Thursday, 28 February 2019

And This is How I First Met —


















Tyler (Masonic)

Tyler (or Tiler) is the name of the office of outer guard of a Masonic Lodge. 







Masonic lodges may meet in rooms in taverns and other public meeting places [ and in PRISONS — Freemsory is RIFE in Prisons ] and all Lodges appoint a Tyler to guard the door from the outside against ineligible masons or malicious or curious people, to check the eligibility of latecomers, and to ensure that candidates for ceremonies in the Lodge are properly prepared. 


Although a junior Officer of the Lodge and often a highly experienced Past Master, he may often be considered akin to a sergeant: in some cases the Tyler may not be an unpaid member of the lodge, but a mason from another lodge employed for the purpose. 

Other duties often involve preparing the room for meetings, supplying regalia and equipment, serving as bar steward or acting as permanent, and sometimes resident, caretaker of the furniture and premises.

Duties of the post




Night, a print by William Hogarth. The figure on the left (with the square) is the Master of a lodge, probably escorted by his Tyler.[1]
In some Jurisdictions the Tyler is appointed by the Worshipful Master, while in others he is elected by the members of the Lodge. He is charged with examining the Masonic credentials of anyone wishing to enter the Lodge and keeping unqualified persons from infiltrating Masonic meetings, and admitting only those qualified to attend the current business.

In most jurisdictions, the Tyler is required to be outside the Lodge door for large portions of the meeting, although usually in a position to overhear the proceedings. The position has often been given to a deserving Mason who has fallen on hard times, such as the original Grand Master Anthony Sayer, or to a senior Lodge member who can help and advise those kept waiting outside.

In some jurisdictions, the Worshipful Master has the authority to permit or direct the Tyler to "tyle from within" during the non-ritualistic portions of a meeting. If tyling from within, the Tyler must first secure the outer doors of the Tyler's anteroom. He would then leave the inner door open between the lodge room and the Tyler's anteroom, and sit at the seat closest to the door, still holding his drawn sword. Tyling from within enables the Tyler to participate in the business portions of the meeting, voice his opinions, volunteer for committees, deliver reports, and receive instruction if any be given. 

In other jurisdictions, such as the United Grand Lodge of England, the Tyler is always expected to be outside the closed door of the lodge; on the rare occasions when the Tyler enters the lodge room, another lodge member (typically the Inner Guard or, in the U.S., the Junior Deacon) goes outside to take temporary responsibility for guarding the door.

Origins of the term

The origins of the term are uncertain and a number of hypotheses have been presented over time. Masonic lodges originally met in inns or taverns, and Tyler is an Old English word for the keeper of an inn door.[citation needed] 

Alternatively, the name may simply come from the occupation of tyler—a person who lays roof and floor tiles. More fanciful suggestions have included:

Possibly related to the name of Wat Tyler, or Walter the Tyler, the leader of the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. 
Possibly a revision of the word tether, used to tie the door closed.

Possibly owing to the tiles being those stones or bricks which seal the structural masonry, whether they be on floors, walls or roofs. Likewise, the Tyler seals the remainder of the activities of the lodge.

In popular culture

William Hogarth's famous print of Night shows a drunken Mason being helped home by the Tyler, from one of the four original Lodges in 1717 at the Rummer & Grapes tavern.

See also

Masonic Lodge Officers
References

^http://freemasonry.bcy.ca/biography/hogarth_w/night.html
^ Born in Blood: Lost Secrets of Freemasonry by John J Robinson pub 1999

I AM THE SENATE



I Am The Senate











If You Haven’t Done Anything Wrong, Don’t Apologise







Never Trust a Man w. Two Phones







I’ve treasured this scene in my memory for YEARS.


I didn’t realise it was a joke.


I thought that thing of putting the two phones together was something people actually did. Seemed perfectly reasonable to me — still does.

The Failed Apprentice





“You have been replaced...!!
— Darth Sideous

“Don’t You Think She Looks Tired...?”
— Perfect-10




“You shoulda left him on The Street where ya found ‘im.”
— Paulie Panina

“I know it was you, Fredo —”
— Don Michael Corleone


“— you broke all our hearts...”
— The Rocky Balboa of  Earth-199999



What the hell happened in there? I won the damn title and they think I'm a bum!
Why didn't you help me?

When the press is right, they're right.




