Page 2241 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away, [255]

And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
«Pity», she cries, «some favour, some remorse!»
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, [260]

Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck’d steed being tied unto a tree,

Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, [265]
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;

The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with. [270]

His ears up-prick’d, his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again

As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye which scornfully glisters like fire [275]
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,

With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say «Lo thus my strength is tried: [280]
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by».