Page:Hero and Leander - Marlowe and Chapman (1821).pdf/158

In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore,
And breaking the icy wreath sweet Hero wore,
She forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew,
And said, "Now, minion! to thy fate be true,
Though not to me; endure what this portends!
Begin where lightness will, in shame it ends.
Love makes thee cunning; thou art current now,
By being counterfeit: thy broken vow
Deceit with her pied garters must rejoin,
And with her stamp thou count'nances must coin:
Coyness, and pure deceits for purities,
And still a maid will seem in cozen'd eyes,
And have an antic face to laugh within,
While thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin.
But since thy lips, (least thought forsworn,) forswore,
Be never virgin's vow worth^[1] trusting more."

When Beauty's dearest did her Goddess hear,
Breathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not clear;
Dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood,
That from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood,
From the sweet conduits of her favor^[2] fell.
The gentle turtles did with moans make swell

1. with, edit. 1606.
2. savor, edit. 1606.