I'm as good as Balboa ever was and
I'm tired of being called a damn robot!


Listen, Tommy. You can't fight the press.
I can't fight them.
As long as they got Balboa on the brain,
he's champ. He fought wars in the ring.
Tommy, face facts. You're in his shadow.


This is your own man talking!


No, listen.
There is a way to get the respect you
deserve. Challenge Balboa to fight.
George could set it up in just weeks.


It'd be the greatest fight ever.
Teacher against student,
old lion against young lion.
That's the only way you ever 
gonna get peace of mind.

The press will hound you with that man's
legend for as long as you wear gloves.
You gotta get him into that ring, Tommy,
or you'll keep hearing questions like that.

You'll start to ask yourself 
"Could I take him? 
Am I really good enough?"

"Do people think I'm a carbon copy
or a second-rate pretender who only
got a shot because of my skin tone?"

Got to challenge that man to fight, Tommy.
If he refuses, you gotta insult him! You
gotta dog him, you gotta humiliate him.

Do whatever you got to do to get him into
that ring! But that's what you got to do.



OK. Blast off. Rollin' silver. And down.
Andy, these flippers ain't flippin'.


That machine cost me a fortune.


It's costin' me a fortune too.


Rocky Balboa!


What was that?

Rocky Balboa, there's a man out here
wishin' to speak with you.
Rocky Balboa!

Rocko, you know who that is, huh?

Yeah, I know who that is.


Rocky, you need some help?


No, guys. It ain't no pie-eatin' contest.

Look what's in the street.


Tommy, what are you doin' here?
You oughta be celebratin'.


I'm challenging you to a fight.
Any time, any place, anywhere.


Fight?


That's right.


You're comin' here with these people
askin' if I wanna throw hands with you?
Is that what this is about?


Yeah. And I ain't nobody's robot.
Nobody's boy! Now are you accepting
the challenge or are you yellow?


He has no class. Come on, Rocko.
Hey, he has no class! Come on.


Hey, it ain't him. You wanna
shoot some eightball or somethin'?


Hey! I ain't through talkin' with you yet!



Look, I ain't got no more to say to you, OK?
I wanted good things for you.


The hell you did. 
You're in it for money.
I'm tired of people callin' me a robot.


You thought I was in this
for the money, Tommy?

We were supposed to be
like brothers, you know?

You don't know it, but you got a deception here.
This guy was usin' you for the bait.
He wants to get you and me in the ring.

He wants us to fight each other
to make the money.

He don't care about you
and he don't care about me neither.


Come on. Enough of the fantasy.
Let's talk reality.
Rocky Balboa, are you prepared
to accept Tommy Gunn's challenge?


Tommy...

Hey! I would have taken you any time.



You're a piece of garbage.



This ain't none of your business.


None of my business?


Come on, Paulie. 
Forget it.



He spit blood for you, put you ahead of his own family.
And you bring these rat bums around here? Kill his dignity?
Rocko made you your shot.
He's the real champ. You're just a joke.


Get out of here before I break your face.


Paulie?


Don't break your hand on that bum!


Paulie, are you OK?


You shoulda left him on the street,
where you found him.



 Merlin, get him outta here.


Get off of me!


You knocked him down.
Why don't you knock me down?



No, in the ring. Tommy Gunn only fights
in the ring! Let's get outta here.



My ring's outside.



Yeah? Let's do it.


Let's go live.


He's a punk, Rocky.



He's a street fighter.You a prizefighter.
Don't be a damn fool.


You don't own me!
You don't own me!


What's wrong? 
Take it easy.


Nobody does!
I want my respect.




Well, come and get it. 
Come on, Tommy.




I loved you, man! 
You know that?
You and me,
we were supposed to be like this, Tommy.
You blew it! You...



Lucky punch. But I told you never to fight a street fighter fight.
Come on, let's get out of here.


You're always a champ, Rocky. Great.


Great stuff. This is beautiful.

Mom! It's Dad.
He's on television. He's fighting.


What?!


Come on, man. Come on.
Come on, Balboa. Who's your papa now?
Come on!


Rocky, you gotta get up.



Come on, get up.




You're out!


If he dies, he dies.




You're the champ.
Now get up. One more round.

Get up! Don't lay down.
Fight this guy hard.

Come on!

He's no machine. I didn't hear no bell!




Get up, you son of a bitch,
cos Mickey loves ya.




