" "Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain; "Had I been toothed like him I must confess She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; As if they heard the woful 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 "Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite, That you being dead the day should yet be light. "Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy, 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'erstrawed1 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;2 The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treas ures: 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 be cause of war and dire events, Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, By this, the boy that by her side lay killed 1 O'erstrawed, o'erstrewed. 2 Measures, grave dances suited to age. And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled, 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 father's guise, (Sweet issue of a more sweet smelling sire,) every little grief to wet his eyes: For To grow unto himself was his desire, And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good "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 minnte in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower." Thus weary of the world, away she hies, Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen |