{"product_id":"the-sonnets-and-other-poems-isbn-9780812969207","title":"The Sonnets and Other Poems","description":"Shakespeare became famous as a dazzling poet before most people even knew that he wrote plays. His sonnets are the English language’s most extraordinary anatomy of love in all its dimensions–desire and despair, longing and loss, adoration and disgust. To read them is to confront morality and eternity in the same breath. Produced under the editorial supervision of Jonathan Bate and Eric Rasmussen, two of today’s most accomplished Shakespearean scholars, \u003cb\u003eThe Sonnets and Other Poems\u003c\/b\u003e includes all of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the long narrative poems “Venus and Adonis” and “The Rape of Lucrece,” and several other shorter works. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIncorporating definitive texts and authoritative notes from \u003cb\u003eWilliam Shakespeare: Complete Works\u003c\/b\u003e, this unique volume also includes an expanded Introduction by Jonathan Bate that places the poems in literary and historical context and illuminates their relationship to Shakespeare’s dramatic writing. Also featured are key facts about the individual selections; an index of the first lines of the sonnets; a chronology of Shakespeare’s life and times; and recommendations for further reading. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIdeal for students and general readers alike, this modern and accessible edition sets a new standard in Shakespearean literature for the twenty-first century.William Shakespeare was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in April 1564, and his birth is traditionally celebrated on April 23.  The facts of his life, known from surviving documents, are sparse.  He was one of eight children born to John Shakespeare, a merchant of some standing in his community.  William probably went to the King’s New School in Stratford, but he had no university education.  In November 1582, at the age of eighteen, he married Anne Hathaway, eight years his senior, who was pregnant with their first child, Susanna.  She was born on May 26, 1583.  Twins, a boy, Hamnet ( who would die at age eleven), and a girl, Judith, were born in 1585.  By 1592 Shakespeare had gone to London working as an actor and already known as a playwright.  A rival dramatist, Robert Greene, referred to him as “an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers.”  Shakespeare became a principal shareholder and playwright of the successful acting troupe, the Lord  Chamberlain’s Men (later under James I, called the King’s Men).  In 1599 the Lord Chamberlain’s Men built and occupied the Globe Theater in Southwark near the Thames River.  Here many of Shakespeare’s plays were performed by the most famous actors of his time, including Richard Burbage, Will Kempe, and Robert Armin.  In addition to his 37 plays, Shakespeare had a hand in others, including \u003ci\u003eSir Thomas More\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Two Noble Kinsmen\u003c\/i\u003e, and he wrote poems, including \u003ci\u003eVenus and Adonis\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Rape of Lucrece\u003c\/i\u003e. His 154 sonnets were published, probably without his authorization, in 1609.  In 1611 or 1612 he gave up his lodgings in London and devoted more and more time to retirement in Stratford, though he continued writing such plays as \u003cb\u003eThe Tempest\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eHenry VII\u003c\/b\u003e until about 1613.  He died on April 23 1616, and was buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford.  No collected edition of his plays was published during his life-time, but in 1623 two members of his acting company, John Heminges and Henry Condell, put together the great collection now called the First Folio.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVenus and ADONIS\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD RIGHT HONOURABLE, I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden; only if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart’s content, which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world’s hopeful expectation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour honour’s in all duty,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam Shakespeare\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEVEN as the sun with purple-coloured face\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd like a bold-faced suitor ’gins to woo him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Thrice-fairer than myself’, thus she began,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore white and red than doves or roses are:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNature that made thee, with herself at strife,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSaith that the world hath ending with thy life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd rein his proud head to the saddle-bow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere come and sit, where never serpent hisses,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut rather famish them amid their plenty,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking them red and pale with fresh variety:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTen kisses short as one, one long as twenty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA summer’s day will seem an hour but short,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith this she seizeth on his sweating palm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe precedent of pith and livelihood,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd trembling in her passion, calls it balm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing so enraged, desire doth lend her force\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCourageously to pluck him from his horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver one arm the lusty courser’s rein,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder her other was the tender boy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith leaden appetite, unapt to toy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe red and hot as coals of glowing fire,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe red for shame, but frosty in desire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe studded bridle on a ragged bough\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNimbly she fastens. O, how quick is love!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe steed is stallèd up, and even now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo tie the rider she begins to prove:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBackward she pushed him, as she would be thrust,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd governed him in strength though not in lust.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo soon was she along as he was down,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach leaning on their elbows and their hips:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd ’gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe burns with bashful shame, she with her tears\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen with her windy sighs and golden hairs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo fan and blow them dry again she seeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe saith she is immodest, blames her miss:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat follows more, she murders with a kiss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShaking her wings, devouring all in haste,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTill either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd where she ends, she doth anew begin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForced to content, but never to obey,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePanting he lies and breatheth in her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe feedeth on the steam, as on a pray,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo they were dewed with such distilling showers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook, how a bird lies tangled in a net,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo