Part 6

Lines 841–1008

841 Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
842 For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
843 If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight
844 In such like circumstance, with such like sport:
845 Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
846 End without audience, and are never done.
847 For who hath she to spend the night withal,
848 But idle sounds resembling parasites;
849 Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call,
850 Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
851 She says, ''Tis so:' they answer all, ''Tis so;'
852 And would say after her, if she said 'No'.
853 Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
854 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
855 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
856 The sun ariseth in his majesty;
857 Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
858 That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
859 Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow:
860 'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
861 From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
862 The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
863 There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,
864 May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other'
865 This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
866 Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
867 And yet she hears no tidings of her love;
868 She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
869 Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
870 And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
871 And as she runs, the bushes in the way
872 Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
873 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
874 She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
875 Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
876 Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
877 By this she hears the hounds are at a bay;
878 Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
879 Wreath'd up in fatal folds just in his way,
880 The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
881 Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
882 Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.
883 For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
884 But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
885 Because the cry remaineth in one place,
886 Wilere fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
887 Finding their enemy to be so curst,
888 They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.
889 This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
890 Througll which it enters to surprise her heart;
891 Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
892 With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part;
893 Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
894 They basely fly and dare not stay the field.
895 Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,
896 Till, cheering up her senses sore dismay'd,
897 She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
898 And childish error, that they are afraid;
899 Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:
900 And with that word she spied the hunted boar;
901 Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,
902 Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
903 A second fear through all her sinews spread,
904 Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
905 This way she runs, and now she will no further,
906 But back retires to rate the boar for murther.
907 A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
908 She treads the path that she untreads again;
909 Her more than haste is mated with delays,
910 Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
911 Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
912 In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
913 Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
914 And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
915 And there another licking of his wound,
916 Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
917 And here she meets another sadly scowling,
918 To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
919 When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise,
920 Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
921 Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
922 Another and another answer him,
923 Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
924 Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
925 Look, how the world's poor people are amaz'd
926 At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,
927 Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz'd,
928 Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
929 So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath,
930 And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
931 'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
932 Hateful divorce of love,'—thus chides she Death,—
933 'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
934 To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
935 Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set
936 Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
937 'If he be dead, O no! it cannot be,
938 Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it;
939 O yes! it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
940 But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
941 Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
942 Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.
943 'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
944 And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
945 The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
946 They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower.
947 Love's golden arrow at him shoull have fled,
948 And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.
949 'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping?
950 What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
951 Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
952 Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
953 Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour
954 Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'
955 Here overcome, as one full of despair,
956 She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp'd
957 The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
958 In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd
959 But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
960 And with his strong course opens them again.
961 O! how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow;
962 Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
963 Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
964 Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
965 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
966 Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
967 Variable passions throng her constant woe,
968 As striving who should best become her grief;
969 All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
970 That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
971 But none is best; then join they all together,
972 Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
973 By this, far off she hears some huntsman holloa;
974 A nurse's song no'er pleas'd her babe so well:
975 The dire imagination she did follow
976 This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
977 For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
978 And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.
979 Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
980 Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass;
981 Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
982 Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass
983 To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
984 Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
985 O hard-believing love! how strange it seems
986 Not to believe, and yet too credulous;
987 Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
988 Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:
989 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
990 In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
991 Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought,
992 Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
993 It was not she that call'd him all to naught,
994 Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
995 She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings,
996 Imperious supreme of all mortal things.
997 'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;
998 Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear
999 Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast,
1000 Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
1001 Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess—
1002 I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.
1003 'Tis not my fault: the boar provok'd my tongue;
1004 Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
1005 'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
1006 I did but act, he 's author of my slander:
1007 Grief hath two tongues: and never woman yet,
1008 Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'

