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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 him dead.
Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee ?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes, that taught all other eyes to see ?
Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,

Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She veil'd her eye-lids, which like sluices stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair,
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd.

But thro' the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,

And with his strong course opens them again. 0! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! Her eyes seen in her tears, tears in her eyes ; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow; Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry.

But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain ;

Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving which should best become her grief ; All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow 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 hollow ;
A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well.
The dire imagination she did follow,
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 in her eye, like pearls in glass :
Yet sometime 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.

0, hard believing love ! how strange it seems
Not to believe ! and yet too credulous !
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes,
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous !

The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,

With likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought,
Adonis lives, and death is not to blame :
It was not she that call'd him all to nought,
Now she adds honour to his hateful name ;

She 'clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings

Imperial supreme of 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.

Then, gentle shadow, truth I must confess,

I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease. 'Tis not my fault ; the boar provok'd my tongue : Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander ! 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong, I did but act, he's author of thy slander.

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet

Could rule them both without ten women's wit.
'Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash respect she doth extenuate : 6
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,
To be of such a weak and silly mind,
To wail his death, who lives, and must not die,
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind !

For he, being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

[6] Read suspect, i. e. suspicion. [7] To insinuate meant formerly to sooth, to flatter: To insinuate with was the phraseology of the poet's time. MALONE.

Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear,
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves ;
Trifles, un witnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.

Éven at this word she hears a merry horn,

Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.
As faulcons to the lure, a way she flies ;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light,
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight.

Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,

Like stars asham'd 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 fled

Into the deep dark cabins of her head,
Where they resign'd their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain ;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again ;

Who like a king perplexed in his throne,

By their suggestions 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 terrors dotk men's minds .confound.

This mutiny each part doth so surprize,

That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes,
And being open'd, threw unwilling sight
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd 8
In his soft flank : whose wonted lily white
With 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.

18] Trench'd is cut. Trancher, Fr.

MALONE.

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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 stopp'd, her joints forget to bow,

Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.
Upon this hurt she looks so stedfastly,
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 as 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 liv'd and dy'd in him.
Bonnet, or veil, henceforth no creature wear ;
Nor sun, nor wind, will ever strive to kiss you ;
Having no fair to lose you need not fear ;2
The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you.

But when Adonis liv'd, 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 walks along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him ;

(5) Fair was formerly used as a substantive in the sense of beauty. It ap. pears from the corresponding rhyme, and the jingle in the present line, that the word fear was pronounced in the time of Shakspeare, as if it were written fare. MALONE.

16 VOL. IX.

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To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tyger 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 a brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills :
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some others 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, true, true, thus was Adonis slain,
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who would not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there :

And nousling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath'd unawares his 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 mouth with his ; the more am I accurs'd.

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 ear a heavy tale,
As if he heard the woful 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.

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