Venus and Adonis - ebook

Right Honourable,

I Know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolisht Lines to your Lordship, nor how the World will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: only if your Honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a Godfather, and never after ear so barren a Land for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your Honour to your hearts content; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world’s hopeful expectation.

Your Honours in all duty,

WILL. SHAKESPEARE.

Even as the Sun with purple coloured Face,
Had ta’n his last Leave of the weeping Morn,
Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase:
Hunting he lov’d, but Love he laught to scorn:
⁠Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
⁠And like a bold-fac’d Suterr ‘gins to woo him.

Thrice fairer than my self (thus she began)
The Fields chief Flower, sweet 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 her self at Strife,
⁠Saith that the World hath ending with thy Life.

Vouchsafe, thou Wonder, to alight thy Steed,
And rein his proud Head to the Saddle Bow.
If thou wilt deign this Favour, for thy meed,
A thousand hony Secrets shalt thou know:
⁠Here come and sit, where Serpent never hisses,
⁠And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.

And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety,
But rather famish them amid their Plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh Variety:
Ten Kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
⁠A Summer’s Day will seem an Hour but short,
⁠Being wasted in such time-beguiling Sport.

With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The President of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her Passion calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a Goddess good:
⁠Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force,
⁠Couragiously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty Coursers rein,
Under her other was the tender Boy,
Who blusht and powted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy,
⁠She red and hot, as coals of glowing fire:
⁠He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough,
Nimbly she fastens, (O how quick is love!)
The Steed is stalled up, and even now
To tye the Rider she begins to prove:
⁠Backward she pusht 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,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips.
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips.
⁠And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
⁠If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks:
Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
⁠He says she is immodest, blames her miss,
⁠What follows more, she smothers with a kiss.

Even as an empty Eagle sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuft, or prey be gone:
⁠Even so she kist his brow, his cheek, his chin,
⁠And where she ends, she doth anew begin.

Forc’d to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face:
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
⁠Wishing 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 fastned in her arms Adonis lies:
Pure shame and aw’d resistance 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 she entreats, and prettily entreats:
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale:
Still is he sullen, still he lowres and frets,
‘Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashie pale;
⁠Being red she loves him best; and being white,
⁠Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot chuse but love,
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
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.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a Dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who being lookt 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 passenger in Summers 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:
⁠Oh pitty 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 sinowy neck in battel 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 Launce,
His battred Shield, his uncontrolled Crest,
And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance,
To coy, to wanton, dally, smile 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-sway’d,
Leading him prisoner in a red Rose chain:
Strong tempred steel his stronger strength obey’d,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
⁠Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
⁠For mastring her that foil’d the God of Fight.

Touch but my lips with those falr 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 eye-balls, there thy beauty lies,
⁠Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night,
Love keeps his revels where there be but twain:
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight.
⁠These blew-vein’d Violets whereon we lean
⁠Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

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