Venus and Adonis
|
|
Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face |
|
|
|
Had ta'en his
last leave of the weeping morn, |
|
|
|
Rose-cheek'd
Adonis hied him to the chase; |
|
|
|
Hunting he
loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn: |
|
|
|
Sick-thougted
Venus makes amain unto him, |
5 |
|
|
And like a
bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him. |
|
|
|
|
«Thrice fairer than myself», thus she
began, |
|
|
|
«The
field's chief flower, sweet above compare, |
|
|
|
Stain to all
nymphs, more lovely than a man, |
|
|
|
More white and
red than doves or roses are; |
10 |
|
|
Nature that made
thee, with herself at strife, |
|
|
|
Saith that world
hath ending with thy life. |
|
|
|
|
Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, |
|
|
|
And rein his
proud head to the saddle-bow; |
|
|
|
If thou wilt
deign this favour, for thy meed |
15 |
|
|
A thousand honey
secrets shalt thou know: |
|
|
|
Here come and
sit, where never serpent hisses, |
|
|
|
And being set, I
'll smother thee with kisses; |
|
|
|
|
And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed
satiety, |
|
|
|
But rather
famish them amid their plenty, |
20 |
|
|
Making them red
and pale with fresh variety; |
|
|
|
Ten kisses short
as one, one long as twenty: |
|
|
|
A summer's day
will seem an hour but short, |
|
|
|
Being wasted in
such time-beguiling sport.» |
|
|
|
|
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, |
25 |
|
|
The precedent of
pith and livelihood, |
|
|
|
And, trembling
in her passion, calls it balm, |
|
|
|
Earth's
sovereign salve to do a goddess good: |
|
|
|
Being so
enraged, desire doth lend her force |
|
|
|
Courageously to
pluck him from his horse. |
30 |
|
|
|
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, |
|
|
|
Under her other
was the tender boy, |
|
|
|
Who blush'd and
pouted in a dull disdain, |
|
|
|
With leaden
appetite, unapt to toy; |
|
|
|
She red and hot
as coals of glowing fire, |
35 |
|
|
He red for
shame, but frosty in desire. |
|
|
|
|
The studded bridle on a ragged bough |
|
|
|
Nimbly she
fastens O, how quick is love!- |
|
|
|
The steed is
stalled up, and even now |
|
|
|
To tie the rider
she begins to prove: |
40 |
|
|
Backward she
push'd him, as she would be thrust, |
|
|
|
And gobern'd him
is strength, though not in lust. |
|
|
|
|
So soon was she along as he was down, |
|
|
|
Each leaning on
their elbows and their hips: |
|
|
|
Now doth she
stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, |
45 |
|
|
And 'gins to
chide, but soon she stops his lips: |
|
|
|
And kissing
speaks, with lustful language broken, |
|
|
|
«If thou
wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.» |
|
|
|
|
He burns with bashful shame; she with her
tears |
|
|
|
Doth quench the
maiden burning of his cheeks; |
50 |
|
|
Then with her
windy sight and golden hairs |
|
|
|
To fan and blow
them dry again she seeks: |
|
|
|
He saith she is
immodest, blames her miss; |
|
|
|
What follows
more she murders with a kiss. |
|
|
|
|
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, |
55 |
|
|
Tires with her
beak on feathers, flesh and bone, |
|
|
|
Shaking her
wings, devouring all in haste, |
|
|
|
Till either
gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone; |
|
|
|
Even so she
kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin, |
|
|
|
And where she
ends she doth anew begin. |
60 |
|
|
|
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, |
65 |
|
|
So they were
dew'd with such distilling showers. |
|
|
|
|
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, |
|
|
|
So fasten'd in
her arms Adonis lies; |
|
|
|
Pure shame and
awed resistance made him fret, |
|
|
|
Which bred more
beauty in his angry eyes: |
70 |
|
|
Rain added to a
river that is rank |
|
|
|
Perforce will
force it overflow the bank. |
|
|
|
|
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, |
|
|
|
For to a pretty
ear she tunes her tale; |
|
|
|
Still is he
sullen, still he lours and frets, |
75 |
|
|
'Twixt crimson
shame, and anger ashy-pale; |
|
|
|
Being red, she
loves him best; and being white, |
|
|
|
Her best is
better'd with a more delight. |
|
|
|
|
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; |
|
|
|
And by her fair
immortal hand she swears, |
80 |
|
|
From his soft
bosom never to remove, |
|
|
|
Till he take
truce with her contending tears, |
|
|
|
Which long have
rain'd, making her cheeks all wet: |
|
|
|
And one sweet
kiss shall pay this countless debt. |
|
|
|
|
Upon this promise did he raise his chin, |
85 |
|
|
Like a
dive-dapper peering through a wave, |
|
|
|
Who, being
look'd on, ducks as quickly in; |
|
|
|
So offers he to
give what she did crave; |
|
|
|
.But when her
lips were ready fos his pay, |
|
|
|
He winks, and
turns his pils another way. |
90 |
|
|
|
Never did passenger in summer's heat |
|
|
|
More thirst for
drink than she for this good turn. |
|
|
|
Her help she
sees, but help she cannot get; |
|
|
|
She bathes in
water, yet her fire must burn: |
|
|
|
«O,
pity», gan she cry, «flint-hearted
boy! |
95 |
|
|
'Tis but a kiss
I begg; why art thou coy? |
|
|
|
|
I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now, |
|
|
|
Even by the
stern and direful god of war, |
|
|
|
Whose sinewy
neck in battle ne'er did bow, |
|
|
|
Who conquers
where he comes in every jar; |
100 |
|
|
Yet hath he been
my captive and my slave, |
|
|
|
And begg'd for
that which thou unask'd shalt have. |
|
|
|
|
Over my altars hath he hung his lance, |
|
|
|
His batter'd
shield, his uncontrolled crest, |
|
|
|
And for my sake
hath learn'd to sport and dance, |
105 |
|
|
To toy, to
wantin, dally, smile and jest; |
|
|
|
Scorning his
churlish drum and ensign red, |
|
|
|
Making my arms
his field, his tent my bed. |
|
|
|
|
Thus he that overruled I overswayed, |
|
|
|
Leading him
prisoner in a red-rose chain: |
110 |
|
|
Strong-temper'd
steel his stronger strength obeyed, |
