Venus and Adonis

Venus and Adonis

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

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 runs, and now she will no further,But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;She treads the path that she untreads again;Her more than haste is mated with delays,Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,Full of respects, yet nought 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,'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 flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,Against the welkin volleys out his voice;Another and another answer him,Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world's poor people are amazedAt 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 breathAnd sighing it again, exclaims on Death.

'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,Hateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou meanTo stifle beauty and to steal his breath,Who when he lived, his breath and beauty setGloss on the rose, smell to the violet?

'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,But hatefully at random dost thou hit.Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dartMistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.

'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,And not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.

'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?What may a heavy groan advantage thee?Why hast thou cast into eternal sleepingThose 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,She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stoptThe crystal tide that from her two cheeks fairIn the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,And with his strong course opens them again.

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,As striving who should best become her grief;All entertain'd, each passion labours so,That every present sorrow seemeth chief,But none is best: then join they all together,Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:The dire imagination she did followThis 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 in her eye like pearls in glass;Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.

O hard-believing love, how strange it seemsNot to believe, and yet too credulous!Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;It was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:Now she adds honours to his hateful name;She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fearWhen as I met the boar, that bloody beast,Which knows no pity, but is still severe;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;I did but act, he's author of thy slander:Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yetCould rule them both without ten women's wit.'

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;And that his beauty may the better thrive,With Death she humbly doth insinuate;Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and storiesHis victories, his triumphs and his glories.

'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was ITo be of such a weak and silly mindTo wail his death who lives and must not dieTill mutual overthrow of mortal kind!For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fearAs one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'Even at this word she hears a merry horn,Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies;The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;And in her haste unfortunately spiesThe foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;Which seen, her eyes, as murder'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,Long after fearing to creep forth again;So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fledInto the deep dark cabins of her head:

Where they resign their office and their lightTo the disposing of her troubled brain;Who bids them still consort with ugly night,And never wound the heart with looks again;Who like a king perplexed in his throne,By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary subject quakes;As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.This mutiny each part doth so surpriseThat from their dark beds once more leap her eyes; And, being open'd, threw unwilling lightUpon the wide wound that the boar had trench'dIn his soft flank; whose wonted lily whiteWith purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,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 doteth;She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;Her eyes are mad that they have wept til now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;And then she reprehends her mangling eye,That makes more gashes where no breach should be:His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,Mine eyes are 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!

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.

'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

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;

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,

The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;

If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey

And never fright the silly lamb that day.

'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,

The fishes spread on it their golden gills;

When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,

That some would sing, some other in their bills

Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;

He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,

Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,

Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;

Witness the entertainment that he gave:

If he did see his face, why then I know

He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.

''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:

He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,

Who did not whet his teeth at him again,

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;

And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine

Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

'Had I been 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.

'With this, she falleth in the place she stood,

And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;

She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,

As if they heard the woeful words she told;

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,

Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld

A thousand times, and now no more reflect;

Their virtue lost, wherein they late 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:

Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:

It shall be waited on with jealousy,

Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,

Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,

That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.

'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,

Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;

The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd

With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:

The strongest body shall it make most weak,

Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.

'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;

The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;

It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,

Make the young old, the old become a child.

'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;

It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;

It shall be merciful and too severe,

And most deceiving when it seems most just;

Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

'It shall be cause of war and dire events,

And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;

Subject and servile to all discontents,

As dry combustious matter is to fire:

Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,

They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'

By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd

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.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis' breath,

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death:

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears

Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire

For every little grief to wet his eyes:

To grow unto himself was his desire,

And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good

To wither in my breast as in his blood.

'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;

Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:

Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:

There shall not be one minute in an hour

Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,

And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid

Their mistress mounted through the empty skies

In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen

Means to immure herself and not be seen.