Текст книги "William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition"

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5.6 Enter King Richard, Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Sir William Catesby, and others

KING RICHARD

What said Northumberland, as touching Richmond?

RATCLIFFE

That he was never trained up in arms.

KING RICHARD

He said the truth. And what said Surrey then?

RATCLIFFE

He smiled and said, ‘The better for our purpose.’

KING RICHARD

He was in the right, and so indeed it is.

Clock strikes

Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar.

Who saw the sun today?

A book is brought⌉

RATCLIFFE

Not I, my lord.

KING RICHARD

Then he disdains to shine, for by the book

He should have braved the east an hour ago.

A black day will it be to somebody.

Ratcliffe.

RATCLIFFE

My lord?

KING RICHARD The sun will not be seen today.

The sky doth frown and lour upon our army.

I would these dewy tears were from the ground.

Not shine today—why, what is that to me

More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven

That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

Enter the Duke of Norfolk

NORFOLK

Arm, arm, my lord! The foe vaunts in the field.

KING RICHARD

Come, bustle, bustle! Caparison my horse.

⌈Richard arms⌉

Exit one

Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power.

I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,

And thus my battle shall be orderèd.

My forward shall be drawn out all in length,

Consisting equally of horse add foot,

Our archers placèd strongly in the midst.

John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,

Shall have the leading of this multitude.

They thus directed, we ourself will follow

In the main battle, whose puissance on both sides

Shall be well wingèd with our chiefest horse.

This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk?

NORFOLK

A good direction, warlike sovereign.

He showeth him a paper

This paper found I on my tent this morning.

(He reads)

‘Jackie of Norfolk be not too bold,

For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.’

KING RICHARD

A thing devisèd by the enemy.—

Go, gentlemen, each man unto his charge.

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls.

Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.

Our strong arms be our conscience; swords, our law.

March on, join bravely! Let us to’t, pell mell—

If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

His oration to his army

What shall I say, more than I have inferred?

Remember whom you are to cope withal:

A sort of vagabonds, rascals and runaways,

A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,

Whom their o‘ercloyèd country vomits forth

To desperate ventures and assured destruction.

You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest;

You having lands and blessed with beauteous wives,

They would distrain the one, distain the other.

And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow?

Long kept in Bretagne at our mother’s cost;

A milksop; one that never in his life

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow.

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again,

Lash hence these overweening rags of France,

These famished beggars, weary of their lives,

Who—but for dreaming on this fond exploit—

For want of means, poor rats, had hanged themselves.

If we be conquered, let men conquer us,

And not these bastard Bretons, whom our fathers

Have in their own land beaten, bobbed, and thumped,

And in record left them the heirs of shame.

Shall these enjoy our lands? Lie with our wives?

Ravish our daughters?

Drum afar off

Hark, I hear their drum.

Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen!

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!

Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood!

Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

Enter a Messenger

What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power?

MESSENGER

My lord, he doth deny to come.

KING RICHARD Off with young George’s head!

NORFOLK

My lord, the enemy is past the marsh.

After the battle let George Stanley die.

KING RICHARD

A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.

Advance our standards! Set upon our foes!

Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,

Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons.

Upon them! Victory sits on our helms!

Exeunt

5.7 Alarum. Excursions. Enter Sir William Catesby

CATESBY calling

Rescue, my lord of Norfolk! Rescue, rescue!

⌈To a soldier⌉ The King enacts more wonders than a man,

Daring an opposite to every danger.

His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,

Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.

⌈Calling⌉ Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

Alarums. Enter King Richard

KING RICHARD

A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

CATESBY

Withdraw, my lord. I’ll help you to a horse.

KING RICHARD

Slave, I have set my life upon a cast,

And I will stand the hazard of the die.

I think there be six Richmonds in the field.

Five have I slain today, instead of him.

A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

Exeunt

5.8 Alarum. Enter King Richard ⌈at one door⌉ and Henry Earl of Richmond ⌈at another⌉. They fight. Richard is slain. ⌈Exit Richmond.⌉ Retreat and flourish. Enter Henry Earl of Richmond and Lord Stanley Earl of Derby, with divers other lords and soldiers

HENRY EARL OF RICHMOND

God and your arms be praised, victorious friends!