|
|
|
Yet was he
servile to my coy disdain. |
|
|
|
O, be not proud,
nor brag not of thy might, |
|
|
|
For mastering
her that foil'd the god of fight! |
|
|
|
|
Touch but my lips with those fair lips of
thine- |
115 |
|
|
Though mine be
not so fair, yet are they red- |
|
|
|
The kiss shall
be thine own as well as mine: |
|
|
|
What see'st 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? |
120 |
|
|
|
Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again, |
|
|
|
And I will wink;
so shall the day seem night; |
|
|
|
Love keeps his
revels where there are but twain; |
|
|
|
Be bold to play,
our sport is not in sight: |
|
|
|
These
blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean |
125 |
|
|
Never can blab,
nor know not what we mean. |
|
|
|
|
The tender spring upon thy tempting lip |
|
|
|
Shews thee
unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted: |
|
|
|
Make use of
mine, let not advantage slip; |
|
|
|
Beauty within
itself should not be wasted: |
130 |
|
|
Fair flowers
that are not gather'd in their prime |
|
|
|
Rot and consume
themselves in little time. |
|
|
|
|
Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, |
|
|
|
Ill-nurtured,
crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, |
|
|
|
O'erworn,
despised, rheumatic and cold, |
135 |
|
|
Thick-sighted,
barren, lean, and lacking juice, |
|
|
|
Then mightst
thou pause, for then I were not for thee; |
|
|
|
But having no
defect, why dost abhor me? |
|
|
|
|
Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow; |
|
|
|
Mine eyes are
grey and bright and quick in turning; |
140 |
|
|
My beauty as the
spring doth yearly grow, |
|
|
|
My flesh is soft
and plump, my marrow burning; |
|
|
|
My smooth moist
hand, were it with thy hand felt, |
|
|
|
Would in thy
palm dissolve, or seem to melt. |
|
|
|
|
Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, |
145 |
|
|
Or, like a
fairy, trip upon the green, |
|
|
|
Or, like a
nymph, with long dishevell'd hair |
|
|
|
Dance on the
sands, and yet no footing seen: |
|
|
|
Love is a spirit
all compact of fire, |
|
|
|
Not gross to
sink, but light, and will aspire. |
150 |
|
|
|
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 |
155 |
|
|
That thou
shouldst think it heavy unto thee? |
|
|
|
|
Is thine own Herat to thine own face
affected? |
|
|
|
Can thy right
land seize love upon thy left? |
|
|
|
Then woo
thyself, be of thyself rejected, |
|
|
|
Steal thine own
freedom, and complain on theft. |
160 |
|
|
Narcissus so
himself himself forsook,, |
|
|
|
And died to kiss
his shadow in the brook. |
|
|
|
|
Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, |
|
|
|
Dainties to
taste, fresh beauty for the use, |
|
|
|
Herbs for their
smell, and sappy plants to bear; |
165 |
|
|
Things growing
to themselves are growth's abuse: |
|
|
|
Seeds spring
from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty |
|
|
|
Thou wast begot,
to get is thy duty. |
|
|
|
|
Upon the carth's increase why shouldst thou
feed, |
|
|
|
Unless the earth
with thy increase be fed? |
170 |
|
|
By law of nature
thou art bound to breed, |
|
|
|
That thine may
live when thou thyself art dead; |
|
|
|
And so, in spite
of death, thou dost survive, |
|
|
|
In that thy
likeness still is left alive.» |
|
|
|
|
By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat, |
175 |
|
|
For, where they
play, the shadow had forsook them, |
|
|
|
And Titan, tired
in the mid-day heat, |
|
|
|
With burning eye
did hotly overlook them, |
|
|
|
Wishing Adonis
had his team to guide, |
|
|
|
So he were like
him and by Venus' side. |
180 |
|
|
|
And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, |
|
|
|
And with a
heavy, dark, disliking eye, |
|
|
|
His douring
brows o'erwhelming his fair sight, |
|
|
|
Like misty
vapours when they blot the sky, |
|
|
|
Souring his
cheeks, «Fie, no more of love! |
185 |
|
|
The sun doth
burn my face; I must remove.» |
|
|
|
|
«Ay me», quoth Venus, «young, and so
unkind! |
|
|
|
What bare
excuses makest thou to be gone! |
|
|
|
I'll sigh
celestial breath, whose gentle wind |
|
|
|
Shall cool the
heat of this descending sun: |
190 |
|
|
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, |
195 |
|
|
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: |
200 |
|
|
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, |
205 |
|
|
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. |
210 |
|
|
|
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, |
215 |
|
|
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: |
220 |
|
|
And now she
weeps, and now she fain would speak, |
|
|
|
And now her sobs
do her intendments break. |
|
|
|
|
Sometime she shakes her head, and then his
hand, |
|
|
|
Now gazed she on
him, now on the ground; |
|
|
|
Sometimes her
arms infold him like a band: |
225 |
|
|
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 said, «since I have hemm'd
thee here |
|
|
|
Within the
circuit of this ivory pale, |
230 |
|
|
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, |
235 |
|
|
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 small
rouse thee, though a thousand bark.» |
240 |
|
|
|
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, |
245 |
|
|
Why, there Love
lived, and there he could not die. |
|
|
|
|
These lovely caves, these round enchanting
pits, |
|
|
|
Open'd their
mounths to swallow Venus' liking. |
|
|
|
Being mad
before, how doth she now for wits? |
|
|
|
Struck dead at
first, what needs a second striking? |
250 |
|
|
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, he object will away |
255 |
|
|
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, |
260 |
|
|
Adonis'
trampling courser doth espy, |
|
|
|
And forth
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, |
265 |
|
|
And now his
woven girths break's asunder; |
|
|
|
The bearing
earth with his hard hoof he wounds, |
|
|
|
Whose hollow
