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Even as the sun with purple-coloured face

Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,

Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase.

Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.

Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,

And like a bold-faced suitor ’gins to woo him.

‘Thrice fairer than myself,’ thus she began,

‘The fields’ chief flower, sweet above compare,

Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,

More white and red than doves or roses are–

Nature that made thee with herself at strife

Saith that the world hath ending with thy Iife.

‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed

A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.

Here come and sit where never serpent hisses;

And, being sat, I’ll smother thee with kisses,

‘And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,

But rather famish them amid their plenty,

Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety;

Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.

A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,

Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.’

With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm,

The precedent of pith and livelihood,

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