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VENUS and A D O NI S.
VEN as the sun, with purple-coloured face,
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose.cheek'd Adonis 'hied him to the chase : Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer than myself! (thus she began)
The fields sweet 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 known.
Here come and fit, where serpent never hiffes..
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses.
And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather familh 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 the seizeth on his sweating palm,
The president of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion calls it balm 3
Earch's sovereign salve to do a goddess good.
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force,
Courageousy to pluck him from his horfe.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under the other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd 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 defire.
The studded bridle, on a ragged bough,
Ninbly he fastens (O how quick is love !)
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove.
Backward she push't him, as the would be thrust,
And govern'd him in ftrength, tho' not in luft.
So foon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips :
Now doth the stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon the stops his lips :
And killing speaks, with lustful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.
He burns with bashful shame; fhe, with her tears,
Doth quench the maiden burning of her cheeks :
Then with her windy fighs and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again the seeks.
He says she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more, the smothers 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 hafte,
Till either gorge be stufft, or prey be gone :
Even so she kiss'd his brow, his check, his chin,
And where she ends, she doth anew begin.
Forc'd to consent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her face :
She feedech 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 dew'd with such distilling showers,
Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So falten'd in her arms Adonis lies :
Pure shame and aw'd 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 the entreats, and prettily entreats ;
pretty ear she tunes her tale :
Still he is fullen, ftill he lowers and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame, and anger afhy pale.
Being red, she loves him beft; and being white,
Her breast is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot chuse 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 rain'd, making her cheeks all wet,
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countlefs debt.
Upon this promife did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering thro' a wave,
Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in :
So offers he to give what she did crave :
But when his 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 the fees, but help the cannot get,
She bathes in water, yet in fire must burn.
Oh pity, 'gan she cry, flint hearted boy!
"Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?
I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose finewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar :::
Yet hath he been my captive and my flave,
And beg'd for that which thou unalk'd fhalt have,
Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest;
And for my fake hath learn’d to sport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, smile and jeit;
Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
Thus he, that over-ruld, I over-sway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain:
Strong temper'd steel, his stronger strength obey'd;
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For maftring her, that foild the god of fight-!
Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
(Tho' mine be not so fair, yet they are red)
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine;
What seest thou on the ground ? hold up thy head :
Look in mine eye-balls where thy beauty lies,
Then why not lips on lips, fince eyes on eyes ?
Art thou asham'd to kiss ? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem 'night,
Love keeps his revels, where there be but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in fight:
There blue-vein'd violets, whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender spring, upon thy tempting lip,
Shewsthee unripe ; yet may'st thou well be tasted :
Make use of time, let not advantage flip,
Beauty within itself would not be wasted.
Fair flowers, that are not gather'd in their prime,
Rot and consume themselves in little time.
Were I hard favour'd, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-natur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’er-worn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-fighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then mightít thou pause, for then I were not for
But having no defects, why doft abhor me? [thee,
Thou can'st 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 as soft and plump, my marrow burning ;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt...
Would in-thy palm diffolve, or seem to melt.