Alas, poor world! what treasure haft thou loft !!{'X” What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whofe tongue is mufick now? what canft thou boaft Of things long fince, or any thing ensuing?
The flowers are fweet, their colours fresh and trim, But true fweet beauty liv'd and dy'd in him.
Bonnet, or veil, henceforth no creature wear;
Nor fun, nor wind will ever ftrive to kifs you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The fun doth fcorn you, and the wind doth hifs you.
But when Adonis liv'd, fun and fharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair.
And therefore wou'd he put his bonnet on,
Under whofe brim the gaudy fun wou'd peep;
The wind wou'd blow it off, and being gone,
Play with his locks, then wou'd Adonis weep:
And ftraight, in pity of his tender years,
They both wou'd strive who first shou'd dry his tears.
To fee his face, the lion walks along
Behind fome hedge, becaufe he wou'd not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tyger wou'd be tame, and gently hear him:
If he had fpoke, the wolf wou'd leave his prey,
And never fright the filly lamb that day.
When he beheld his fhadow in a brook,
There fifhes fpread on it their golden gills:
When he was by, the birds fuch pleafure took,
That fome would fing, fome other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries, and ripe red cherries;
He fed them with his fight, they him with berries.
But this foul, grim, and urchin fnouted boar,
Whofe downward eye ftill looketh for a grave,
Ne'er faw the beauteous livery that he wore ;
Witness the entertainment that he gave.
If he did fee his face, why then I know,
He thought to kifs him, and hath kill'd him fo..
'Tis true, true, true, thus was Adonis flain,
He ran upon the boar with his fharp spear,
Who wou'd not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kifs thought to perfuade him there:
And noufling in his flank, the loving fwine
Sheath'd unaware his tufk in his foft groin.
Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confefs,
With kiffing him, I fhou'd have kill'd him first.
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My mouth with his; the more am I accurs'd.
With this fhe falleth in the place fhe ftood,
And ftains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him hy the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ear a heavy tale,
As if he heard the woful words fhe told :
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo! two lamps burnt out in darkness lies.
Two glaffes, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue loft, wherein they late excel'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.
Wonder of time! (quoth fhe) this is my fpight,
That, you being dead, the day should yet be light.
Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophefy
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend;
It fhall be waited on with jealousy,
Find fweet beginning, but unfavoury end,
Ne'er fettled equally to high or low;
That all love's pleasures fhall not match his woe,
It shall be fickle, falfe, and full of fraud,
And shall be blafted in a breathing while,
The bottom poison, and the top o'er-straw'd
With fweets, that fhall the fharpeft fight beguile.
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wife dumb, and teach the fool to speak.
It fhall be fparing, and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The ftaring ruffian fhall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, inrich the poor with treasures
It fhall be raging mad, and filly mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.
It fhall fufpect, where is no cause of fear ;
It fhall not fear, where it fhould moft miftruft;
It fhall be merciful and too fevere,
And moft deceiving when it seems most just;
Perverse it shall be, when it seems moft toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
It fhall be caufe of war and dire events,
And fet diffenfion 'twixt the fon and fire;
Subject and fervile to all difcontents,
As dry combuftious matter is to fire.
Sith, in his prime, death doth my love deftroy,
They that love beft their love fhall not enjoy、
By this the boy that by her fide lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her fight,
And in his blood, that on the ground lay fpill'd,
A purple flower fprung up chequer'd with white,
Refembling well his pale cheeks and the blood,
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head the new-fprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis' breath:
And fays, within her bosom it fhall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops
the ftalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping fap, which fhe compares to tears.
Poor flower! (quoth fhe) this was thy father's guife,
(Sweet iffue of a more sweet-smelling fire)
For every little grief to wet his eyes,
To grow unto himself was his defire,
And fo 'tis thine; but know it is as good
To wither in my breaft, as in his blood.
Here was thy father's bed, here is my breaft,
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right;
Lo in this hollow cradle take thy reft,
My throbbing heart fhall rock thee day and night:
There fhall not be one minute of an hour,
Wherein I will not kifs my sweet love's flower.
Thus weary of the world, away fhe hies,
And yokes her filver doves, by whose swift aid,
Their mistress mounted, thro' the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
Holding their courfe to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself, and not be feen.
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