Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/62

Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustuous matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime, death doth my love destroy,
They that love best, their love shall not enjoy.

By this, the Boy that by her side lay kill'd,
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower sprung up checker'd with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis breath:
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

Poor flower (quoth she) this was thy fathers guise,
(Sweet issue of a more sweet smelling Sire)
For every little grief to wet his eyes,
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine: but know, it is as good
To wither in my brest, as in his blood.

Here was thy fathers bed, here is my brest,
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Loe, in this hollow Cradle take thy rest,
My thrubbing heart shall rock thee day and night:

There