Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief; 968
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. 972
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; 976
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; 980
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.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems 985
Not to believe, and yet too credulous;
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous, 988
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; 992
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. 996
“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; 1000
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; 1004
’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, 1009
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With death she humbly doth insinuate; 1012
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs and stories
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.
“O love!” quoth she, “how much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and silly mind, 1016
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. 1020
“Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as 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.” 1024
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.