fastened in her arms Adonis lies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePure shame and awed resistance made him fret,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich bred more beauty in his angry eyes:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRain added to a river that is rank\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerforce will force it overflow the bank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill she entreats and prettily entreats,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill is he sullen, still he lours and frets,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing red, she loves him best, and being white,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer best is bettered with a more delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook how he can, she cannot choose but love,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd by her fair immortal hand she swears\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom his soft bosom never to remove\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTill he take truce with her contending tears,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich long have rained, making her cheeks all wet,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon this promise did he raise his chin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a dive-dapper peering through a wave,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho, being looked on, ducks as quickly in:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo offers he to give what she did crave,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when her lips were ready for his pay,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe winks and turns his lips another way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever did passenger in summer’s heat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore thirst for drink than she for this good turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer help she sees, but help she cannot get,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘O, pity,’ ’gan she cry, ‘flint-hearted boy!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e’Tis but a kiss I beg, why art thou coy?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I have been wooed, as I entreat thee now,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven by the stern and direful god of war,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho conquers where he comes in every jar,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet hath he been my captive and my slave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Over my altars hath he hung his lance,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis battered shield, his uncontrollèd crest,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScorning his churlish drum and ensign red,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking my arms his field, his tent my bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Thus he that overruled I overswayed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeading him prisoner in a red rose chain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStrong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet was he servile to my coy disdain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine —\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough mine be not so fair, yet are they red —\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat see’st thou in the ground? Hold up thy head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I will wink, so shall the day seem night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove keeps his revels where there are but twain:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe bold to play, our sport is not in sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese blue-veined violets whereon we lean\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever can blab nor know not what we mean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘The tender spring upon thy tempting lip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMake use of time, let not advantage slip,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeauty within itself should not be wasted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFair flowers that are not gathered in their prime\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRot and consume themselves in little time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Were I hard-favoured, foul or wrinkled-old,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIll-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO’erworn, despisèd, rheumatic and cold,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut having no defects, why dost abhor me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr like a fairy trip upon the green,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr like a nymph with long dishevelled hair\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDance on the sands and yet no footing seen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove is a spirit all compact of fire,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot gross to sink, but light and will aspire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo strengthless doves will draw me through the sky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom morn till night, even where I list to sport me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs love so light, sweet boy, and may it be\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat thou should think it heavy unto thee?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCan thy right hand seize love upon thy left?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen woo thyself, be of thyself rejected:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSteal thine own freedom and complain on theft.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNarcissus so himself himself forsook,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd died to kiss his shadow in the brook.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHerbs for their smell and sappy plants to bear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThings growing to themselves are growth’s abuse:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnless the earth with thy increase be fed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy law of nature thou art bound to breed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat thine may live when thou thyself art dead:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn that thy likeness still is left alive.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy this the lovesick queen began to sweat,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor where they lay the shadow had forsook them,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Titan, tirèd in the midday heat,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith burning eye did hotly overlook them,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWishing Adonis had his team to guide,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he were like him and by Venus’ side.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now Adonis with a lazy sprite\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike misty vapours when they blot the sky,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSouring his cheeks, cries, ‘Fie, no more of love!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun doth burn my face. I must remove.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘young and so unkind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShall cool the heat of this descending sun:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe heat I have from thence doth little harm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd were I not immortal, life were done\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetween this heavenly and earthly sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArt thou a woman’s son and canst not feel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr what great danger dwells upon my suit?