LITMIR.BIZ

           '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 dull 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 her 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 liv'd, 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 the 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 neighbours by,

           A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,

           Adonis' tramping courier 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,

             Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.