womb resounds like heaven's thunder; |
|
|
|
The iron bit he
crusheth 'tween his teeth, |
|
|
|
Controlling what
he was controlled with. |
270 |
|
|
|
His ears up-prick's; his braided hanging mane |
|
|
|
Upon his
compass'd 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, |
275 |
|
|
Show 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; |
280 |
|
|
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? |
285 |
|
|
Fo rich
caparisons or trappings gay? |
|
|
|
He sees his
love, and nothing else he sees, |
|
|
|
For nothing else
with his proud sight agrees. |
|
|
|
|
Look, when a painter would surpass the life, |
|
|
|
In limning out a
well proportion'd steed, |
290 |
|
|
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-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and
long |
295 |
|
|
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 he did not lack, |
|
|
|
Save a proud
rider on so proud back. |
300 |
|
|
|
Sometime he scuds, off, and there he stares; |
|
|
|
Anon he starts
at stirring of a feather; |
|
|
|
To bid the wind
a base he now prepares, |
|
|
|
And whether he
run or fly, they know not whether; |
|
|
|
For through his
mane and tail the high wind sings, |
305 |
|
|
Fanning the
hairs, who wave like feather's wings. |
|
|
|
|
He looks upon his love and neighs unto her; |
|
|
|
She answers him,
as if she knew his mind: |
|
|
|
Being proud, as
female are, to see him woo her, |
|
|
|
She puts on
outward strangeness, seems unkind, |
310 |
|
|
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: |
315 |
|
|
He stamps, and
bites the poor flies in his fume. |
|
|
|
His love,
perceiving how he was enraged, |
|
|
|
Grew kinder, and
his fury was assuaged. |
|
|
|
|
His testy master goeth about to take him; |
|
|
|
When, lo, the
unback'd breeder, full of fear, |
320 |
|
|
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-strippink
crows that strive to over-fly them. |
|
|
|
|
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, |
325 |
|
|
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 abidance of the tongue. |
330 |
|
|
|
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, |
335 |
|
|
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, |
340 |
|
|
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, |
345 |
|
|
How white and
red each other did destroy! |
|
|
|
But now her
cheek was pale, and by and by |
|
|
|
It flah'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; |
350 |
|
|
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 and dint. |
|
|
|
|
O, what a war of looks was then between them! |
355 |
|
|
he 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. |
360 |
|
|
|
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, |
365 |
|
|
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 west
as I am, and I a man, |
|
|
|
My heart all
whole as thine, thy heart mi wound; |
370 |
|
|
For one sweet
look thy help I would assure thee, |
|
|
|
Though nothing
but my body's bane would cure thee.» |
|
|
|
|
«Give me my hand», saith he, «why dost thou
feel it!» |
|
|
|
«Give me
my heart», saith she, «and thou shalt have
it; |
|
|
|
O, give it me,
lest thy hard heart do steel it, |
375 |
|
|
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, |
380 |
|
|
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 the mare.» |
|
|
|
|
Thus she replies: «Thy palfrey, as he
should, |
385 |
|
|
Welcome 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. |
390 |
|
|
|
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, |
395 |
|
|
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 hat fed, |
|
|
|
His other agents
aim at like delight? |
400 |
|
|
Who is so faint,
that dares not be so bold |
|
|
|
To touch the
fire, the weather being cold? |
|
|
|
|
Let me excuse thy couser, gentle boy; |
|
|
|
And learn of
him, I heartily beseech thee, |
|
|
|
To take
advantage on presented joy; |
405 |
|
|
Though I were
dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee: |
|
|
|
O, learn to
love; the lesson is but plain, |
|
|
|
And once made
perfect, never lost again.» |
|
|
|
|
«I know not love», quoth he, «nor will not
know it, |
|
|
|
Unless it be a
boar, and then I chase it; |
410 |
|
|
'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 unfinish'd? |
415 |
|
|
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's and burthen'd being young |
|
|
|
Loseth his
pride, and never waxeth strong. |
420 |
|
|
|
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; |
425 |
|
|
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: |
430 |
|
|
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 |
435 |
|
|
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, no hear, nor touch, |
440 |
|
|
And nothing but
the very smell were left me, |
|
|
|
Yet would my
love to thee be still is much; |
|
|
|
For from the
stillitory of thy face excelling |
|
|
|
Comes breath
perfumed, that breedeth lobe by smelling. |
|
|
|
|
But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste, |
445 |
|
|
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?» |
450 |
|
|
|
Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd, |
|
|
|
Which to his
speech did honey pasaje yield; |
|
|
|
Like a red morn,
that ever yet betoken'd |
|
|
|
Wreck to the
seaman, tempest to the field, |
|
|
|
Sorrow to
shepherds, woe unto the birds, |
455 |
|
|
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, |
460 |
|
|
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 smiles recurs
the wounding of a frown; |
465 |
|
|
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 amazed brake off his late intent, |
|
|
|
For sharply he
did think to reprehend her, |
470 |
|
|
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 strokes her on the
cheeks, |
475 |
|
|
He bends her
fingers, holds her pulses hard, |
|
|
|
He hafes 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. |
480 |
|
|
|
The night of sorrow nows 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 earth relieveth: |
|
|
|
And as the
bright sun glorifies the sky, |
485 |
|
|
So is her face
illumined with her eye; |
|
|
|
|
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd, |
|
|
|
As if from
thence they borrowed all their shine. |
|
|
|
Were never four
such lamps together mix'd, |
|
|
|
Had not his
clouded with his brow's repine; |
490 |
|
|
But hers, which
through the crystal tears gave light, |
|
|
|
Shone like the
moon in water seen by night. |
|
|
|
|
«O, where am I?» quoth she, «in earth or
heaven, |
|
|
|
Or in the ocean
drench'd, or in the fire? |
|
|
|
What hour is
this? or morn or weary even? |
495 |
|
|
Do I delight to
die, or life desire? |
|
|
|
But now I lived,
and life was death's annoy: |
|
|
|
But now I dies,
and death was lively joy. |
|
|
|
|
O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again: |
|
|
|
Thy eyes»
shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, |
500 |
|
|
Hath taught them
scornful triks, 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! |
505 |
|
|
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. |
510 |
|
|
|
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 |
515 |
|
|
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? |
520 |
|
|
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; |
525 |
|
|
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; |
530 |
|
|
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; |
535 |
|
|
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. |
540 |
|
|
|
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, |
545 |
|
|
Their lips
together glued, fall to the earth. |
|
|
|
|
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding
prey, |
|
|
|
And glutton-like
she feeds, yet never filled; |
|
|
|
Her lips are
conquerors, his lips obey, |
|
|
|
Paying what
ransom the insulter willeth; |
550 |
|
|
Whose vulture
thought doth pitch the price so high, |
|
|
|
That she will
draw is 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, |
555 |
|
|
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 tamed with too much handling, |
560 |
|
|
Or as the
fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing, |
|
|
|
Or like the
forward infant still's 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, |
565 |
|
|
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-faced coward, |
|
|
|
But then woos
best when most his choice is forward. |
570 |
|
|
|
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, |
575 |
|
|
Yet love breaks
through, and picks them all at last. |
|
|
|
|
For pity now she can no more detain him; |
|
|
|
The poor fool
prays her that he may depart: |
|
|
|
She is resolved
no longer to restrain him; |
|
|
|
Bids him
farewell, and look well to her heart, |
580 |
|
|
The which, by
Cupid's bow she doth protest, |
|
|
|
He caries 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? |
585 |
|
|
Say, 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, |
590 |
|
|
Usurps her
cheek; she trembles at his tale, |
|
|
|
And on his neck
her yoking arms she throws: |
|
|
|
She sinketh
down, still hanging by his neck, |
|
|
|
He on her belly
falls, she on her back. |
|
|
|
|
Now is she in the very lists of love, |
595 |
|
|
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. |
600 |
|
|
|
Even so poor birds, deceived with painted
grapes, |
|
|
|
Do surfeit by
the eye and pine the maw, |
|
|
|
Even so she
languisheth in her mishaps |
|
|
|
As those poor
birds that helpless berries saw. |
|
|
|
The warm effects
which she in him finds missing |
605 |
|
|
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 proved; |
|
|
|
Her pleading
hath deserved a greater fee; |
|
|
|
She' Love, she
loves, and yet she is not loved. |
610 |
|
|
«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 woulds hunt the boar. |
|
|
|
O, be advised:
thou know's not what it is |
615 |
|
|
With jabalin's
point a churlish swine to gore, |
|
|
|
Whose tushes
never sheathed he whetteth still, |
|
|
|
Like to a mortal
butcher, bent to kill. |
|
|
|
|
On his bow-back he hath a battle set |
|
|
|
Of bristly
pikes, that ever threat his foes; |
620 |
|
|
His eyes, like
glow-worms, shine when he doth fret; |
|
|
|
His snout digs
sepulchres where'er he goes; |
|
|
|
Being moved, he
strikes whate'er is in his way, |
|
|
|
And whom he
strikes his crooked tushes slay. |
|
|
|
|
His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, |
625 |
|
|
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 venture: |
|
|
|
The thorny
brambles and embracing bushes, |
|
|
|
As fearful of
him, part; through whom he rushes. |
630 |
|
|
|
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!- |
635 |
|
|
Would root these
beauties as he roots the mead. |
|
|
|
|
O, 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. |
640 |
|
|
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? |
645 |
|
|
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; |
650 |
|
|
Gives false
alarms, suggested 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, |
655 |
|
|
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: |
660 |
|
|
|
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 |
665 |
|
|
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 in divination: |
670 |
|
|
I prophesy thy
death, my living sorrow, |
|
|
|
If thou
encounter with the boar to-morrow. |
|
|
|
|
But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me; |
|
|
|
Uncouple at the
timorous flying hare, |
|
|
|
Or at the fox
which lives by subtlety, |
675 |
|
|
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, |
680 |
|
|
How he outruns
the wind, 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, |
685 |
|
|
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: |
690 |
|
|
|
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 mouth: Echo replies, |
695 |
|
|
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; |
