Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/58

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumbly she passions, frantickly she doteth,
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so stedfastly,
That her sight dazling, makes the wound seem three,
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled,
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

My tongue cannot express my grief for one;
And yet (quoth she) behold two Adons dead:
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone;
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead,
Heavy hearts lead melt at mine eyes red fire:
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost?
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is musick now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or anything ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh & trim:
But true sweet beauty liv'd and dy'd in him.

Bonnet or veile, henceforth no creature wear;
Nor Sun nor Wind will ever strive to kiss you.

Ha-