'Ts 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 Cou'd rule them both without tèn women's wit.

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash respect she doth extenuate :
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate :

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, bis 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.

Fy, fy, fond love, thou art so full of fear,
As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with 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 faulcons to the lure, away she flies :
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light,
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight.

Which seen, her eyes, as 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 doth 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
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

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 hearts 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;
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 wou'd peep;
The wind would blow it off, and being gone,
Play with his locks, then wou'd ADONIS weep :

And straight in pity of his tender years,
They both wou'd strive who first shou'd dry his tears

To see his face, the lion walks along
Behind some hedge, because he wou'd not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tyger wou'd be tame, and gently hear him :

If he had spoke, the wolf wou'd leave his prey,
And never fright the silly lamb that day.


When he beheld his shadow in a brook,
There 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 urched 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 unaware 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.

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