Shone like the moon in water seen by night.
‘O, where am I?’ quoth she, ‘In earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drenched494 or in the fire?
What hour is this? Or495 morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die or life desire?
But now I lived and life was death’s annoy497,
But now I died and death was lively joy.
‘O, thou didst kill me! Kill me once again!
Thy eyes’ shrewd500 tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain
That they have murdered this poor heart of mine,
And these mine eyes, true leaders503 to their queen,
But504 for thy piteous lips no more had seen.
‘Long may they kiss each other for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries506 wear,
And as they last, their verdure507 still endure
To drive infection from the dangerous year
That the star-gazers509, having writ on death,
May say the plague510 is banished by thy breath.
‘Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted511,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself513 I can be well contented,
So514 thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing,
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips515
Set thy seal-manual516 on my wax-red lips.
‘A thousand kisses buys my heart from me,
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches519 unto thee?
Are they not quickly told520 and quickly gone?
Say for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?’
‘Fair queen523,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with524 my unripe years,
Before I know525 myself, seek not to know me.
No fisher but the ungrown fry526 forbears:
The mellow527 plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early plucked is sour to taste.
‘Look, the world’s comforter529 with weary gait
His day’s hot task hath ended in the west,
The owl, night’s herald, shrieks531, ’tis very late,
The sheep are gone to fold532, birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light
Do summon us to part and bid goodnight.
‘Now let me say “Goodnight”, and so say you:
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’
‘Goodnight’, quoth she and ere he says ‘Adieu’
The honey fee of parting tendered538 is.
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace:
Incorp’rate540 then they seem, face grows to face,
Till, breathless, he disjoined541 and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit544, yet complain on drouth:
He with her plenty545 pressed, she faint with dearth,
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth.
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter550 willeth,
Whose vulture551 thought doth pitch the price so high
That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil553,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage554:
Her face doth reek and smoke555, her blood doth boil,
And careless556 lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion557, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack558.
Hot, faint and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe561 that’s tired with chasing,
Or like the froward562 infant stilled with dandling,
He now obeys and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth564.
What wax so565 frozen but dissolves with temp’ring,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope567 are compassed oft with vent’ring,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission568:
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
But then woos best, when most his choice570 is froward.
When he did frown, O, had she then gave over571,
Such nectar from his lips she had not sucked.
Foul573 words and frowns must not repel a lover:
What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis plucked574!
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast575,
Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him:
The poor fool prays her that he may depart.
She is resolved no longer to restrain him,
Bids him farewell and look well to580 her heart,
The which, by Cupid581’s bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incagèd in his breast.
‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I’ll waste583 in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch584.
Tell me, love’s master, shall we meet tomorrow?
Say, shall we? Shall we? Wilt thou make the match586?’
He tells her, ‘No’, tomorrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.
‘The boar?’ quoth she, whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn590 being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek: she trembles at his tale
And on his neck her yoking592 arms she throws.
She sinketh down still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists595 of love,
Her champion596 mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove597,
He will not manage598 her, although he mount her,
That599 worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,
To clip600 Elysium and to lack her joy.
Even so poor birds, deceived with painted grapes601,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw602:
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps603,
As those poor birds that helpless604 berries saw.
The warm effects605, which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain: good queen, it will not be.
She hath assayed608 as much as may be proved.
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee:
She’s love, she loves and yet she is not loved.
‘Fie, fie611!’ he says, ‘You crush me! Let me go!
You have no reason to withhold me so.’
‘Thou hadst613 been gone,’ quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O, be advised615! Thou know’st not what it is
With javelin’s point a churlish616 swine to gore,
Whose tushes617 never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal618 butcher bent to kill.
‘On his bow-back619 he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes620 that ever threat his foes,
His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret621,
His snout digs sepulchres622 where’er he goes:
Being moved623, he strikes whate’er is in his way,
And whom he strikes, his crooked tushes slay.
‘His brawny625 sides with hairy bristles armed
Are better proof626 than thy spear’s point can enter,
His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed,
Being ireful628 on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
‘Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which love’s eyes pays tributary632 gazes,
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne633,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes,
But having thee at vantage635 — wondrous dread! —
Would root636 these beauties as he roots the mead.