The day is ours. The bloody dog is dead.

STANLEY (bearing the crown)

Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee.

Lo, here this long usurpèd royalty

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch

Have I plucked off, to grace thy brows withal.

Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.

⌈He sets the crown on Henry’s head⌉

KING HENRY THE SEVENTH

Great God of heaven, say ‘Amen’ to all.

But tell me—young George Stanley, is he living?

STANLEY

He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town,

Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.

KING HENRY THE SEVENTH

What men of name are slain on either side?

⌈STANLEY⌉(reads)

John Duke of Norfolk, Robert Brackenbury,

Walter Lord Ferrers, and Sir William Brandon.

KING HENRY THE SEVENTH

Inter their bodies as becomes their births.

Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled

That in submission will return to us,

And then—as we have ta‘en the sacrament—

We will unite the white rose and the red.

Smile, heaven, upon this fair conjunction,

That long have frowned upon their enmity.

What traitor hears me and says not ‘Amen’?

England hath long been mad, and scarred herself;

The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood;

The father rashly slaughtered his own son;

The son, compelled, been butcher to the sire;

All that divided York and Lancaster,

United in their dire division.

O now let Richmond and Elizabeth,

The true succeeders of each royal house,

By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together,

And let their heirs—God, if his will be so—

Enrich the time to come with smooth-faced peace,

With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days.

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,

That would reduce these bloody days again

And make poor England weep forth streams of blood.

Let them not live to taste this land’s increase,

That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace.

Now civil wounds are stopped; peace lives again.

That she may long live here, God say ‘Amen’.

⌈Flourish.⌉ Exeunt

ADDITIONAL PASSAGES

The following passages are contained in the Folio text, but not the Quarto; they were apparently omitted from performances.

a. AFTER I.2.I54

These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear—

No, when my father York and Edward wept

To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made

When black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;

Nor when thy warlike father like a child

Told the sad story of my father’s death

And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,

That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks

Like trees bedashed with rain. In that sad time

My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear,

And what these sorrows could not thence exhale

Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.

b. AFTER 1.3.166

RICHARD GLOUCESTER

Wert thou not banishèd on pain of death?

QUEEN MARGARET

I was, but I do find more pain in banishment

Than death can yield me here by my abode.

c. AFTER I.4.68

O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease thee

But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath in me alone.

O spare my guiltless wife and my poor children.

d. AFTER 2.2.88

The Folio has Dorset and Rivers enter with Queen Elizabeth at 2.2.33.I.

DORSET

Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeased

That you take with unthankfulness his doing.

In common worldly things ’tis called ungrateful

With dull unwillingness to pay a debt

Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;

Much more to be thus opposite with heaven

For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

RIVERS

Madam, bethink you like a careful mother

Of the young Prince your son. Send straight for him;

Let him be crowned. In him your comfort lives.

Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave

And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne.

e. AFTER 2.2.II0

RIVERS

Why with some little train, my lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM

Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude

The new-healed wound of malice should break out,

Which would be so much the more dangerous

By how much the estate is green and yet ungoverned.

Where every horse bears his commanding rein

And may direct his course as please himself,

As well the fear of harm as harm apparent

In my opinion ought to be prevented.

RICHARD GLOUCESTER

I hope the King made peace with all of us,

And the compact is firm and true in me.

RIVERS

And so in me, and so I think in all.

Yet since it is but green, it should be put

To no apparent likelihood of breach,

Which haply by much company might be urged.

Therefore I say, with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince.

HASTINGS And so say I.

f. AFTER 3.I.I70

And summon him tomorrow to the Tower

To sit about the coronation.

g. AFTER 3.5.I00

Beginning Richard Gloucester’s speech. The Folio brings on Lovell and Ratcliffe instead of Catesby at 3.5.19.1.

RICHARD GLOUCESTER

Go, Lovell, with all speed to Doctor Shaw;

(To Ratcliffe) Go thou to Friar Penker. Bid them both

Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle.

Exeunt Lovell and Ratcliffe,

h. AFTER 3.7.I43

If not to answer, you might haply think

Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded

To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,

Which fondly you would here impose on me.

