This found of hope doth labour to expell: For now reviving Joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prifon'd in her eye, like pearls in glass:
Yet fometimes falls an orient drop befide,
Which her check melts, as fcorning it should pafs
To wash the foul face of the fluttish ground,
Who is but drunken, when the feemeth drown'd.

O hard-believing Love! how ftrange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woc are both of them extremes,
Defpair and hope make thee ridiculous!

The one doth flatter thee, in thoughts unlikely.

With likely thoughts, the other kills thee quickly.

Now fhe unweaves the web that fhe had wrought,
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame :
It was not the that call'd him all to nought,
Now fhe adds honour to his hateful name:

As faulcon to the lure, away fhe flics:
The grafs itoops not, the treads on it 10 light,
And in her hafte unfortunately fpies
The foul boar's conqueft on her fair delight.
Which feen, her eyes, as murder'd with t
view,

Like stars afham'd of day, themselves withdren.

Or as the fnail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks back in his fhelly cave with pain,
And there, all fmother'd up, in shade deth it,
Long after fearing, to creep forth again :

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

Where they refign'd their office and their light
To the difpofing of her troubled brain :
Who bids them ftill confort with ugly Nigh,
And never wound the heart with locks again:
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their fuggeitions gives a deadly grean.

Whereat each tributary fubject quakes,
As when the wind imprifon'd in the ground,

Tells him of trophies, ftatues, tombs, and ftories,

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

O Jove! quoth fhe, how much a fool was I,
To be of fuch 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 flain,
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 (unwitneffed with eye, or ear)
Thy coward heart, with falfe bethinking grieves.
Even at this word the hears a merry horn,
Whereat the leaps, that was but late forlorn.

Which with cold terrors doth men's mind found,

This mutiny each part doth fo furprize, That from their dark beds once more leap i

To recreate himself when he hath fung,
The tyger wou'd be tame, and gently hear him :
If he had spoke, the wolf wou'd leave his prey,
And never fright the filly lamb that day.

When he beheld his fhadow in a brook,
There fishes fpread on it their golden gills:
When he was by, the birds fuch pleasure took,
That fome would fing, fome other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries, and ripe red
cherries;

He fed them with his fight, they him with berries.

But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whofe downward eye ftill looketh for a grave,
Ne'er faw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave.
If he did fee his face, why then I know,
He thought to kifs him, and hath kill'd him

fo.

Tis true, 'tis true, thus was Adonis flain,
He ran upon the boar with his fharp fpear,
Who wou'd not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kifs thought to perfuade him there:
And noufling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath'd unaware his tufk in his foft groin.

Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confefs,
With kiffing him, I fhould have kill'd him firft.
But he is dead, and never did he blefs
My mouth with his; the more am I accurs'd.

Two glaffes where her felf her felf beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue loft, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.

Wonder of time! (quoth fhe) this is my fpight. That, you being dead, the day shou'd yet be light.

Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophefy,
Sorrow, on love, hereafter fhall attend;
It fhall be waited on with jealousy,
Find fweet beginning but unfavoury end,
Ne'er fettled equally too high, or low:
That all Love's pleasures fhall not match his

And fays, within her bofom it fhall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping fap, which the compares to

tears.

Poor Flower! (quoth fhe) this was thy father's guife,

(Sweet iffue of a more sweet-smelling fire)
For every little grief to wet his eyes,
To grow unto himself was his defire,

And fo 'tis thine; but know it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.

Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right;
Low in this hollow cradle take thy reft,
My throbbing heart fhall rock thee day and night;
There fhall not be one minute af an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my fweet Love's dow-

er.

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her filver doves, by whofe fwift aid,
Their mistress mounted, through the empty
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;

Holding their courfe to Paphos, where ther
Queen

Means to immure herself, and not be seen.