‘O, let him keep his loathsome cabin637 still:
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul638 fiends.
Come not within his danger by thy will639:
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble641,
I feared thy fortune and my joints did tremble.
‘Didst thou not mark my face? Was it not white?
Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? And fell I not downright645?
Within my bosom whereon thou dost lie,
My boding647 heart pants, beats and takes no rest,
But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breast.
‘For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy649
Doth call himself affection’s sentinel650,
Gives false alarms, suggesteth651 mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry ‘Kill, kill!’
Distemp’ring653 gentle love in his desire,
As air and water do abate654 the fire.
‘This sour informer, this bate-breeding655 spy,
This canker656 that eats up love’s tender spring,
This carry-tale657, dissentious jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine ear
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear,
‘And more than so661, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry, chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his663 back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stained with gore,
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.
‘What should I do, seeing thee so indeed667,
That668 tremble at th’imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination670;
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar tomorrow.
‘But if thou needs wilt673 hunt, be ruled by me,
Uncouple674 at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety675,
Or at the roe676 which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,
And on thy well-breathed678 horse keep with thy hounds.
‘And when thou hast on foot679 the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch: to overshoot680 his troubles,
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses682 with a thousand doubles.
The many musets683 through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze684 his foes.
‘Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep
To make the cunning686 hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies687 keep
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth689 with a herd of deer —
Danger deviseth shifts690, wit waits on fear —
‘For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado694 the cold fault cleanly out.
Then do they spend their mouths695: echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
‘By this, poor Wat697, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with list’ning ear
To harken if his foes pursue him still.
Anon their loud alarums700 he doth hear,
And now his grief may be comparèd well
To one sore702 sick that hears the passing-bell.
‘Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled703 wretch
Turn and return704, indenting with the way.
Each envious705 briar his weary legs do scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many
And, being low, never relieved708 by any.
‘Lie quietly and hear a little more —
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise —
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar:
Unlike myself712 thou hear’st me moralize,
Applying this to that and so to so —
For love can comment upon every woe.
‘Where did I leave715?’ ‘No matter where’, quoth he,
‘Leave me and then the story aptly716 ends:
The night is spent.’ ‘Why, what of that?’ quoth she.
‘I am’, quoth he, ‘expected of718 my friends,
And now ’tis dark and going I shall fall.’
‘In night’, quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all.
‘But if thou fall, O then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make true724 men thieves: so do thy lips
Make modest Dian725 cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn726.
‘Now of this dark night I perceive the reason727:
Cynthia728 for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging729 nature be condemned of treason
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine,
Wherein she framed731 thee, in high heaven’s despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.
‘And therefore hath she bribed the destinies733
To cross734 the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities
And pure perfection with impure defeature736,
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances738 and much misery,
‘As burning fevers, agues739 pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence740 and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness741 whose attaint
Disorder742 breeds by heating of the blood,
Surfeits743, impostumes, grief and damned despair:
Swear nature’s death for framing thee so fair.
‘And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under:
Both favour747, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat th’impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thawed and done,
As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.
‘Therefore, despite of fruitless751 chastity,
Love-lacking vestals752 and self-loving nuns
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth754 of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal755: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil756 to lend the world his light.
‘What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity760?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith762 in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
‘So in thyself thyself art made away
763,
A mischief764 worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose765 desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire766 that reaves his son of life:
Foul-cank’ring767 rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that’s put to use768 more gold begets.’
‘Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘you will fall769 again
Into your idle over-handled770 theme;
The kiss I gave you is bestowed in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream,
For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul773 nurse,
Your treatise774 makes me like you worse and worse.
‘If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving776 than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton777 mermaids’ songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown:
For know, my heart stands armèd in mine ear
And will not let a false sound enter there,
‘Lest781 the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure782 of my breast,
And then my little heart were quite undone783,
In his bedchamber to be barred of rest:
No, lady, no! My heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
‘What have you urged that I cannot reprove787?
The Sonnets and Other Poems Page 5