700 |
|
|
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
brier his weary legs doth scratch, |
705 |
|
|
Each shadow
makes him stop, each murmur stay: |
|
|
|
For misery is
trodden on by many, |
|
|
|
And being low
never relieved by any. |
|
|
|
|
Lie quietly, and hear a little more; |
|
|
|
Nay, do not
struggle, for thou shalt not rise: |
710 |
|
|
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; |
715 |
|
|
«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. |
720 |
|
|
|
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, |
725 |
|
|
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; |
730 |
|
|
Wherein she
framed thee, in high heaven's despite, |
|
|
|
To shame the sun
by day and her by night. |
|
|
|
|
And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies |
|
|
|
To cross the
curious workmanship of nature, |
|
|
|
To mingle beauty
with infirmities |
735 |
|
|
And pure
perfection with impure defeature; |
|
|
|
Making it
subject to the tyranny |
|
|
|
Of mad
mischances and such misery; |
|
|
|
|
As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, |
|
|
|
Life-poisoning
pestilence and frenzies wood, |
740 |
|
|
The
marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint |
|
|
|
Disorder breeds
by heating of the blood: |
|
|
|
Surfeits,
imposthumes, grief and damnm'd despair, |
|
|
|
Swear Nature's
death for framing thee so fair. |
|
|
|
|
And not the least of all these maladies |
745 |
|
|
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 midday sun. |
750 |
|
|
|
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 |
755 |
|
|
Dries up his oil
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? |
760 |
|
|
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, |
765 |
|
|
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: |
770 |
|
|
The kiss I gave
you is bestow'd in vain, |
|
|
|
And all in vain
you strive against the stream; |
|
|
|
For, by this
black-faced night, desire's foul nurse, |
|
|
|
Your treatise
makes me like you worse and worse. |
|
|
|
|
If love have lent you twenty thousand
tongues, |
775 |
|
|
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; |
780 |
|
|
|
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, |
785 |
|
|
But soundly
sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. |
|
|
|
|
What have you urged that I cannot reprove? |
|
|
|
The path is
smooth that leadeth on to danger: |
|
|
|
I hate not love,
but your decive in love |
|
|
|
That lends
embracements unto every stranger. |
790 |
|
|
You do it for
increase: O strange excuse, |
|
|
|
When reason is
the bawd to lust's abuse! |
|
|
|
|
Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled |
|
|
|
Since sweating
Lust on earth usurp'd his name; |
|
|
|
Under whose
simple semblance he hath fed |
795 |
|
|
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; |
800 |
|
|
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; |
805 |
|
|
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.» |
810 |
|
|
|
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace |
|
|
|
Of those fair
arms which bound him to her breast, |
|
|
|
And homeward
through the dark lawnd runs apace; |
|
|
|
Leaves Love upon
her back deeply distress'd. |
|
|
|
Look, how a
bright star shooth from the sky, |
815 |
|
|
So glides he in
the night from Venus' eye: |
|
|
|
|
Which this, him she darts, as one on shore |
|
|
|
Gazing upon a
late embarked friend, |
|
|
|
Till the wild
wawes will have him seen no more, |
|
|
|
Whose ridges
with the meeting clouds contend: |
820 |
|
|
So did the
merciless and pitchy night |
|
|
|
Fold in the
object that did feed her sight. |
|
|
|
|
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware |
|
|
|
Hath dropp'd a
precious jewel in the flood, |
|
|
|
Or 'stonish'd as
night-wanderers often are, |
825 |
|
|
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, |
830 |
|
|
Make verbal
repetition of her moans; |
|
|
|
Passion on
passion deeply is redoubled: |
|
|
|
«Ay
me!» she cries, and twenty times, «Woe,
woe!» |
|
|
|
And twenty
echoes twenty times cry so. |
|
|
|
|
She, marking them, begins a wailing note, |
835 |
|
|
And sings
extemporally a woeful ditty; |
|
|
|
How love makes
young men thrall, and old men dote; |
|
|
|
How love is wise
in folly, foolish-witty: |
|
|
|
Her heavy anthem
still concludes in woe, |
|
|
|
And still the
choir of echoes answer so. |
840 |
|
|
|
Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, |
|
|
|
For lover's
hours are long, though seeming short: |
|
|
|
If pleased
themselves, others, they think, delight |
|
|
|
In such-like
circumstance, with such-like sport: |
|
|
|
Their copious
stories, oftentimes begun, |
845 |
|
|
End without
audience, and are never done. |
|
|
|
|
For who hath she to spend the night withal, |
|
|
|
But idle sounds
resembling parasites; |
|
|
|
Like
shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call |
|
|
|
Soothing the
humour of fantastic wits? |
850 |
|
|
She say
«Tis so»: they answer all «Tis
so»; |
|
|
|
And would say
after her, if she said «No». |
|
|
|
|
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, |
|
|
|
From his moist
cabinet mounts up on high, |
|
|
|
And wakes the
morning, from whose silver breast |
855 |
|
|
The sun ariseth
in his majesty; |
|
|
|
Who doth the
world so gloriously behold, |
|
|
|
That cedar-tops
and hills seem burnish'd gold. |
|
|
|
|
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow: |
|
|
|
«O thou
clear god, and patron of all light, |
860 |
|
|
From whom each
lamp and shining star doth borrow |
|
|
|
The beauteous
influence that makes him bright, |
|
|
|
There live a
son, that suck'd an earthly mother, |
|
|
|
May lend thee
light, as thou dost lend to other.» |
|
|
|
|
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, |
865 |
|
|
Musing the
morning is so much o'erworn, |
|
|
|
And yet she
hears no tidings of her love: |
