The steed is stalled up, and even now Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust; And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust. So soon was she along, as he was down, He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires 2 with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone. Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff'd, or prey be gone; Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin; And where she ends, she doth anew begin. i. e. misbehavior. 2 Tears, pecks. Forced to content, but never to obey, Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies; Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret, Rain, added to a river that is rank,1 Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; 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 countless debt. 1 i. e. full. Upon this promise did he raise his chin. 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 woo'd, 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 begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have. • Over my altars hath he hung his lance, Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red; Thus he that over-ruled, I oversway'd, Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain: Strong-temper'd steel his stronger strength obey'd, O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, • 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: 'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again, These blue-vein'd violets, whereon we lean, • 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 gather'd in their prime, Rot and consume themselves in little time. Were I hard-favor'd, 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 gray, and bright, and quick in turning; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow; Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear; 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 to night, even where I list to sport me. 1 What we now call blue eyes, were in Shakspeare's time called gray. |