Page 2257 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

«So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, [765]
Or butcher sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul cank’ring rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that’s put to use more gold begets».

«Nay then», quoth Adon, «you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme. [770]

The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For by this black-fac’d night, desire’s foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

«If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, [775]

And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs,
Yet from my heart the tempting tune is blown;
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there; [780]

«Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast,
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest.

No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan, [785]
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

«What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.
I hate not love, but your device in love

That lends embracements unto every stranger. [790]
You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse!

«Call it not love, for love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating lust on earth usurp’d his name;