|
|
|
She hearkens for
his hounds and for his horn: |
|
|
|
Anon she hears
them chant it lustily, |
|
|
|
And all in haste
she coasteth to the cry. |
870 |
|
|
|
And as she runs, the bushes in the way |
|
|
|
Some catch her
by the neck, some kiss her face, |
|
|
|
Some twine about
her thing to make her stay: |
|
|
|
She windly
breaketh from their strict embrace, |
|
|
|
Like a milch
doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, |
875 |
|
|
Hasting to feed
her fawn hid in some brake. |
|
|
|
|
By this she hears the hounds are at a bay; |
|
|
|
Whereat she
starts, like one that spies an adder |
|
|
|
Wreathed up in
fatal folds just in his way, |
|
|
|
The fear whereof
doth make him shake and shudder, |
880 |
|
|
Even so the
timorous yelping of the hounds |
|
|
|
Appals her
senses and her spirit confounds. |
|
|
|
|
For now she knows it is no gentle chase, |
|
|
|
But the blunt
boar, rough bear, or lion proud. |
|
|
|
Because the cry
remaineth in one place, |
885 |
|
|
Where fearfully
the dogs exclaim aloud: |
|
|
|
Finding their
enemy to be so curts, |
|
|
|
They all strain
courtesy who shall cope him first. |
|
|
|
|
This dismal cry rings sandly in her ear, |
|
|
|
Through which it
enters to surprise her heart; |
890 |
|
|
Who, overcome by
doubt and bloodless fear, |
|
|
|
With cold-pale
weakness numbs each feeling part: |
|
|
|
Like soldiers,
when their captain once doth yield, |
|
|
|
They basely fly,
and dare not stay the field. |
|
|
|
|
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy; |
895 |
|
|
Till, cheering
up her senses all dismay'd, |
|
|
|
She tells them
'tis a causeless fantasy, |
|
|
|
And childish
error, that they are afraid; |
|
|
|
Bids them leave
quaking, bids them fear no more: |
|
|
|
And with that
word she spied the hunted boar; |
900 |
|
|
|
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, |
|
|
|
Like milk and
blood being mingled both together, |
|
|
|
A second fear
through all her sinews spread, |
|
|
|
Which madly
hurries her she knows not whither: |
|
|
|
This way she
runs, and now she will no further, |
905 |
|
|
But back retires
to rate the boar for murther. |
|
|
|
|
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways; |
|
|
|
She treads the
path that she unthreads again; |
|
|
|
Her more than
haste is mated with delays, |
|
|
|
Like the
proceedings of a drunken brain, |
910 |
|
|
Full of respect,
yet not at all respecting: |
|
|
|
In hand with all
things, nought at all effecting. |
|
|
|
|
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound, |
|
|
|
And asks the
weary caitiff for his master; |
|
|
|
And there
another licking of his wound, |
915 |
|
|
'Gainst venom'd
sores the only sovereign plaster; |
|
|
|
And here she
meets another sadly scowling, |
|
|
|
To whom she
speaks, and he replies with howling. |
|
|
|
|
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, |
|
|
|
Another
flop-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, |
920 |
|
|
Against the
welkin volleys out his voice; |
|
|
|
Another and
another answer him, |
|
|
|
Clapping their
proud tales to the ground below, |
|
|
|
Shaking their
scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go. |
|
|
|
|
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed |
925 |
|
|
At apparitions,
signs, and prodigies, |
|
|
|
Whereon with
fearful eyes they long have gazed, |
|
|
|
Infusing them
with dreadful prophecies; |
|
|
|
So she at these
sad signs draws up her breath, |
|
|
|
And, sighing it
again, exclaims on Death. |
930 |
|
|
|
«Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre,
lean, |
|
|
|
Hateful divorce
of love», -thus chides she Death-, |
|
|
|
«Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou
mean |
|
|
|
To stifle beauty
and to steal his breath, |
|
|
|
Who when he
lived, his breath and beauty set |
935 |
|
|
Gloss on the
rose, smell to the violet? |
|
|
|
|
If he be dead, -O no, cannot be, |
|
|
|
Seeing his
beauty, thou shouldst strike at it;- |
|
|
|
O yes, it may;
thou hast no eyes to see, |
|
|
|
But hatefully at
random dost thou hit. |
940 |
|
|
Thy mark is
feeble age; but thy false dart |
|
|
|
Mistakes that
aim, and cleaves an infant's heart. |
|
|
|
|
Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, |
|
|
|
And, hearing
him, thy power had lost his power. |
|
|
|
The Destinies
will curse thee for this stroke; |
945 |
|
|
They bid thee
crop a weep, thou pluck'st a flower: |
|
|
|
Love's golden
arrow at him should have fled, |
|
|
|
And not Death's
ebon dart, to strike him dead. |
|
|
|
|
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such
weeping? |
|
|
|
What may a heavy
groan advantage thee? |
950 |
|
|
Why hast thou
cast into eternal sleeping |
|
|
|
Those eyes that
taught all other eyes to see? |
|
|
|
Now Nature cares
not for thy mortal vigour, |
|
|
|
Since her best
work is ruin'd with thy rigour.» |
|
|
|
|
Here overcome, as one full of despair, |
955 |
|
|
She vail'd her
eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp'd |
|
|
|
The crystal tide
that from her two cheeks fair |
|
|
|
In the sweet
channel of her bosom dropp'd; |
|
|
|
But through the
flood-gates breaks the silver rain, |
|
|
|
And with his
strong course opens them again. |
960 |
|
|
|
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and
borrow! |
|
|
|
Her eye seen in
the tears, tears in her eye; |
|
|
|
Both crystals,
where they view'd each other's sorrow, |
|
|
|
Sorrow that
friendly sight sought still to dry; |
|
|
|
But like a
stormy day, now wind, now rain, |
965 |
|
|
Sight dry her
cheeks, tears make them wet again. |
|
|
|
|
Variable passions throng her constant woe, |
|
|
|
As striving who
should best become her grief; |
|
|
|
All entertain'd,
each passion labours so |
|
|
|
That every
present sorrow seemeth chief, |
970 |
|
|
But none is
best: then join they all together, |
|
|
|
Like many clouds
consulting for foul weather. |
|
|
|
|