Yo, Tommy!




I didn't hear no bell.




- One more round.
- Tommy, get back. Come on.




- You don't need this.
- You lose, you're finished.




I got one more round. Come on.




I'm not gonna knock you out this time.
I'm gonna put you through the street.




- One more round.
- Come on, Rocky.




Come on, Tommy.




Come on. Again!




Come on, Tommy.




Touch me and I'll sue.




All right, Rocky. You done it.




What in the hell are you doing?
Get up. What in the hell...?




Come on, knock the bum out.
He took my room!




Jab! Jab!




You're losin' everything. Come on!

Come on, Dad. You can beat him!

Fight back, you bum!




Stop!


Come on, Dad, go for it!
Hit him, Dad. Come on!
Hit him, Dad. Come on!
Go for it!


Hey, Adrian.
You were right. You were right.


Goddamn!
Only in America.
Hey, Rock! You outclassed the bum, huh?

Rocky, come on. Don't.

Touch me and I'll sue.
Come on, punk. Touch me and I'll sue.

Sue me for what?
For that?
Hey, yo, Father!
I love it when he does that.

Wednesday, 27 February 2019

Ode to a 1964 Buick Skylark






My Cousin Vinny :
Your Honour, wouId you instruct the bailiff to escort Miss Vito to the witness stand?

HoId up your right hand.
Do you swear to teII the truth, The WhoIe Truth, and Nothing But The Truth?


Our Lady :
Yeah.


My Cousin Vinny :
Miss Vito. You're supposed to be some kinda expert in automobiIes. 

Is that correct?

Is that correct?

The Judge :
Will you pIease answer the counseI?

No. I hate him.

My Cousin Vinny :
Your Honour, may I treat Miss Vito as a hostiIe witness?

Our Lady :
You think I'm hostiIe now, wait till you see me tonight.

The Judge :
Do you two know each other?


My Cousin Vinny :
Yeah, she's my fiance.

The Judge :
Well, that would certainly explain the hostility.

I object to this witness. 
Improper foundation.
I'm not aware of this person's quaIifications.
I'd Iike to voir dire this witness as to the extent of her expertise.

Granted.
Mr Trotter, you may proceed.

Mm-hm.
Miss Vito, what's your current profession?

Our Lady :
I'm an out-of-work hairdresser.

Out-of-work hairdresser.
Now, in what way does that quaIify you as an expert in automobiIes?


It doesn't.

Well, in what way are you qualified?

Our Lady :
Well, my father was a mechanic.
His father was a mechanic.
My mother's father was a mechanic.
My three brothers are mechanics.
Four uncles on my father's side...


Miss Vito, your famiIy's obviousIy quaIified.
But, uh... have you ever worked as a mechanic?

Yeah. In my father's garage, yeah.

As a mechanic?
What'd you do in your father's garage?

Our Lady :
Tune-ups, oil changes, brake relining, engine rebuiIds, rebuiIds on trannies...


OK. OK. But does being an ex-mechanic quaIify you as being expert on tyre marks?

Our Lady :
No. Thank you. Goodbye.


Sit down and stay there until you're told to leave.

My Cousin Vinny :
Your Honour. Miss Vito's expertise is in generaI automotive knowledge.
It is in this area that her testimony will be applicable.

Now, if Mr Trotter wishes to voir dire the witness as to the extent of her expertise in this area, I'm sure he's gonna be more than satisfied.

OK.
All right. All right.
Now, uh... Miss Vito.
Being an expert on generaI automotive knowledge, can you tell me...

What wouId the correct ignition timing be on a 1955 BeI Air Chevrolet, with a 327 cubic-inch engine, and a four-barreI carburettor?

Our Lady :
That's a bullshit question.

Does that mean that you can't answer it?

Our Lady :
It's impossibIe to answer.


Because you don't know the answer!


Our Lady :
Nobody couId answer that question.

Your Honour, I move to disquaIify Miss Vito as a expert witness.


Can you answer the question?


Our Lady :
No. It is a trick question.


Why is it a trick question?

My Cousin Vinny :
Watch this. 


Our Lady :
Cos Chevy didn't make a 327 in '55.
The 327 didn't come out tiII '62.

And it wasn't offered in the Bel Air with a four-barreI carb till '64.

However, in 1964 the correct ignition timing wouId be four degrees before top, dead centre.


