Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/55

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass:
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
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe, are both of them extreams,
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts, the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she had wrought,
Adonis lives, and death is not to blame:
It was not she that call'd him all to nought,
Now she adds honor to his hateful name,
She cleeps him King of graves, and Grave for Kings,
Imperial supreme of all mortal things.

No, no (quoth she) sweet death I did but jest;
Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,
When as I met the Boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no Pity, but is still severe:
Then gentle shadow (truth I must confess)
I rail'd on thee, fearing my loves decease.

'Tis not my fault: the Boar provok't my tongue,
Be wreak't on him (invisible commander)

'Tis