Год Шекспира

ʼAy me’, quoth Venus, ʼYoung, and so unkind,
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone?
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind,
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
        I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
        If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

ʼThe sun that shines from heaven, shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm.
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,
        And were I not immortal, life were done,
        Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

ʼArt thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth:
Art thou a woman’s son and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
        O had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
        She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

ʼWhat am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair, but speak fair words, or else be mute.
        Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
        And one for interest if thou wilt have twain.

ʼFie, lifeless picture, cold, and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull, and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:
        Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
        For men will kiss even by their own direction.’

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause.
Red cheeks, and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause.
        And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
        And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound.
        And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
        She locks her lily fingers one in one.

ʼFondling’, she saith, ʼSince I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain, or in dale;
        Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
        Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

ʼWithin this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom grass, and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest, and from rain:
        Then be my deer, since I am such a park.
        No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
        Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
        Why there love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking:
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
        Poor Queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
        To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn.

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
        ʼPity’, she cries; ʼSome favour, some remorse.’
        Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud
Adonis’ tramping courier doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed being tied unto a tree
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder.
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder.
        The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,
        Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stand on end.
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send.
        His eye which scornfully glisters like fire
        Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty, and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ʼLo, thus my strength is tried.
        And this I do to captivate the eye
        Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flatt’ring ʼHolla’, or his ʼStand, I say!’
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
        He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
        Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed:
        So did this horse excel a common one
        In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide.
        Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
        Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whe’r he run or fly they know not whether:
        For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
        Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her.
She answers him as if she knew his mind.
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
        Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
        Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail, that, like a falling plume
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent.
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
        His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
        Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him
When, lo, the unbacked breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him;
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
        As they were mad unto the wood they hie them,
        Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swol’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast.

1592–1593