears them chanted 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 twine about her thigh to make her stay. She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace like a milch-dough whose swelling dougs to ache. Hasten to feed her fawn, he did some break. By this she hears the hounds are at a bay, but at she starches like one that spies an adder, reared up in fatal folds just in his way. The fear were of 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 bore, rough bear, or lion proud. Because the cry remaineth in one place, where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud, finding their enemy to be so cursed, they all strain curtsy 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 wants to the yield, they basely fly and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy, till, cheering up her senses sort as made, she tells them it is 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 bore, whose frothy mouth be painted 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 wither. This way she runs and now she will know further, but that retires to rate the bore 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 respect yet not at all respecting, in hand with all things not at all effecting. Here, kenneled in a break, she finds a hound and asks the weary cater for his master, and there another licking of his wound against venom soars the oldness sovereign blaster, 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 flap-mouth mourn her black and grim against the welkin bollies 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, were on 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, bavoured, tyrant, ugly, meager, lean, hateful divorce of love, thus tried 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, oh, no, it cannot be, seeing his beauty thou should strike at it? Oh, yes it may. Thou hast no eyes to see, but hatefully have randomed us thou hit. Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart. That's thou but did 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 pluckst a flower. Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, and not death's ebb and dart to strike him dead. Dost thou drink tears that thou provoked 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 veiled 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 floodgates breaks the silver rain, and with his strong course opens them again. Oh, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow, her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye, both crystals where they viewed each other 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 seen with chief, but none is best. Then join they all together, like many clouds consulting before weather. By this, far off, she hears some huntsman holler, a nurse's song there pleased her babes 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. Where at 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 drowned, who is but drunken when she seamoth drowned. Oh, harby, leaving Thou, how strange it seems not to believe, and yet too credulous. Thy will and woe are both of them extremes, despair and hope make thee ridiculous, the one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, in likely thoughts the other kids 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, and creeps him king of graves, and grave for kings, imperious supreme of all mortal things. No, no, could she, sweet death, I did be jest. Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear when I cement the bore that bloody beast, which knows no pity, but is still severe, then gentle shadowed truth I must confess I railed on thee, fearing my love's decease, it is not my fault, the bore provoked my tongue, we wreaked on him invisible commander, does he foul creature that hath done thee wrong? I did but act, he's author of my slander, reef 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. Oh, love, could she, how much of foo 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. Five, five, fond love, thou art as full of fear, as one with treasure laden, hemmed with thieves, trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear, thy coward heart with false bethinking veers. Even at this word she hears a merry horn, where at she leaps that was but late for dawn. As falcon 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 backwards 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 caverns 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 cane perplexed in his throne by their suggestion gives a deadly drone, where at each tributary subject quakes as when the wind imprisoned in the ground struggling for passage 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 through unwilling light upon the wide wound that the boar had trenched in his soft flank, whose wanted lily white with purple tears that his wound wept was 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 voices 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 will she behold two atoms dead. My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, my eyes are turned to fire, my heart to lead. Heavy hearts lead, melted my 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 fare 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 fare, 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 stray, 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 sung, the tiger would betame 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 hymn with berries. But this foul brim 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 himself. Tis true, tis true, thus was Adonis slain, he ran upon the boar with his sharp spear who did not wet his teeth at him again, but by a kiss thought to persuade him there and, nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine sheed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. Had I been tooth 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 conchilled 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 word she told. She lifts the coffer lids that close his eyes for low. Two lamps burnt out in darkness lies. Two glasses where herself herself beheld a thousand times and now no more reflect. The virtue lost were in a late excel and every beauty robbed of his effect. Wonder of time, will 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. Nair settled equally but high or low that all love's pleasures shall not match as well. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud bud and be blasted in a breathing while. The bottom poison and the top orstrod with sweets that shall the truest sight be guile. 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 inquired pluck down the rich and rich 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 twix the sun 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 love 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 adorned breath and says within her bosom it chilled well since he himself is reft from her by death she crops the stalk and in the breach appears green dropping sap which he compares to tears. Who a flower will she? This was thy father's guy's 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 it is thy. But no, it is as good to wither in my breast as in his blood. This is thy father's bed here in my breast. Thou art the next of blood and is thy right. Low in this hollow cradle take thy breast. 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 hides and yokes of silver doves by whose swift aid their mistress through the empty skies in her light chariot quickly is conveyed holding their course to Paphos where their queen means to amure herself and not be seen. Finis, the end of Venus and Adonis by William Shakespeare recording by Thomas Copeland