WeII... Uh...
She's acceptabIe, Your Honour.

My Cousin Vinny :
Your Honour, this is a picture taken by my fiance outside the Sac-o-Suds.

Can we agree on this?

Our Lady :
Yeah.


My Cousin Vinny :
Thank you.
I'd Iike to submit this picture of the tyre tracks as evidence.

Mr Trotter.


No objection, Your Honour.

My Cousin Vinny :
Miss Vito. Did you take this picture?

You know I did.

My Cousin Vinny :
And what is this picture of?

You know what it's of.

My Cousin Vinny :
Miss Vito, it has been argued by me, the defence, that two sets of guys met up at the Sac-o-Suds, at the same time, driving identicaI metaIIic mint-green 1964 Buick SkyIark convertibles.

Now, can you tell us, 
by what you see in this picture,...

..if the defence's case hoIds water?

Miss Vito. PIease answer the question.

Does the defence's case hold water?

Our Lady :
No.
The defence is wroang.

(murmuring)

My Cousin Vinny :
Are you sure?


Our Lady :
I'm positive.


My Cousin Vinny :
How couId you be so sure?


Our Lady :
Because there is no way that these tyre marks were made by a '64 Buick SkyIark.
These marks were made by a 1963 Pontiac Tempest.

Objection. 
Can we cIarify whether the witness is stating opinion or fact?

 This is your opinion?

Our Lady :
It's a fact.


My Cousin Vinny :
I find it hard to believe that this kind of information couId be ascertained simpIy by looking at a picture!

 Our Lady :
Would you like me to explain...?

My Cousin Vinny :
I wouId LOVE to hear this....!

The Judge: 
So wouId I.

Our Lady :
The car that made these two equal-length tyre-marks had positraction.
You can't make those marks without positraction, which was not avaiIabIe on the '64 SkyIark.

My Cousin Vinny :
And why not? 
What is positraction?

Our Lady :
It's a limited slip differential which distributes power equally to both the right and left tyres.

The '64 SkyIark had a regular differential which, anyone who's been stuck in the mud in Alabama knows, you step on The Gas, one tyre spins, the other does nothin'.


Woman of The Jury :
That's right.


My Cousin Vinny :
Is that it?

Our Lady :
No. There's MOAH.
When the left tyre mark goes up on the kerb
and the right tyre stays flat and even...

Well, the '64 SkyIark had a solid rear axle, so, when the left tyre goes up on the kerb, the right tyre tilts and rides along its edge.

But that didn't happen here.
The tyre mark stayed flat and even.

This car had an independent rear suspension.

Now, in the '60s there were only two other cars made in America that had positraction and independent rear suspension, and enough power to make these marks.

One was the Corvette, which couId never 
be confused with the Buick Skylark.
The other had the same body length, height, width, weight, wheel base and wheel track as the '64 Skylark, and that was the 1963 Pontiac Tempest.


My Cousin Vinny :
And because both cars were made by GM, were both cars available in metallic mint-green paint?

Our Lady :
They WHUH!!! 


My Cousin Vinny :
Thank you, Miss Vito.
No more questions.
Thank you very, very much.
You've been a lovely, lovely witness.

(murmuring)



Mr Trotter, would you like to question Miss Vito?
(judge) Mr Trotter.
Mr Trotter!
Uh.
Uh, no. No, Your Honour.|No further questions.
In that case, Your Honour,|I'd Iike to recaII George WiIbur.
Miss Vito, you can stand down.
You reaIise you're stiII under oath.
Yes, Your Honour.
Mr WiIbur, how'd you Iike|Miss Vito's testimony?
Very impressive.
She's cute too, huh?
- Yes, very.|- (laughter)
- (judge) Mr Gambini.|- Sorry, Your Honour.
Mr WiIbur, in your expert opinion,...
..wouId you say that everything Miss Vito|said on the stand was 100% accurate?
- I'd have to say that.|- And is there any way in the worId...
..the Buick that the defendants|were driving made those tyre tracks?
Come on. You can say. It's OK, they know.
ActuaIIy,...
- ..no.|- No.
Thank you. No more questions.
Your Honour, I caII Sheriff FarIey.
(judge) You may stand down now, Mr WiIbur.
- Sheriff, you reaIise you're stiII under oath?|- Yes, sir.
Uh, Sheriff FarIey.
- What'd you find out?|- 

