Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/150

Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong,
To sing heavens praise with such an earthly toung.

Scarce had the Sunne dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea (all in love forlorne)
A longing tariance for Adonis made
Under an Osyer growing by a brooke,
A brooke, where Adon us'd to coole his spleene:
Hot was the day, she hotter that did looke
For his approch, that often there had beene.
Anon he comes, and throws his Mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The Sunne look'd on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly, as this Queen on him:
He spying her, bounc'd in (whereas he stood)
Oh Jove (quoth she) why was not I a flood?

Fair is my Love, but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a Dove, but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glasse, and yet as glasse is brittle,
Softer than waxe, and yet as iron rusty:
A little pale, with damaske die to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kisse her othes of true love swearing:
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the losse whereof still fearing;

Yet