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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 Wreath'd 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； Wilere 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；
Througll which it enters to surprise her heart； Who； overcome by
doubt and bloodless fear； With cold…pale weakness numbs each feeling
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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
sore 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 she 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 kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound； l
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 ceas'd 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 amaz'd
At apparitions； signs； and prodigies； Whereon with fearful eyes they
long have gaz'd； Infusing them with dreadful prophecies；
So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath； And； sighing it again；
exclaims on Death。
'Hard…favour'd tyrant； ugly； meagre； lean；
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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 liv'd； 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 shoull have fled；
And not Death's ebon dart； to strike him dead。
'Dost thou drink tears； that thou provok'st 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； stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of
her bosom dropp'd 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。
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By this； far off she hears some huntsman holloa； A nurse's song no'er
pleas'd 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 make 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 Whenas 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 provok'd 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 my slander： Grief hath two tongues： and never woman yet；
Could rule them both without ten women's wit。'
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive