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Thus ftands she in a trembling extasy,
Till cheering up her senses fore dismaid,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid ;

Bids them leave quaking, wills them fear no more:
And with that word, the spy'd the hunted boar..

Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear thro' all her fimews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither..

This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murder.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the paths that she untreads again ;
Her more than hafte is marred with delays :
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,

Full of refpect, yet not at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting

Here kennel'd in a brake, she finds an hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master ;.
And there another licking of his wound,
Gainst venom'd fores the only sovereign plaifter :

And here she meets another fadly scolding,
To whom the speaks, and he replies with howling -

When he had ceas'd his-ill-resounding noife,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, blaek and grimg..
Against the welkin vollies out his voice ;
Another and another answer him,

Clapping their proud tails to the ground belowy.
Shaking their scracht ears, bleeding as they gp..

BS

Look how the world's poor people are amaz'd
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon, with fearful eyes, they long have gaz'd,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies :

So she, at these sad figns, draws up her breath,
And fighing it again, exclaims on dearh.

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Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love (thus chides she death)
Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou
To ftifle beauty, and to steal his breath? [mean?

Who when he livid, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, fmell to the violet.

If he be dead, O no! it cannot be !
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldīt strike at it.
O! yes, it may; thou haft no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.

Thy mark is feeble age ; but thy false dart
Miftakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.

Hadft thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The destinies 'will curse thee for this stroke,
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower :

Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not death's ebon dart to strike him dead.

1

Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weepWhat may a heavy groan advantage thee?

[ing? Why haft thou cast into eternal fleeping Those eyes, that taught all other eyes to see?

Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.

Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She veil'd her eye-lids, which like fluices stopp'd
The crystal tide, that from her two cheeks fair,
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd.

But thro' the flood-gates breaks the filver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.

0! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! Her eyes

seen in her tears, tears in her eye ; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's forrow : Sorrow, that friendly lighs sought fill 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 which should best become her grief :
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present forrow 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 hollow ::
A nurse's song ne'er pleas’d her babe so wello
The dire imagination she did follow,
This found 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 prisond in her eye, like pearls in glass :
Yet sometime falls an orient drop belide,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pafs

To wash the foul face of the fluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd,

O hard believing love ! how ftrange 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,
With likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought,
Adonis lives, and death is not to blame :
It was not she that call’d him all to nought.
Now llie adds honour to his hateful name :

She 'cleeps him king of graves, and grave for kings,
Imperial supreme of mortal things.

No, no, (quoth she) sweet death, I did but jeft;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe.

Then gentle fhadow (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 be, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong, I did but act, he's author of thy flander.

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Cou'd rule ihem both without ten women's wit.

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, :
Her rash fufpect the doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death the humbly doth infinuate :

Tells him of trophies, ftatues, tombs, and stories,
His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

Jove! quoth she, how much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and filly 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 lain,
And beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Fye! fye ! fond love, thou art fo full of fear,
As one with treasure laden, hem'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 the leaps, that was but late forlorn,

As faulcon to the lure, away fhe flies :
The grass stoops not, the treads on it so light,
And in her hafte unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight.

Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars alham'd of day, themselves withdrew.

Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his fhelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in fhade doth fit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again :

So, at his bloody view her eyes are filed
Into the deep dark cabins of her head.

Where they resign’d their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain :
Who bids them ftill consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again :

Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestions gives a deadly groan.

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