Notes

TLN 848archaic vocab
“idle sounds resembling parasites”
'Parasites' here means flatterers or yes-men — people who tell the powerful only what they want to hear in order to gain favour. The word comes from Latin 'parasitus,' a dinner-guest who flatters the host in exchange for a free meal. Venus's only company is the echo of her own voice, which, like a sycophant, agrees with everything she says.
TLN 849archaic vocab
“shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call”
A 'tapster' was the person in a tavern or alehouse who drew ('tapped') the beer from the barrel and served it, calling back the order to confirm it. The image captures a mindless, reflexive echo: just as tapsters shout back 'coming!' to every call regardless of who makes it, the sounds Venus hears merely repeat what she says.
TLN 853archaic vocab
“weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high”
'Cabinet' here means a small, sheltered inner room or recess — the lark's nest or roosting-place in the dewy grass. 'Moist' refers to the dew-wet earth or undergrowth. The lark rises from its damp, enclosed resting-place to signal the start of day, waking the sun-god in the following lines.
TLN 860classical allusion
“O thou clear god, and patron of all light”
Venus addresses the rising sun as a deity — 'clear god' meaning the bright, radiant sun-god. In classical mythology the sun was the god Phoebus Apollo (or Helios/Sol), patron of light, whose rays all stars and lamps merely borrow. Venus claims that even the sun borrows its brightness from Adonis, her son ('a son that suck'd an earthly mother') — a hyperbole that sets Adonis above the gods.
classical Venus and Adonis
TLN 865classical allusion
“she hasteth to a myrtle grove”
The myrtle was the sacred tree of Venus in classical mythology — used in her worship, worn at weddings, and associated with erotic love throughout Ovid and Virgil. Setting the anxious Venus in a myrtle grove identifies her domain even as she has lost control of it; her own sacred tree becomes the shelter of a frantic, unanswered lover.
classical Venus and Adonis
TLN 870archaic vocab
“she coasteth to the cry”
'Coasteth' means moves along the edge of something, making her way toward it obliquely or following the sound — not quite running straight at it but steering toward the noise the hounds make ('the cry'). 'The cry' is the technical hunting term for the pack in full voice.
TLN 875archaic vocab
“Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache”
'Milch' means a female animal that is nursing young and producing milk; 'dugs' are the animal's teats or udders. The simile compares Venus's urgent, aching rush through the thorny bushes to a nursing doe who must reach her hidden fawn before her engorged udders become painful. Both are driven by a physical compulsion they cannot resist.
TLN 877archaic vocab
“hounds are at a bay”
'At a bay' is a technical hunting term meaning the quarry has turned and is standing its ground against the hounds, which are surrounding it and barking furiously in one place rather than running. A 'bay' is the position of a cornered animal at bay. This tells Venus that the hunted animal is no longer fleeing — it has stopped, which means it is something dangerous enough to turn and fight.
TLN 888wordplay
“They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first”
'Strain courtesy' means to stretch or exert courtesy — here used ironically: instead of competing for honour in attacking the boar, the terrified dogs are competing in politeness, each hanging back and letting the others go first. 'Cope' means to engage or fight. The line is darkly comic: hounds trained to attack are instead deferring to one another like nervous courtiers.
TLN 895archaic vocab
“trembling ecstasy”
'Ecstasy' in Elizabethan English did not mean joy or rapture but rather a state of being 'outside oneself' — a trance, stupor, or fit in which the mind is overwhelmed and the person stands frozen or beside themselves. Venus stands in a 'trembling ecstasy': a shaking, paralysed stupor of fear, not a moment of bliss.
TLN 907archaic vocab
“A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways”
The 'spleen' in Elizabethan physiology was the organ thought to be the seat of sudden impulses, passionate moods, and violent whims. 'A thousand spleens' means a thousand conflicting impulses or fits of feeling, each pulling Venus in a different direction so that she cannot settle on one course of action. She is pulled apart by her own panic.
TLN 914archaic vocab
“asks the weary caitiff for his master”
'Caitiff' (pronounced KAY-tiff) is a term of contempt or pity meaning a base, miserable, or wretched creature. Here it is used with pity rather than scorn: the injured, exhausted hound is a 'caitiff' in the sense of a wretched, beaten thing. Venus speaks to it as she would to a wretch asking after its owner.
TLN 920archaic vocab
“flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice”
'Welkin' is an archaic word for the sky or heavens — common in Elizabethan verse but no longer in use. The hound 'volleys out his voice against the welkin' means it sends up a volley of howls into the sky. 'Flap-mouthed' describes the loose, hanging lips of a large hound, characteristic of breeds like bloodhounds and mastiffs.
TLN 931rhetorical device
“Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love”
This is an apostrophe — a rhetorical figure in which a speaker addresses an absent or abstract entity as if it were present. Venus turns directly to Death ('thus chides she Death') and harangues it with a string of insults. The list of abusive epithets — tyrant, ugly, lean, grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm — is a recognisable rhetorical technique called 'accumulatio' (heaping up), designed to overwhelm with contempt.
TLN 945classical allusion
“The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke”
The Destinies — the classical Fates (Greek Moirai, Latin Parcae) — were three goddesses who spun, measured, and cut the thread of every mortal life. Clotho spun the thread, Lachesis measured it, and Atropos cut it. Venus argues that Death has overstepped his authority: the Fates, not Death himself, decide when a life ends, so by killing Adonis before his time Death has offended them.
TLN 956archaic vocab
“She vail'd her eyelids”
'Vailed' means lowered or let fall. To 'vail' (also 'vale') an eyelid, a flag, or a sail was to lower it as a sign of submission or grief. Venus droops her eyelids like sluice-gates, and for a moment the tears stop — until the 'flood-gates break' in the next lines. The word comes from French 'avaler,' to lower.
TLN 981archaic vocab
“sometimes falls an orient drop beside”
'Orient' here is an adjective meaning luminous, lustrous, or of gem-like brightness — specifically associated with pearls from the East (the 'Orient'), which were prized above all others for their sheen. An 'orient drop' is a single tear as bright and perfect as a precious eastern pearl. The image continues the previous description of tears as 'pearls in glass' (TLN 980).
TLN 991rhetorical device
“she unweaves the web that she hath wrought”
The narrator uses weaving as a metaphor for Venus's rapid mental reversals: having woven together a story in her mind (that Adonis is dead), she now unravels it and spins a new one (that he lives). The web is her thinking — built up with care like woven cloth, then undone. The metaphor emphasises how erratic grief-driven thought is, building and dismantling constantly.
TLN 995archaic vocab
“She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things”
'Clepes' is an archaic verb meaning 'calls' or 'names' — from Old English 'cleopian.' Having just cursed Death, Venus now flatters it with grand titles: 'king of graves, and grave for kings' (a tomb that holds even monarchs), and 'imperious supreme of all mortal things' (absolute ruler over everything that dies). The pivot from abuse to flattery is calculated: she now wants a favour from Death.