On a hunch, I took it upon myseIf to check if there was any information on a '63 Pontiac Tempest stolen or abandoned recentIy.
This computer read-out confirms that two boys,...
..who fit the defendants' description,|were arrested two days ago...
..by Sheriff TiIman|in Jasper County, Georgia,...
..for driving a stoIen metaIIic|mint-green 1963 Pontiac Tempest...
..with a white convertibIe top,...
..MicheIin modeI XGV tyres, size 75R-14.
- Is that it?|- No.
A .357 Magnum revoIver|was found in their possession.
Sheriff FarIey, just to refresh|the court's memory,...
..what caIibre buIIet|was used to murder Jimmy WiIIis?
- A .357 Magnum.|- The defence rests.
Mr Trotter.
Your Honour, in Iight of Miss Vito's|and Mr WiIbur's testimony,...
..the State'd Iike to dismiss aII charges.
Order in the court!
Order here.
I have to get out of here by three.|Make sure aII the bags are in the car.
Vinny, I'm sorry to have ever doubted you|at any time, and for this I apoIogise.
Under the circumstances... You were|great. I just want to say thank you.
You're weIcome. I hope we can do it again.
- Fine job, Mr Gambini.|- Thanks.
- Y'aII come back and see us any time now.|- I'II see.
- Vin.|- BiII.
- You're weIcome.|- Vin, I....
Listen. Take your time, pick the right words,|get back to New York, gimme a caII.
- Vinny, you did a terrific job.|- Thanks.
You got an open invitation|any time you come here.
- We can get us a deer next time.|- OK. Thanks a Iot.
I feeI Iike if I don't get outta here|now, I might never be abIe to Ieave.
Mr Gambini.
I have a fax here from the cIerk of New York.
I owe you an apoIogy, sir.
I'm honoured to shake your hand.
''Win some, Iose some.''
Your courtroom manner may be rather|unconventionaI, but I gotta teII you,...
..you're one heIIuva triaI Iawyer.
Thank you. And you're one heIIuvajudge.
Ooh, sorry.
(judge) Bye, now.
What the heII was that aII about back there?
I had a friend send a fax to the judge,...
..confirming the very impressive|IegaI stature of Jerry Callo.
What friends you got in the cIerk's office?
- Your friend.|- My friend?
Judge MaIIoy.
So what's your probIem?
My probIem is I wanted to win my first case|without any heIp from anybody.
WeII, I guess that pIan's moot.
Yeah.
This couId be a sign of things to come.
You win aII your cases,|but with somebody eIse's heIp, right?
You win case after case,|and then afterwards,...
..you have to go up to somebody|and you have to say ''Thank you.''
Oh, my God. What a fuckin' nightmare!
I won my first case.|You know what this means.
- Yeah. You think I'm gonna marry you.

You're not gonna marry me now?
No way. You can't win a case by|yourseIf. You're fuckin' useIess.
I thought we'd get married this weekend.
You don't get it, do you? That is not|romantic. I want a wedding in church...
..with bridesmaids and fIowers.
(Vinny) Ohh! How many times did you|say that spontaneous is romantic?
(Lisa) Hey, a burp is spontaneous.|A burp is not romantic.


The Members of The Fam : Our Lady








Geophagia (/ˌdʒiːəˈfeɪdʒ(i)ə/), also known as geophagy (/dʒiˈɒfədʒi/), is the practice of eating earth or soil-like substrates such as clay or chalk. It occurs in non-human animals where it may be a normal or abnormal behaviour, and also in humans, most often in rural or preindustrial societies among children and pregnant women.

Some researchers believe that humans first ate soil in Africa:

“The oldest evidence of geophagy practised by humans comes from the prehistoric site at Kalambo Falls on the border between Zambia and Tanzania (Root-Bernstein & Root-Bernstein, 2000). Here, a calcium-rich white clay was found alongside the bones of Homo habilis (the immediate predecessor of Homo sapiens).”
— 
Peter Abrahams, Geophagy and the Involuntary Ingestion of Soil5:446


Geophagia is NEARLY UNIVERSAL around the world in tribal and traditional rural societies (although apparently it has not been documented in Japan or Korea).