If to reprove you for this suit of yours,

So seasoned with your faithful love to me,

Then on the other side I checked my friends.

Therefore to speak, and to avoid the first,

And then in speaking not to incur the last,

Definitively thus I answer you.

i. AFTER 4.I.96

In the Folio, the characters do not exit during the Duchess of York’s preceding speech.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

Stay: yet look back with me unto the Tower.—

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,

Whom envy hath immured within your walls.

Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,

Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow

For tender princes: use my babies well.

So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.

Exeunt

j. AFTER 4.4.22I

KING RICHARD

You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

Cousins indeed, and by their uncle cozened

Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.

Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts,

Thy head all indirectly gave direction.

No doubt the murd‘rous knife was dull and blunt

Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart

To revel in the entrails of my lambs.

But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,

My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys

Till that my nails were anchored in thine eyes—

And I in such a desp’rate bay of death,

Like a poor barque of sails and tackling reft,

Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

k. AFTER 4.4.273

KING RICHARD

Say that I did all this for love of her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee,

Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

KING RICHARD

Look what is done cannot be now amended.

Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,

Which after-hours gives leisure to repent.

If I did take the kingdom from your sons,

To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter.

If I have killed the issue of your womb,

To quicken your increase I will beget

Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.

A grandam’s name is little less in love

Than is the doting title of a mother.

They are as children but one step below,

Even of your mettall, of your very blood:

Of all one pain, save for a night of groans

Endured of her for whom you bid like sorrow.

Your children were vexation to your youth,

But mine shall be a comfort to your age.

The loss you have is but a son being king,

And by that loss your daughter is made queen.

I cannot make you what amends I would,

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.

Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul

Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

To high promotions and great dignity.

The king that calls your beauteous daughter wife,

Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother.

Again shall you be mother to a king,

And all the ruins of distressful times

Repaired with double riches of content.

What? We have many goodly days to see.

The liquid drops of tears that you have shed

Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl,

Advantaging their loan with interest

Of ten times double gain of happiness.

Go then, my mother, to thy daughter go.

Make bold her bashful years with your experience.

Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale.

Put in her tender heart th’aspiring flame

Of golden sovereignty. Acquaint the Princess

With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys.

And when this arm of mine hath chastised

The petty rebel, dull-brained Buckingham,

Bound with triumphant garlands will I come

And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed—

To whom I will retail my conquest won,

And she shall be sole victoress: Caesar’s Caesar.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

What were I best to say? Her father’s brother

Would be her lord? Or shall I say her uncle?

Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles?

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

That God, the law, my honour, and her love

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

VENUS AND ADONIS

WITH Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare made his debut in print: his signature appears at the end of the formal dedication to the Earl of Southampton in which the poem is described as ‘the first heir of my invention’—though Shakespeare had already begun to make his mark as a playwright. A terrible outbreak of plague, which was to last for almost two years, began in the summer of I592, and London’s theatres were closed as a precaution against infection. Probably Shakespeare wrote his poem at this time, perhaps seeing a need for an alternative career. It is an early example of the Ovidian erotic narrative poems that were fashionable for about thirty years from 1589; the best known outside Shakespeare is Christopher Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, written at about the same time.

Ovid, in Book I0 of the Metamorphoses, tells the story of Venus and Adonis in about seventy-five lines of verse; Shakespeare’s poem—drawing, probably, on both the original Latin and Arthur Golding’s English version (I565-7)—is I,I94 lines long. He modified Ovid’s tale as well as expanding it. In Ovid, the handsome young mortal Adonis returns the love urged on him by Venus, the goddess of love. Shakespeare turns Adonis into a bashful teenager, unripe for love, who shies away from her advances. In Ovid, the lovers go hunting together (though Venus chases only relatively harmless beasts, and advises Adonis to do the same); in Shakespeare, Adonis takes to the hunt rather as a respite from Venus’ remorseless attentions. Whereas Ovid’s Venus flies off to Cyprus in her dove-drawn chariot and returns only after Adonis has been mortally wounded, Shakespeare’s anxiously awaits the outcome of the chase. She hears the yelping of Adonis’ hounds, sees a bloodstained boar, comes upon Adonis’ defeated dogs, and at last finds his body. In Ovid, she metamorphoses him into an anemone; in Shakespeare, Adonis’ body melts away, and Venus plucks the purple and white flower that springs up in its place.

