His Venus is the instigator of the relationship, stymied by the youthful Adonis, who is not ready, not experienced with love—and perhaps thrown off balance by being the pursued rather than the pursuer. He had set out to go hunting the boar. But he was also unnaturally handsome, and, if it had not been Venus herself, it would have been dozens of other women unable to resist his attractiveness. In the plays to come, Shakespeare expands on this vital force that shapes so much of our lives that we call simply Love.
Hunting he loved, but love—he laughed to scorn; Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-faced suitor begins to woo him. Vouchsafe, you wonder, to alight your steed, And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow. If you will deign this favor, for your meed A thousand honey secrets shall you know. And yet not cloy your lips with loathed satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty, Making them red and pale with fresh variety.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly she fastens—O! Backward she pushed him, as she would be thrust, And governed him in strength, though not in lust. So soon was she along, as he was down, Each leaning on their elbows and their hips— Now does she stroke his cheek, now does he frown, And begins to chide, but soon she stops his lips; And, kissing, speaks, with lustful language broken: If you will chide, your lips shall never open.
He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears Does quench the maiden burning of his cheeks. Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs To fan and blow them dry again she seeks: He says she is immodest, blames her miss; What follows more she murders with a kiss. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone; Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends she does anew begin.
She fed on the steam, as on a prey, And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace; Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers So they were dewed with such distilling showers. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale. Still is he sullen, still he lowers and frets, Between crimson shame and anger ashy-pale. Being red she loves him best—and being white, Her best is bettered with a more delight. Look how he can, she cannot choose but love— And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet— And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in. So offers he to give what she did crave, But when her lips were ready for his pay— He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: O! I have been wooed, as I entreat you now, Even by the stern and direful god of war, Whose sinewy neck in battle never did bow, Who conquers where he comes in every jar. Yet has he been my captive and my slave, And begged for that which you unasked shall have. Over my altars has he hung his lance, His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest, And for my sake has learned to sport and dance To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest.
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. Thus he that overruled I overswayed, Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain. Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine— Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red— The kiss shall be your own as well as mine: What see you in the ground? Hold up your head. Look in my eyeballs—there your beauty lies. Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? Love keeps his revels where there are but twain— Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight: These blue-veined violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
The tender spring upon your tempting lip Shows you unripe, yet may you well be tasted. Make use of time, let not advantage slip— Beauty within itself should not be wasted. Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. Were I hard-favored, foul, or wrinkled-old, Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, Overworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice— Then might you pause, for then I were not for you.
But, having no defects, why do abhor me? You cannot see one wrinkle in my brow. My eyes are grey and bright, and quick in turning. My beauty as the spring does yearly grow; My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning.
My smooth moist hand, were it with your hand felt. Would in your palm dissolve, or seem to melt. Bid me discourse—I will enchant your ear, Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn till night, even where I list to sport me. Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That you should think it heavy unto thee? Is your own heart to shine own face affected?
Can your right hand seize love upon your left? Then woo yourself, be of yourself rejected, Steal your own freedom, and complain on theft. Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breeded beauty; You were begot; to beget, it is your duty. By law of nature you are bound to breed, That you may live when you yourself are dead. And so, in spite of death, you do survive, In that your likeness still is left alive. No more of love. The sun does burn my face; I must remove. What bare excuses make you to be gone! The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And lo! I lie between that sun and you: The heat I have from thence does little harm, Your eye darts forth the fire that burned me.
And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly sun. Are you obdurate, flinty, hard as steel? How want of love torments? What am I that you should contemn me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What, were your lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute. This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion does 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 gazed she on him, now on the ground.
Sometimes her arms enfold 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. Feed where you will, on mountain or in dale; Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter you from tempest and from rain: Then be my deer, since I am such a park; No dog shall rouse you, though a thousand bark. Being mad before, how does she now for wits? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor queen of love, in your own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at you in scorn!
Now which way shall she turn? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing; The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms does urge releasing.
Pity she cries some favor, some remorse! Away he springs, and hastened to his horse. Venus and Adonis are stories about the goddess Venus and his love for mortal Adonis. The poem begins as Venus disperses an unwilling Adonis. She praises him very clearly and tries to persuade her to sit beside him and accept his kiss.
However, Adonis is unforgettable and eager to go hunting, so he removes him and goes in search of his own horse. His horse, however, has grown into a more romantic mood, riding a great horse without having to ride the desperate Adonis.
Venus is the goddess of affection, and when she sees Adonis unexpectedly, she begins to look all starry eyed at him and comes rational to meet him. At the point when they meet, Adonis is going to set out on a chase. She needs him to get down from his pony and converse with her for a brief period, however he isn't keen on doing as such. Because she's a goddess doesn't imply that Adonis needs to inconvenience himself to become acquainted with her.
She compels him to get off the pony, and continues to rests close to him, discussing love, and gazing at him as though hypnotized. All Venus needs is for Adonis to kiss her. All Adonis needs is for Venus to disregard him with the goal that he can go chasing. He rushes toward it and goes to get his pony so he can jog away. Be that as it may, at accurately this second, Adonis' pony turns out to be incredibly intrigued by another pony, who, similar to Adonis, is from the start impervious to his follower's advances.
Following a short time, the subsequent pony's gatekeeper is down, and the two creatures run off together, which rather ruins Adonis' arrangements to go chasing. Venus considers this to be her second; she strolls over to Adonis and starts conversing with him again about affection.
He tunes in for a moment however isn't keen on having an exchange with her and dismisses. This resembles a blade through Venus' heart and she. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale; Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale: Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Her best is better'd with a more delight. Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave; But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer's heat More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
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