rk, disliking eye,
                 His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
                 Like misty vapours 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! lifeless 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 infold 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 hemm'd 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 liv'd and there he could not die.

                 These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
                 Open'd 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 favour, some remorse!'
                    Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

                 But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
                 A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
                 Adonis' tramping courser doth espy,
                 And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
                    The strong-neck'd 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 with his hard hoof he wounds,
                 Whose hollow womb resounds like,heaven's thunder;
                    The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth,
                    Controlling what he was controlled with.

                 His ears upprick'd; his braided hanging mane
                 Upon his com pass *d crest now stand on end;
                 His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
                 As from a furnace, vapours doth he "end:
                    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, 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 trapping gay?
                    He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
                    Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

                 Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
                 In limning out a well-proportion'd 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, colour, pace and bone.

                 Round-hoofd, 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'r he run or fly they know not whether;
                    For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
                    Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd 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 is enrag'd,
                    Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.

                 His testy master goeth about to take him;
                 When lo! the unback'd 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,
                    Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

                 All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
                 Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
                 And now the happy season once more fits,
                 That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
                    For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
                    When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.

                 An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
                 Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
                 So of concealed 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 disturbed 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 fed each other did destroy:
                    But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
                    It flash'd 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 tenderer 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 woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:
                    And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
                    With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.

                 Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
                 A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,
                 Or ivory in an alabaster band;
                 So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
                    This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
                    Show'd 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 shall have it;
                 O! give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
                 And being steel'd, 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 cool'd;
                 Else, suffer'd, 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 master'd 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 true-love 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 dare 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.
                    ï 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 unfmish'd?
                 Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
                 If springing things be any jot diminish'd.
                 They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
                    The colt that's back'd and burden'd 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 feigned tears, your flattery;
                    For where a heart is hard, they make no battery.'

                 '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 press'd with bearing:
                    Melodious discord, heavenly tune, harsh-sounding.
                    Ear's 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 stilFtory of thy face excelling
                    Comes breath perfum'd 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-colour'd portal open'd,
                 Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
                 Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
                 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 hush'd 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 blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!
                    The silly boy, believing she is dead,
                    Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;

                 And all-amaz'd 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 marr'd:
                    He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
                    Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

                 The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:
                 Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
                 Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array
                 He cheers the morn and all the world relieveth:
                    And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
                    So is her face illumin'd with her eye;

                 Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
                 As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.
                 Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
                 Had not his clouded with his brows' repine;
                    But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
                    Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

                 'ï! where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven,
                 Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?
                 What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
                 Do I delight to die, or life desire?
                    But now I liv'd, 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 murder'd 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 banish'd 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 pluck'd 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 good night, 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 tender'd is:
                    Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
                    Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

                 Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, 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 press'd, she faint with dearth,
                    Their lips together glu'd, 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 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 honour's wrack.

                 Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
                 Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling,
                 Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tir'd with chasing,
                 Or like the froward infant still'd 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 tempering,
                 And yields at last to every light impression?
                 Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,
                 Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
                    Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd 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 suck'd.
                 Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
                 What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:
                    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 resolv'd 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 incaged 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 to-morrow?
                 Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'
                    He tells her, no; to-morrow 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 cheeks, 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 as poor birds, deceiv'd 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 assay'd as much as may be prov'd;
                 Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee;
                 She 's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd.
                    '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 told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
                 O! be advis'd; thou know'st not what it is
                 With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
                    Whose tushes never sheath'd 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 glow-worms shine when he doth fret;
                 His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
                    Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
                    And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.

                 'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
                 Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
                 His short thick neck cannot be easily harrn'd;
                 Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
                    The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
                    As fearful of him part, through whom he rushes.

                 'Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,
                 To which Love's eyes pay 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.

                 'ï! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
                 Beauty hath nought 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 fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

                 'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
                 Saw'st 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!"
                    Distempering 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 sometime true news, sometime 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 stain'd 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 the 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 to-morrow.

                 'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
                 Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
                 Or at the fox which lives by subtilty,
                 Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
                    Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
                    And on thy well-breath'd 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 winds, and with what care
                 He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
                    The many musits 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 where 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 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 listening ear,
                 To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
                 Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
                    And now his grief may be compared 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 briar his weary legs doth scratch,
                 Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
                    For misery is trodden on by many,
                    And being low never reliev'd 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 condemn'd of treason,
                 For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
                    Wherein she fram'd thee in high heaven's despite,
                    To shame the sun by day and her by night.

                 'And therefore hath she brib'd 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, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd 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 favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
                 Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
                    Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
                    As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day sun.

                 'Therefore, despite of 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 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 home-bred strife,
                 Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
                 Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
                    Foul-cankering 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 bestow'd in vain,
                 And all in vain you strive against the stream;
                    For by this black-fac'd 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 mermaid's songs,
                 Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;
                    For know, my heart stands armed 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 bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.
                    No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
                    But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

                 'What have you urg'd 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: ï 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 usurp'd 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 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 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 distress'd.
                    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-embarked 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 amaz'd, as one that unaware
                 Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
                 Or 'stonish'd 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, whereat it groans,
                 That all the neighbour 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 twe