Shakespeare’s only addition to Ovid’s narrative is the episode (259-324) in which Adonis’ stallion lusts after a mare, so frustrating Adonis’ attempt to escape Venus’ embraces. But there are many rhetorical elaborations, such as Venus’ speech of attempted seduction (95-1174), her disquisition on the dangers of boar-hunting (6I3-7I4), her metaphysical explanation of why the night is dark (72I-68), Adonis’ reply (769-8I0), culminating in his eloquent contrast between lust and love, and Venus’ lament over his body (I069-II64).

Venus and Adonis is a mythological poem whose landscape is inhabited by none but the lovers and those members of the animal kingdom—the lustful stallion, the timorous hare (679-708), the sensitive snail (I033-6), and the savage boar—which reflect their passions. The boar’s disruption of the harmony that existed between Adonis and the animals will, says Venus, result in eternal discord: ‘Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend’ (II36).

In Shakespeare’s own time, Venus and Adonis was his most frequently reprinted work, with at least ten editions during his life, and another half-dozen by I636. Like his other non-dramatic works, it was not included in the Folio of I623. It fell out of fashion until Coleridge wrote enthusiastically about it in Biographia Literaria (I8I7). Though its conscious artifice may limit its appeal, it is a brilliantly sophisticated erotic comedy, a counterpart in verbal ingenuity to Love’s Labour’s Lost; the comedy of the poem, like that of the play, is darkened and deepened in its later stages by the shadow of sudden death.

Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD

Right Honourable, I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden. Only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart’s content, which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world’s hopeful expectation.

Your honour’s in all duty,

William Shakespeare

Venus and Adonis

Even as the sun with purple-coloured face

Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,

Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase.

Hunting he loved, but love he laughed 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 fields’ 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 sat, 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.’

With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm,

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.

Over one arm, the lusty courser’s rein;

Under her other was the tender boy,

Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain

With leaden appetite, unapt to toy.

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire;

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.

Backward she pushed him, as she would be thrust,

And governed him in 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

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.

Then, with her windy sighs 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,

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste

Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone,

Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,

And where she ends she doth anew begin.

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,

So they were dewed with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,

So fastened in her arms Adonis lies.

Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.

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

’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.

Being red, she loves him best; and being white,

Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;

And by her fair immortal hand she swears

From his soft bosom never to remove

Till he take truce with her contending tears,

Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet;

And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,

Like a divedapper peering through a wave

Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in—

So offers he to give what she did crave.

But when her lips were ready for his pay,

He winks, and turns his lips another way.

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!

’Tis but a kiss I beg—why art thou coy?

‘I have been wooed 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.

Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,

And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance,

His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,

And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,

To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,

Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,

Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

‘Thus he that over-ruled I overswayed,

Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain.

Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

For mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.

‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine—

Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—

The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.

What seest 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?

‘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-veined violets whereon we lean

Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

‘The tender spring upon thy tempting lip

Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.

Make use of time; let not advantage slip.

Beauty within itself should not be wasted.

Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime

Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

‘Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,

Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,

O’er-worn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,

Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for

thee.

But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

‘Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow.

Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning.

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;

Or like a fairy, trip upon the green;

Or like a nymph, with long, dishevelled 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.

‘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

That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?

Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?

Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected;

Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.

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.

Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.

Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth

beauty:

Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.

‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed

Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?

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 lovesick queen began to sweat,

For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,

And Titan, tired in the midday heat,

With burning eye did hotly overlook them,

Wishing Adonis had his team to guide

So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,

His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,

Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,

Souring his cheeks, cries, ‘Fie, no more of love!

The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.’

‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young, and so unkind?

What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone?

I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind

Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.

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;

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.

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?

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 int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

‘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,

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;

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 gazeth she on him, now on the ground.

Sometime her arms enfold him like a band;

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 saith, ‘since I have hemmed thee here

Within the circuit of this ivory pale,

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,

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 shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’

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,

Why, there love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,

Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.

Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?

Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?

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; her object will away,

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,

Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,

And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.

The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,