By this, far off she hears some huntsman
holloa; |
|
|
|
A nurse's song
ne'er pleased her babe so well: |
|
|
|
The dire
imagination she did follow |
975 |
|
|
This sound of
hope doth labour to expel; |
|
|
|
For now reviving
joy bids her rejoice, |
|
|
|
And flatters her
it is Adonis' voice. |
|
|
|
|
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, |
|
|
|
Being prison,'d
her eye like pearls in glass: |
980 |
|
|
Yet sometimes
falls an orient drop beside, |
|
|
|
Which her cheek
melts, as scorning it should pass |
|
|
|
To wash the foul
face of the sluttish ground, |
|
|
|
Who is but
drunken when she seemeth drown'd. |
|
|
|
|
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems |
985 |
|
|
Not to believe,
and yet too credulous! |
|
|
|
Thy weal and woe
are both of them extremes; |
|
|
|
Despair, and
hope, makes thee ridiculous : |
|
|
|
The one doth
flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, |
|
|
|
In likely
thoughts the other kills thee quickly. |
990 |
|
|
|
Now she unweaves the web that she hath
wrought; |
|
|
|
Adonis lives,
and Death is not to blame; |
|
|
|
It was not she
that call'd him all to nought: |
|
|
|
Now she adds
honours to his hateful name; |
|
|
|
She clepes him
king of graves, and grave for kings, |
995 |
|
|
Imperious
supreme of all mortal things. |
|
|
|
|
«No, no», quoth she, «sweet Death, I did but
jest; |
|
|
|
Yet pardon me, I
felt a kind of fear |
|
|
|
When as I met
the boar, that bloody beast, |
|
|
|
Which knows no
pity, but is still severe; |
1000 |
|
|
Then, gentle
shadow, -truth I must confess,- |
|
|
|
I rail'd on
thee, fearing my love's decease. |
|
|
|
|
Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my
tongue: |
|
|
|
Be wreak'd on
him, invisible commander; |
|
|
|
'Tis he, foul
creature, that hath done thee wrong; |
1005 |
|
|
I did but act,
he's author of my slander: |
|
|
|
Grief hath two
tongues; and never woman yet |
|
|
|
Could rule yhem
both without ten womenn's wit.» |
|
|
|
|
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, |
|
|
|
Her rash suspect
she doth extenuate; |
1010 |
|
|
And that his
beauty may the better thrive, |
|
|
|
With Death she
humbly doth insinuate; |
|
|
|
Tells him of
trophies, statues, tombs, and stories |
|
|
|
His victories,
his triumphs and his glories. |
|
|
|
|
«O Jove», quoth she, «how much a fool was
I |
1015 |
|
|
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 is beauty slain, |
|
|
|
And, beauty
dead, black chaos comes again. |
1020 |
|
|
|
Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear |
|
|
|
As one with
treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves |
|
|
|
Triflews
unwitnessed with eye or ear |
|
|
|
Thy coward heart
with false bethinking grieges.» |
|
|
|
Even at this
word she hears a merry horn, |
1025 |
|
|
Whereat she
leaps that was but late forlorn. |
|
|
|
|
As falcons to the lure, away she flies; |
|
|
|
The grass stoops
not, she treads on it so light; |
|
|
|
And in her haste
unfortunately spies |
|
|
|
The foul boar's
conquest on her fair delight; |
1030 |
|
|
Which seen, her
eyes, as munder'd with the view, |
|
|
|
Like stars
ashamed of day, themselves withdrew; |
|
|
|
|
Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being
hit, |
|
|
|
Shrinks backward
in his shelly cave with pain, |
|
|
|
And there all
smother'd up in shade doth sit, |
1035 |
|
|
Long after
fearing to creep forth again; |
|
|
|
So, at his
bloody view, her eyes are fled |
|
|
|
Into the
dee-dark cabins of her head; |
|
|
|
|
Where they resign their office and their
light |
|
|
|
To the disposing
of her troubled brain; |
1040 |
|
|
Who bids them
still consort with ugly night, |
|
|
|
And never wound
the heart with looks again; |
|
|
|
Who, like a king
perplexed in his throne, |
|
|
|
By their
suggestion gives a deadly groan, |
|
|
|
|
Whereat each tributary subject quakes; |
1045 |
|
|
As when the
wind, imprison'd in the ground, |
|
|
|
Struggling for
passage, earth's foundation shakes, |
|
|
|
Which with cold
terror doth men's mind confound. |
|
|
|
This mutiny each
part doth so surprise, |
|
|
|
That from their
dark beds once more leap her eyes; |
1050 |
|
|
|
And being open'd threw unwilling light |
|
|
|
Upon the wide
wound that the boar had trench'd: |
|
|
|
In his soft
flank; whose wonted lily white |
|
|
|
With purple
tears, that his wound weps, was drench'd: |
|
|
|
No flower was
nigh, no grass, herb, lear or weed, |
1055 |
|
|
But stole his
blood and seem'd with him to bleed. |
|
|
|
|
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth; |
|
|
|
Over one
shoulder doth she hang her head; |
|
|
|
Dumbly she
passions, franticly she dotedh; |
|
|
|
She thinks he
could not die, he is not dead: |
1060 |
|
|
Her voice is
stopp'd, her joints forget to bow; |
|
|
|
Her eyes are mad
that they have wept till now. |
|
|
|
|
Upon his hurt she looked so steadfastly |
|
|
|
That her sight
dazzling makes the wound seem thee; |
|
|
|
And then she
reprehends her mangling eye, |
1065 |
|
|
That makes more
gashers where no breach should be: |
|
|
|
His face seems
twain, each several limb is doubled; |
|
|
|
For oft the eve
mistakes, the brain being troubled. |
|
|
|
|
«My tongue cannot express my grief for
one, |
|
|
|
And yet»,
quoth she, «Behold two Adonis dead! |
1070 |
|
|
My sight are
blown away, my salt tears gone, |
|
|
|
Mine eyes are
turn'd to fire, my heart to lead: |
|
|
|
Heavy heart's
lead, melt at mine eyes, red fire! |
|
|
|
So shall I die
by drops of hot desire. |
|
|
|
|
Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou
lost! |
1075 |
|
|
What face
remains alive that's worth the viewing? |
|
|
|
Whose tongue is
music now? what canst thou boast |
|
|
|
Of things long
since, or any thing ensuing? |
|
|
|
The flowers are
sweet, their colours fresh and trim; |
|
|
|
But true-sweet
beauty lived and died with him. |
1080 |
|
|
|
Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! |
