Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,

Whereat th’impartial gazer late did wonder,

Are on the sudden wasted, thawed, and done,

As mountain snow melts with the midday sun.

‘Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,

Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,

That on the earth would breed a scarcity

And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,

Be prodigal. The lamp that burns by night

Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

‘What is thy body but a swallowing grave,

Seeming to bury that posterity

Which, by the rights of time, thou needs must have

If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?

If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,

Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

‘So in thyself thyself art made away,

A mischief worse than civil, home-bred strife,

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,

Or butcher sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul cank‘ring rust the hidden treasure frets,

But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.’

‘Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘You will fall again

Into your idle, over-handled theme.

The kiss I gave you is bestowed in vain,

And all in vain you strive against the stream;

For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul nurse,

Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

‘If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,

And every tongue more moving than your own,

Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs,

Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown;

For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,

And will not let a false sound enter there,

‘Lest the deceiving harmony should run

Into the quiet closure of my breast,

And then my little heart were quite undone,

In his bedchamber to be barred of rest.

No, lady, no. My heart longs not to groan,

But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

‘What have you urged that I cannot reprove?

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.

I hate not love, but your device in love,

That lends embracements unto every stranger.

You do it for increase—O strange excuse,

When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse!

‘Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled

Since sweating lust on earth usurped his name,

Under whose simple semblance he hath fed

Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;

Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,

As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

‘Love comforteth, like sunshine after rain,

But lust’s effect is tempest after sun.

Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain;

Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done.

Love surfeits not; lust like a glutton dies.

Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies.

‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say;

The text is old, the orator too green.

Therefore in sadness now I will away;

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen.

Mine ears that to your wanton talk attended

Do burn themselves for having so offended.’

With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace

Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,

And homeward through the dark laund runs apace,

Leaves love upon her back, deeply distressed.

Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky,

So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye,

Which after him she darts, as one on shore

Gazing upon a late-embarkèd friend

Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,

Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend.

So did the merciless and pitchy night

Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amazed, as one that unaware

Hath dropped a precious jewel in the flood,

Or stonished, as night wand’rers often are,

Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood:

Even so, confounded in the dark she lay,

Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,

That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,

Make verbal repetition of her moans;

Passion on passion deeply is redoubled.

‘Ay me,’ she cries, and twenty times ‘Woe, woe!’

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She, marking them, begins a wailing note,

And sings extemporally a woeful ditty,

How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote,

How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty.

Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,

And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night;

For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short.

If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight

In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport.

Their copious stories oftentimes begun

End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal

But idle sounds resembling parasites,

Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,

Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?

She says ‘’Tis so’; they answer all ‘’Tis so’,

And would say after her, if she said ‘No’.

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high

And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun ariseth in his majesty,

Who doth the world so gloriously behold