Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doctor, maid? Fent. You do amaze her: hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully, Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. Th' offence is holy that she hath committed; And this deceit loses the name of craft, Of disobedience, or unduteous wile; Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. In love the heavens themselves do guide the state; Fal. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. Page. Well, what remedy? — Fenton, heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschew'd must be embrac'd. Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chas'd. Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further. - Master Fenton, Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home, Ford. [Exeunt. THE POEMS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. VENUS AND ADONIS. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, And baron of TICHFIELD. RIGHT HONOURABLE, 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 godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your 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. VENUS AND ADONIS. Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo [OVID, I. Am. xv. 35.] EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face "Thrice-fairer than myself," thus she began, Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, "Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, "And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety, A summer's day will seem an hour but short, With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm, Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, The studded bridle on a raggèd bough Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, So soon was she along as he was down, 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 Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Shakespeare. VII, 19 |