Poetry

Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek’d Adonis tried him to the chase; Hunting he loved, but love he laugh’d to scorn; Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, 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; Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith that the 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 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, 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.”

Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes: No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries; Now serves the season that they may surprise The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still, While lust and murder wake to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; Is madly toss’d between desire and dread; Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm; But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly; Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye; And to the flame thus speaks advisedly, “As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.”

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise: Then looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughter’d lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: