VEN as the fun, with purple-coloured face, Had ta'en his laft leave of the weeping morn, Rofe-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chafe : Hunting he lov❜d, but love he laugh'd to scorn. Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-fac'd fuitor 'gins to woo him.
Thrice fairer than myfelf! (thus fhe began)
The fields fweet flower! fweet 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 ftrife,
Saith, that the world hath ending with thy life.
Vouchsafe, thou wonder! to alight thy fteed,
And rein his proud head to the faddle-bow ;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed,
A thousand honey fecrets fhalt thou known.
Here come and fit, where ferpent never hiffes..
And being fet, I'll fmother thee with kiffes.
1 yet not cloy thy lips with loathed fatiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty;
Making them red and pale with fresh variety:
Ten kiffes fhort as one, one long as twenty.
A fummer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wafted in fuch time-beguiling sport.
With this fhe feizeth on his fweating palm,
The prefident of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her paffion calls it balm;
Earth's fovereign falve to do a goddess good.
Being fo enrag'd, defire doth lend her force,
Courageously to pluck him from his horfe.
Over one arm the lufty courfer's rein,
Under the other was the tender boy,
Who blufh'd and pouted in a dull difdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy.
She red and hot, as coals of glowing fire,
He red for fhame, but frofty in defire.
The ftudded bridle, on a ragged bough,
Nimbly the faftens (O how quick is love!)
The fteed is ftalled up, and even now
To tie the rider fhe begins to prove.
Backward the pufh'd him, as he would be thrust,
And govern'd him in ftrength, tho' not in luft.
So foon was fhe 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 she ftops his lips:
And kiffing speaks, with luftful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips fhall never open.
He burns with bashful fhame; 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 fhe feeks.
He fays he is immodeft, blames her mifs;
What follows more, fhe fmothers with a kifs.
Even as an empty eagle, fharp 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 fo the kifs'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where the ends, fhe doth anew begin.
Forc'd to confent, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breathing in her face:
She feedeth on the fteam as on a prey,
And calls it, heavenly moisture
air of grace! Withing 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 faften'd in her arms Adonis lies:
Pure fhame and aw'd refiftance 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;
For to a pretty ear the tunes her tale :
Still he is fullen, ftill he lowers and frets,
'Twixt crimson fhame, and anger afhy pale.
Being red, fhe loves him beft; and being white,
Her breaft is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, fhe cannot chufe but love;
And by her fair immortal hand fhe fwears,
From his foft bofom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears;
Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet, And one sweet kifs fhall pay this countless 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 paffenger, in fummer's heat,
More thirst for drink, than fhe for this good turn;
Her help fhe fees, but help fhe cannot get,
She bathes in water, yet in fire must burn.
Oh pity, 'gan the cry, flint-hearted boy!
"Tis but a kifs 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 unask'd shalt have.
Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd fhield, his uncontrolled creft;
And for my fake hath learn'd to sport and dance,,
To coy, to wanton, dally, fmile and jest;
Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
Thus he, that over-rul'd, I over-fway'd,
Leading him prifoner in a red rose chain :
Strong temper'd steel, his ftronger ftrength obey'd,
Yet was he fervile to my coy disdain.
Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For maftring her, that foil'd 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 kifs fhall be thine own as well as mine;
What feeft 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 afham'd to kifs? then wink again,
And I will wink, fo fhall the day feem night,
Love keeps his revels, where there be but twain;
Be bold to play, our fport is not in fight:
These blue-vein'd violets, whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know they what we mean.
The tender fpring, upon thy tempting lip,
Shews thee unripe; yet may'ft thou well be tafted:
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 confume 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 mightit thou pause, for then I were not for
But having no defects, why dost abhor me? [thee,
Thou can'ft not fee one wrinkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty, as the fpring, doth yearly grow;
My flesh as foft and plump, my marrow burning;
My fmooth moift hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm diffolve, or feem to melt.
|