to his speech did honey passage yield;

Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d

Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,

Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,

Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh:

Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth,

Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,

Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,

Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,

His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down,

For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;

A smile recures the wounding of a frown;

But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!

The silly boy, believing she is dead,

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;

And all-amaz’d brake off his late intent,

For sharply he did think to reprehend her,

Which cunning love did wittily prevent:

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!

For on the grass she lies as she were slain,

Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,

He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,

He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks

To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d:

He kisses her; and she, by her good will,

Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day:

Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,

Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array

He cheers the morn and all the world relieveth:

And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,

So is her face illumin’d with her eye;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d,

As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine.

Were never four such lamps together mix’d,

Had not his clouded with his brows’ repine;

But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,

Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

‘О! where am I?’ quoth she, ‘in earth or heaven,

Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire?

What hour is this? or morn or weary even?

Do I delight to die, or life desire?

But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy;

But now I died, and death was lively joy.

‘O! thou didst kill me; kill me once again:

Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,

Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain

That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine;

And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,

But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

‘Long may they kiss each other for this cure!

O! never let their crimson liveries wear;

And as they last, their verdure still endure,

To drive infection from the dangerous year:

That the star-gazers, having writ on death,

May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath.

‘Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?

To sell myself I can be well contented,

So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;

Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips

Set thy seal-manual 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 touches unto thee?

Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?

Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?’

‘Fair queen,’ quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,

Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:

Before I know myself, seek not to know me;

No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:

The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,

Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste.

‘Look! the world’s comforter, with weary gait,

His day’s hot task hath ended in the west;

The owl, night’s herald, shrieks, ’tis very late;

The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,

And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light

Do summon us to part and bid good night.

‘Now let me say good night, and so say you;

If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.’

‘Good night,’ quoth she; and ere he says adieu,

The honey fee of parting tender’d is:

Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;

Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward drew

The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,

Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,

Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:

He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth,

Their lips together glu’d, 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 insulter willeth;

Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,

That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,

With blindfold fury she begins to forage;

Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,

And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage;

Planting oblivion, beating reason back,

Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,

Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much handling,

Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tir’d with chasing,

Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling,

He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,

While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,

And yields at last to every light impression?

Things out of hope are compass’d oft with venturing,

Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:

Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward,

But then woos best when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O! had she then gave over,

Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d.

Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;

What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d:

Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,

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 resolv’d no longer to restrain him,

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,

The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,

He carries thence incaged in his breast.

‘Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘this night I’ll waste in sorrow,

For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.

Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to-morrow?

Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?’

He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends

To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

‘The boar!’ quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,

Usurps her cheeks, she trembles at his tale,

And on his neck her yoking 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 lists of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:

All is imaginary she doth prove,

He will not manage her, although he mount her;

That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,

To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes,

Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,

Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,

As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.

The warm effects 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 assay’d as much as may be prov’d;

Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee;

She ‘s Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.

‘Fie, fie!’ he says, ‘you crush me; let me go;

You have no reason to withhold me so.’

‘Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘sweet boy, ere this,

But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.

O! be advis’d; thou know’st not what it is

With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore,

Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still,

Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

‘On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;

His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;

His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes;

Being mov’d, he strikes whate’er is in his way,

And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay.

‘His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d,

Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter;

His short thick neck cannot be easily harrn’d;

Being ireful, 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 pay tributary gazes;

Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,

Whose full perfection all the world amazes;

But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread!

Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

‘О! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;

Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:

Come not within his danger by thy will;

They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.

When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,

I fear’d 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 downright?

Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,

My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,

But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

‘For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy

Doth call himself Affection’s sentinel;

Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,

And in a peaceful hour doth cry «Kill, kill!»

Distempering gentle Love in his desire,

As air and water do abate the fire.

This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,

This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring,

This carry-tale, 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 so, presenteth to mine eye

The picture of an angry-chafing boar,

Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie

An image like thyself, all stain’d 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 indeed,

That tremble at the imagination?

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,

And fear doth teach it divination:

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

‘But if thou needs wilt