In the ancient world, several writers noted the phenomenon of geophagia. Pliny is said to have noted the ingestion of soil on Lemnos, an island of Greece, and the use of the soils from this island was noted until the 14th century. 57 

The textbook of Hippocrates (460–377 BCE) mentions geophagia, and the famous medical textbook titled De Medicina edited by A. Cornelius Celsus (14–37 CE) seems to link anaemia to geophagia.

Early explorers in the Americas noted the existence of geophagy amongst Native Americans, including Gabriel Soares de Sousa, who in 1587 reported a tribe in Brazil using it in suicide, and Alexander von Humboldt, who said that a tribe called the Otomacs ate large amounts of soil. 

In Africa, David Livingstone wrote about slaves eating soil in Zanzibar, and it is also thought that large numbers of slaves brought with them soil-eating practices when they were shipped to the New World as part of the transatlantic slave trade. 

Slaves who practiced geophagia were nicknamed “clay-eaters” because they were known to consume clay, as well as spices, ash, chalk, grass, plaster, paint, and starch.

In more recent times, according to Dixie’s Forgotten People: the South’s Poor Whites, geophagia was common among poor whites in the Southeastern United States in the 19th and early 20th centuries, and was often ridiculed in popular literature. The literature also states, “Many men believed that eating clay increased sexual prowess, and some females claimed that eating clay helped pregnant women to have an easy delivery.”

Geophagia among Southerners may have been caused by the high prevalence of hookworm disease, of which the desire to consume soil is a symptom.

Geophagia has become less prevalent as rural Americans assimilate into urban culture.

 However, cooked, baked, and processed dirt and clay are sold in health food stores and rural flea markets in the American South.








He Loves Her So DAMN Much.


(and So Do I.)

The Members of The Fam : Ryan, The Youth






THE PROPAGANDA CAMPAIGN 

The Propaganda Campaign… In the following year, 1592, there’s a kind of government propaganda campaign suggesting Southampton as heir-apparent to the crown: Burghley’s own private secretary publicly dedicates a poem to Southampton –all about a selfish young man living on an island ruled by a Virgin Queen. 
(Not too subtle, I hope.) 

He’s also being touted as a possible new member of the Knights of the Garter, an unprecedented honor for one so young and without any visible achievements. [It signifies he must be very special.] 

And that fall the Queen visits Oxford University –a rare appearance! –attending Southampton’s graduation, when a speaker refers to him as “a dynastic Prince of illustrious lineage.” 

And now in 1593, for the first time in print comes the name “William Shakespeare.” 

It appears on the dedication of VENUS AND ADONIS to nineteen-year-old Henry Earl of Southampton. It’s a long highly cultured narrative poem bursting with sex and sensuality –instant bestseller! 

In his dedication the author speaks of himself and the poem as father and child: he calls VENUS AND ADONIS “the first heir of my invention.” 

Oxford’s “invention” in the private sonnets refers to his newly invented method of double-image writing to his royal son… 

Now it also refers to his newly invented pen name –“Shakespeare” –suggesting a warrior shaking his spear … the spear of his pen –fighting for Southampton! 

He calls Southampton “the world’s hopeful expectation,” the same way Prince Hal on stage is called “the hope and expectation of the world” as the future Henry the Fifth. 

“Shakespeare” is publicly calling Southampton a King. 

In the poem itself the goddess Venus tries to seduce the young god Adonis, who will not fall in. 

[That sounds familiar!] 

He runs away only to be attacked and killed by a wild boar. But … there’s a birth. 

From the blood of Adonis on the ground is born a purple flower –a royal flower –and Venus speaks to it as a mother to her child: 

“Thou art next of blood, and ‘tis thy right.” 

Then the Queen of Love and Beauty flies away, a goddess riding in her chariot. 

[That sounds familiar, too!] 

A year later, 1594, “Shakespeare” strikes again! It’s another long narrative poem –THE RAPE OF LUCRECE –another blockbuster –and now an even more extraordinary dedication to Southampton: 

THE LOVE I DEDICATE TO YOUR LORDSHIP IS WITHOUT END. WHAT I HAVE DONE IS YOURS, WHAT I HAVE TO DO IS YOURS, BEING PART IN ALL I HAVE, DEVOTED YOURS … YOUR LORDSHIP’S IN ALL DUTY, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.” 

There is no other dedication like that one in all of Elizabethan literature. 

And never again will Oxford use that pen name –“Shakespeare” –to dedicate anything to anyone else, thereby uniquely linking Southampton to “Shakespeare” for all time. 