|
|
|
Nor sun nor wind
will ever strive to kiss you: |
|
|
|
Having no fair
to lose, you need not fear; |
|
|
|
The sun doth
scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you: |
|
|
|
But when Adonis
lived, sun and sharp air |
1085 |
|
|
Lurk'd like two
thieves, to rob him of his fair. |
|
|
|
|
And therefore would he put his bonnet on, |
|
|
|
Under whose brim
the gaudy sun would peep; |
|
|
|
The wind would
blow it off, and, being gone, |
|
|
|
Play with his
locks: then would Adonis weep; |
1090 |
|
|
And straight, in
pity of his tender years, |
|
|
|
They both would
strive who first should dry his tears. |
|
|
|
|
To see his face the lion walk'd along |
|
|
|
Behind some
hedge, because he would not fear him; |
|
|
|
To recreate
himself when he hath sung, |
1095 |
|
|
The tiger would
be tame and gently hear him; |
|
|
|
If he had spoke,
the wolf would leave his prey, |
|
|
|
And never fright
the silly lamb that day. |
|
|
|
|
When he beheld his shadow in the brook, |
|
|
|
The fishes
spread on it their golden gills; |
1100 |
|
|
Wen he was by,
the birds such pleasure took, |
|
|
|
That some would
sing, some other in their bills |
|
|
|
Would bring him
mulberries and ripe-red cherries; |
|
|
|
He fed them with
his sight, they him with berries. |
|
|
|
|
But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, |
1105 |
|
|
Whose downward
eye still looketh for a grave, |
|
|
|
Ne'er saw the
beauteous livery that he wore; |
|
|
|
Witness the
entertain that he gave: |
|
|
|
If he did see
his face, why then I know |
|
|
|
He thought to
kiss him, and hath kill'd him so. |
1110 |
|
|
|
Tis true, tis true; thus was Adonis slain: |
|
|
|
He ran upon the
boar with his sharp spear, |
|
|
|
Who did not whet
his teeth at him again, |
|
|
|
But by a kiss
thought to persuade him there; |
|
|
|
And nuzzling in
his flank, the loving swine |
1115 |
|
|
Sheathed unaware
the tusk in his soft groin. |
|
|
|
|
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, |
|
|
|
With kissing him
I should have kill'd him first; |
|
|
|
But he is dead,
and never did he bless |
|
|
|
My youth with
his; the more am I accurst.» |
1120 |
|
|
With this, she
falleth in the place she stood, |
|
|
|
And stains her
face with his congealed blood. |
|
|
|
|
Se 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, |
1125 |
|
|
As if they heard
the woeful words she told; |
|
|
|
She lifts the
coffer-lids that close his eyes, |
|
|
|
Were, lo, two
lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; |
|
|
|
|
Two glasses, where herself herself beheld |
|
|
|
A thousand
times, and now no more reflect; |
1130 |
|
|
Their virtue
lost, wherein they late excell'd, |
|
|
|
And every beauty
robb'd of his effect: |
|
|
|
«Wonder of
time», quoth she, «this is my spite, |
|
|
|
That, thou being
dead, the day should yet be light. |
|
|
|
|
Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy, |
1135 |
|
|
Sorrow on love
hereafter shall attend: |
|
|
|
It shall be
waited on with jealousy, |
|
|
|
Find sweet
beginning but unsavoury end; |
|
|
|
Ne'r settled
equally, but high or low, |
|
|
|
That all love's
pleasure shall not match his woe. |
1140 |
|
|
|
It shall be fickle, false full of fraud; |
|
|
|
Bud, and be
blasted, in a breathing-while; |
|
|
|
The bottom
poison, and the top o'erstraw'd |
|
|
|
With sweets that
shall the truest sight beguile: |
|
|
|
The strongest
body shall it make most weak, |
1145 |
|
|
Strike the wise
dumb, and teach the fool to speak. |
|
|
|
|
It shall be sparing and too full of riot, |
|
|
|
Teaching
decrepit age to tread the measures |
|
|
|
The staring
ruffian shall it keep in quiet, |
|
|
|
Pluck down the
rich, enrich the poor with treasures |
1150 |
|
|
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, |
1155 |
|
|
And most
deceiving when it seems most just; |
|
|
|
Perverse it
shall be where it shows most toward, |
|
|
|
Put fear to
valour, courage to the coward. |
|
|
|
|
It shall be cause of war and dire events, |
|
|
|
And set
dissension 'twist the son ad sire; |
1160 |
|
|
Subject and
servile to all discontents, |
|
|
|
As dry
combustious matter is to fire: |
|
|
|
Sith in his
prime death doth my love destroy |
|
|
|
That they love
best their loves shall not enjoy.» |
|
|
|
|
By this the boy that by her side lay kill'd |
1165 |
|
|
Was melted like
a vapour from her sight, |
|
|
|
And in his
blood, that on the ground lay spill'd, |
|
|
|
A purple flower
sprung up, chequer'd with white, |
|
|
|
Resembling well
his pale cheeks and the blood |
|
|
|
Which in round
drops upon their whiteness stood. |
1170 |
|
|
|
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to
smell, |
|
|
|
Comparing it to
her Adonis' breath; |
|
|
|
And says, within
her bosom it shall dwell, |
|
|
|
Since he himself
is reft from her by death: |
|
|
|
She crops the
stalk, and in the breach appears |
1175 |
|
|
Green-dropping
sap, which she compares to tears. |
|
|
|
|
«Poor flower», quoth she, «this was thy
father's guise- |
|
|
|
Sweet issue of a
more sweet-smelling sire- |
|
|
|
For every little
grief to wet his eyes: |
|
|
|
To grow unto
himself was his desire, |
1180 |
|
|
And so 'tis
thine; but know, it is a good |
|
|
|
To wither in my
breast as in his blood. |
|
|
|
|
Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; |
|
|
|
Thou art the
next of blood, and 'tis thy right: |
|
|
|
Lo, in this
hollow cradle take thy rest; |
1185 |
|
|
My throbbing
heart shall rock thee day and night: |
|
|
|
There shall not
be one minute in an hour |
|
|
|
Wherein I will
not kiss my sweet love's flower.» |
|
|
|
|
Thus weary of the world, away she hies, |
|
|
|
And yokes her
silver doves; by whose swift aid |
1190 |
|
|
Their mistress,
mounted, through the empty skies |
|
|
|
In her light
chariot quickly is convey'd; |
|
|
|
Holding their
course to Paphos, where their queen |
|
|
|
Means to immure
herself and not be seen. |
|
|
|
THE END
|