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Author: William Shakespeare
Editor: Hardy M. Cook
Peer Reviewed

Venus and Adonis (Quarto 1, 1592-3)


Poore floure (quoth she) this was thy fathers guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet smelling sire,
For euerie little griefe to wet his eies,
1180To grow vnto himselfe 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 in my brest,
Thou art the next of blood, and tis thy right.
1185Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing hart shall rock thee day and night;
There shall not be one minute in an houre,
VVherein I wil not kisse my sweet loues floure.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
1190And yokes her siluer doues, by whose swift aide,
Their mistresse mounted through the emptie skies,
In her light chariot, quickly is conuaide,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen,
Meanes to immure her selfe, and not beseen.