But the PR campaign fails to move the young Lord Southampton, who winds up paying a huge fine to his guardian Lord Burghley in order not to marry his granddaughter. His rejection of a Cecil alliance leaves his mother the Queen helpless to help him. It also signals the start of a great “power struggle” behind the throne. 


THE POWER STRUGGLE 

The Power Struggle… We’re in the mid-1590s and the big unknown is: 

“When will the Queen die?” 

Elizabeth is in her sixties; 
if she dies right now there’ll be civil war. 

Who will decide the succession? 

Who will be king-maker? 

Burghley is already grooming his son Robert Cecil to take over the government and stock it with his own people in key positions and continue the Cecil influence behind the crown. 

Southampton aligns himself with Robert Devereux, the brilliant, high-strung Second Earl of Essex –several years older and already a great military hero. 

Essex is the current royal favorite –not Elizabeth’s lover, of course, but acting like it to feed her insatiable vanity. 


He’s becoming more popular than the Queen herself –not a good idea. 

The entrenched faction of William and Robert Cecil is being challenged by a rising faction of swashbuckling, young, Renaissance nobles led by Essex and his boon companion Southampton. 

The two factions hate each other. 

Only one will remain standing in the new reign to come. 

The earls are counting on popular acclaim for their military victories against Catholic Spain and the Pope. 

Surely the Queen will take their side and let them shape England’s future —without the Cecils! 



ROBERT CECIL 
Robert Cecil… August 1598 –Lord Burghley dies at nearly seventy-nine. 

His son Robert Cecil, a short figure known for his cunning and his severely hunched back, is already Principal Secretary; and because of his father, he has her Majesty’s ear and her trust. 



The father had some principles. 
The son has none. 

The Secretary is a busy bureaucrat with spies in every camp. 

He sees all life as a chess game to the death. 

And he sets a trap. 

He convinces the Queen to make Essex her Majesty’s General of an army to put down the eternal Irish rebellion. 

Cecil knows it’s an impossible assignment. 

He also knows the proud earl will accept it. 

SPRING 1599 –

Essex and Southampton leave for Ireland with 15,000 soldiers given a send-off by crowds of cheering citizens. 

Over at the Playhouse the audience erupts with wild patriotic approval at new lines inserted in HENRY THE FIFTH, expressing the personal support of the writer known as “Shakespeare”

WERE NOW THE GENERAL OF OUR GRACIOUS EMPRESS (AS IN GOOD TIME HE MAY) FROM IRELAND COMING, BRINGING REBELLION BROACHED ON HIS SWORD, HOW MANY WOULD THE PEACEFUL CITY QUIT TO WELCOME HIM! 

SEPTEMBER 1599 – 
The Irish campaign is a catastrophe. 

In a land of bewildering bogs and mist, the beleaguered English soldiers are outnumbered and outsmarted. The disintegrating army is tired, diseased, demoralized. 

In desperation Essex meets with the rebel leader the Earl of Tyrone and agrees to a truce. 

Back in London the Queen confers with Cecil and in a fury sends back orders to break the truce and stay there and fight on to the bitter end. 

Essex and Southampton defiantly board a ship and land on English soil and ride three days and nights hell-bent to speak personally with Elizabeth. 

They arrive at dawn at the Palace of Nonesuch, where the Queen has just risen from her bed. 

Essex barges past all the guards into the Palace, 
pushing through the Pike-men and Chamber attendants, 
sword banging against his leg, 
brushing through the Presence Chamber to the Privy Chamber 

… and then charges right on through and without knocking bursts into the royal bedroom! 

Inside is a startled old woman who has not yet put on her thick paint and wig. 

Her gray wrinkled body is still half naked; strands of hair straggle down over a wizened face. 

The Queen is alone, defenseless, at the mercy of a wild man covered with mud, dripping with sweat, and now kneeling to kiss her hand. 

She smiles, pats her general on the head, and calmly suggests he go clean up and come back when she’s more … 
“properly prepared.” 

When he’s gone she puts him under house arrest and the once-great royal favorite will never see his sovereign mistress again, never. 

She bars Southampton from her presence and he, too, will never again see his mother the Queen. Cecil has made all the right moves; now for the end game! 

THE END GAME The End Game… 

FALL 1600 –

Queen Elizabeth turns sixty-seven; Robert Cecil has positioned himself to choose the next monarch when she dies. 

