‘I have been wooed 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 begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance,

His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,

And for my sake hath learned 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 over-ruled I overswayed,

Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain.

Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

For mast’ring her that foiled 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 eyeballs: 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 there are but twain.

Be bold to play—our sport is not in sight.

These blue-veined 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 gathered in their prime

Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

‘Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,

Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,

O’er-worn, 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 grey, 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, dishevelled 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 should 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 lovesick queen began to sweat,

For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,

And Titan, tired in the midday 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 sprite

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 mak’st 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.