O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow; Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry, But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best; then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass, To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd. О hard-believing love! how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous; Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous: The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought, Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame; It was not she that call'd him all to naught, Now she adds honours to his hateful name; She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow, — truth I must confess, — I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease. 'Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander; 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he 's author of my slander: Grief hath two tongues: and never woman yet, Could rule them both without ten women's wit.' Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With Death she humbly doth insinuate; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs; and stories His victories, his triumphs, and his glories. 'О Jove!' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind; For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 'Fie, fie, fond love! thou art so full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves; Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.' Even at this word she hears a merry horn Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew: Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