The earls have become increasingly desperate; whispers about rebellion are spreading –rumors of a palace coup against Cecil, led by England’s young nobility. 

EARLY FEBRUARY 1601 –Southampton takes charge of planning for a surprise assault on Whitehall Palace. First move will be to capture Cecil; they’ll probably have to kill him; then Essex and Southampton will rush to see Elizabeth. She’ll come to her senses and call a Parliament on succession; to avoid civil war, she’ll even give up her crown. What if she refuses? Will they have to kill her, too? Members of the Essex faction pay the Lord Chamberlain’s acting company to give a special performance of a royal history play by “Shakespeare” –who, everyone knows, has dedicated his work to Southampton, co-leader of the coming revolt. The play is RICHARD THE SECOND, about a real English monarch forced to give up his crown. The conspirators are brazenly using “Shakespeare” and the public stage for political propaganda. THE GLOBE PLAYHOUSE –A brand new scene has been written and inserted showing King Richard actually handing over his crown, something being suggested for Elizabeth herself. Many conspirators sit right up on the stage behind the actors, cheering them on. That night Cecil sends agents summoning Essex to the Palace; and once again the proud earl does exactly what Robert Cecil knows he will do. He defies him. He won’t go.

Venus and Adonis

'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.
RIGHT HONORABLE,
I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden 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 god-father, 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 heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your honour's in all duty,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's 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 herself 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 honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed 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 precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted 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 tie the rider she begins to prove:
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,
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 saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;
What follows more she murders 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 stuff'd or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.
Forced 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 fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed 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 lours and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot choose 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 look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.
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,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To toy, 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 overruled I oversway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!
'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 eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where they are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
'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-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, 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,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
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 till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?
'Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
'Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse:
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.
'Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.'
By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him and by Venus' side.
And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'
'Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind?
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone!
I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.
'The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.
'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?
Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.
'Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dun and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.'
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.
Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.
'Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!
Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
'Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!'
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.
But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.
His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'
What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.
He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He veils his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.
His testy master goeth about to take him;
When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said;
Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage;
But when the heart's attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.
He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.
O, what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.
Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,
As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.
O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
'O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!
'Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?'
'Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it:
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:
Then love's deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'
'For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go;
My day's delight is past, my horse is gone,
And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.'
Thus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd;
Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire:
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
'How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master'd with a leathern rein!
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.
'Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold?
'Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy;
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;
O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect, never lost again.'
I know not love,' quoth he, 'nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;
For I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.
'Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing things be any jot diminish'd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young
Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.
'You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;
To love's alarms it will not ope the gate:
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.'
'What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!
Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now press'd with bearing:
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,
Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.
'Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
'Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by
smelling.
'But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'
Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck 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 amazed 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 earth relieveth;
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumined 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 brow's repine;
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.
'O, 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 lived, 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 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 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 tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired 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-faced 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 resolved 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 cheek; 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, deceived 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 proved;
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee;
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.
'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 advised! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never sheathed 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 moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel 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 harm'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.
'O, 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 heat 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 hunt, be ruled by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy
hounds.
'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; 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 ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To harken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved 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 myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.
'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he,
'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
The night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.
'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of 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 true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.
'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.
'And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances and much misery;
'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd 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 favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.
'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil 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 obscurity?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
'So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use more gold begets.'
'Nay, then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme:
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there;
'Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr'd 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 reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!
'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.'
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!'
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them begins a wailing note
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Her song was tedious and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight
In such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:
Their copious stories oftentimes begun
End without audience and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal
But idle sounds resembling parasites,
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
She says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;'
And would say after her, if she said 'No.'
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:
'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:--
And with that word she spied the hunted boar,
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--
'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.
'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.
'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best: then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;
A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass;
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:
Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.
'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
Then, gentle shadow,--truth I must confess,--
I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.
''Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he's author of thy slander:
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.
As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;
Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:
Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,
Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprise
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;
And, being open'd, threw unwilling light
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept til now.
Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:
Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.
'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:
'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off and, being gone,
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
'To see his face the lion walk'd along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey
And never fright the silly lamb that day.
'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:
If he did see his face, why then I know
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.
''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.'
With this, she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;
Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect:
'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.
'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,
Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.
'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.
'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.
'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'
By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis' breath,
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.
'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise--
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire--
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.
'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.