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeak, fair, but speak fair words or else be mute:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGive me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell-painted idol, image dull and dead,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStatue contenting but the eye alone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThing like a man, but of no woman bred:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor men will kiss even by their own direction.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd swelling passion doth provoke a pause,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRed cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing judge in love, she cannot right her cause;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now she weeps and now she fain would speak,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now her sobs do her intendments break.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometime she shakes her head and then his hand,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow gazeth she on him, now on the ground;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometime her arms enfold him like a band,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe would, he will not in her arms be bound:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd when from thence he struggles to be gone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe locks her lily fingers one in one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Fondling,’ she saith, ‘since I have hemmed thee here\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin the circuit of this ivory pale,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll be a park and thou shalt be my deer :\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeed where thou wilt on mountain or in dale,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGraze on my lips and, if those hills be dry,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Within this limit is relief enough,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRound rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo shelter thee from tempest and from rain:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen be my deer, since I am such a park,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this Adonis smiles as in disdain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat in each cheek appears a pretty dimple;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLove made those hollows, if himself were slain,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe might be buried in a tomb so simple,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForeknowing well, if there he came to lie,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy, there love lived and there he could not die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOpened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing mad before, how doth she now for wits?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStruck dead at first, what needs a second striking?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePoor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow which way shall she turn? What shall she say?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer words are done, her woes are more increasing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe time is spent, her object will away,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd from her twining arms doth urge releasing:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Pity!’ she cries, ‘Some favour, some remorse!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAway he springs and hasteth to his horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdonis’ trampling courser doth espy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBreaketh his rein and to her straight goes he.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd now his woven girths he breaks asunder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eControlling what he was controllèd with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis ears up-pricked, his braided hanging mane\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon his compassed crest now stand on end,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis nostrils drink the air and forth again,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs from a furnace, vapours doth he send:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShows his hot courage and his high desire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometime he trots, as if he told the steps\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith gentle majesty and modest pride,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs who should say, ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd this I do to captivate the eye\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf the fair breeder that is standing by.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat recketh he his rider’s angry stir,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis flattering ‘Holla’, or his ‘Stand, I say’?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat cares he now for curb or pricking spur?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor rich caparisons or trappings gay?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sees his love and nothing else he sees,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook when a painter would surpass the life\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn limning out a well-proportioned steed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis art with nature’s workmanship at strife,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if the dead the living should exceed:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo did this horse excel a common one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRound-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBroad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHigh crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook what a horse should have he did not lack,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSave a proud rider on so proud a back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometime he scuds far off and there he stares,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnon he starts at stirring of a feather:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo bid the wind a base he now prepares,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd where he run or fly they know not whether:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor through his mane and tail the high wind sings,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFanning the hairs, who wave like feathered wings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looks upon his love and neighs unto her,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe answers him as if she knew his mind:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing proud, as females are, to see him woo her,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeating his kind embracements with her heels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, like a melancholy malcontent,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe vails his tail that like a falling plume\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCool shadow to his melting buttock lent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis love, perceiving how he was enraged,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrew kinder and his fury was assuaged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis testy master goeth about to take him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen, lo, the unbacked breeder, full of fear,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her the horse, and left Adonis there:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutstripping crows that strive to overfly them.Edited by Jonathan Bate and Eric Rasmussen RSC","brand":"Modern Library","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304504905957,"sku":"NP9780812969207","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812969207.jpg?v=1767741590","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-sonnets-and-other-poems-isbn-9780812969207","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}