 | The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable |  |
iii
THE SHEEPHEARD'S SONG OF VENUS & ADONIS
H. C.
VENUS FAIRE DID RIDE.
SILVER DOVES THEY DREW HER,
BY THE PLEASANT LAWNDS,
ERE THE SUNNE DID RISE;
VESTA'S BEAUTIE RICH
OPEN'D WIDE TO VIEW HER;
PHILOMEL RECORDS
PLEASING HARMONIES.
iv
Cheerefully did sing;
Paphos' goddesse they salute;
Now Love's Queene so faire
Had of mirth no care,
For her sonne had made her mute.
In her breast so tender
He a shaft did enter,
When her eyes beheld a boy;
Adonis was he named,
By his mother shamed;
Yet he now is Venus' joy.
Him alone she met
Ready bound for hunting;
Him she kindly greetes,
And his journey stayes;
Him she seekes to kisse,
No devises wanting;
Him her eyes still wooe;
Him her tongue still prayes.
He with blushing red
Hangeth downe the head;
Not a kisse can he afford;
His face is turn'd away;
Silence sayd her nay;
Still she woo'd him for a word.
Speake, she said, thou fairest;
Beautie thou impairest,
See me, I am pale and wan;
Lovers all adore mee,
I for love implore thee.
Christall teares with that downe ran.
v
To come sit downe by her;
Shee his neck embrac'd,
Gazing in his face;
Hee, like one transform'd,
Stir'd no looke to eye her;
Every hearbe did wooe him
Growing in that place,
Each bird with a dittie
Prayed him for pitty
In behalfe of Beautie's Queene.
Water's gentle murmour
Craved him to love her,
Yet no liking could be seene.
Boy, she sayd, looke on mee,
Still I gaze upon thee;
Speake, I pray thee, my delight!
Coldly hee replyed,
And in breefe denyed
To bestow on her a sight:
I am now too young
To be wunne by beauty;
Tender are my yeeres,
I am yet a bud.
Fayre thou art, shee said;
Then it is thy dutie,
Wert thou but a blossome,
To effect my good.
Every beauteous flower
Boasteth in my power;
Byrds and beasts my lawes effect;
Mirrha, thy faire mother,
Most of any other
vi
Be with me delighted,
Thou shalt be requited:
Every Nimph on thee shall tend,
All the Gods shall love thee,
Man shall not reprove thee,
Love himselfe shall be thy freend.
Wend thee from mee, Venus;
I am not disposed;
Thou wringst mee too hard;
Pre-thee let me goe.
Fie! what a paine it is
Thus to be enclosed!
If love begin with labour
It will end in woe.
Kiss me, I will leave.
Heere a kisse receive:
A short kisse I doe it find;
Wilt thou leave me so?
Yet thou shalt not goe.
Breathe once more thy balmie wind;
It smelleth of the mirh-tree
That to the world did bring thee,
Never was perfume so sweet.
When she thus had spoken
Shee gave him a token,
And theyr naked bosoms meet.
Now, hee sayd, let's goe;
Harke, the hounds are crying,
Grieslie Boare is up,
Hunts-men follow fast.
At the name of Boare
Venus seemed dying,
vii
Roses over-cast.
Speake, sayd shee, no more
Of following the Boare,
Thou unfit for such a chase;
Course the fearefull Hare,
Venson do not spare,
If thou wilt yeeld Venus grace.
Shun the Boare, I pray thee;
Else I still will stay thee.
Herein he vowed to please her minde.
Then her armes enlarged;
Loth shee him discharged;
Forth he went as swift as winde.
Thetis Phœbus' steedes
In the west retained,
Hunting sport was past;
Love her love did seeke.
Sight of him too soone,
Gentle Queene, shee gained.
On the ground he lay;
Blood had left his cheeke;
For an orped swine
Smit him in the groyne;
Deadly wound his death did bring.
Which when Venus found,
She fell in a swound;
And awakt, her hands did wring.
Nimphs and Satires skipping,
Came together tripping;
Eccho every cry exprest.
viii
Turn'd him to a flower,
Which shee weareth in her creast.
THE END
| The Poems and Sonnets of Henry Constable | |