TO 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
               my self 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 expectations.

    Your honour's in all duty,
            William Shakespeare

    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 field's 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 life.

    '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 set,
           I'll smother thee with kisses;

    'And yet
           not cloy thy lips with
          loathed saiety,
           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,
         And,
           trembling in her passion,
         calls it balm,
           Earth's sovereign salve
              to do a goddess good.
    Being so enraged,
           desire doth lend
               her force Courageously
              to pluck him
                   from his horse.

    Over one
          arm the lusty courser's rein,
           Under her other
            was the tender boy,
         Who blushed and
              pouted in a dull disdain,
           With leaden appetite,
         unapt to toy;
    She red and hot
           as coals of glowing fire,
           He red for shame,
         but frosty in desire.

    The studded bridle
           on a ragged bough Nimbly
         she fastens- O,
           how quick is love!

    The steed is stalled up,
           and even
              now To tie the rider
             she begins to prove.

    Backward she pushed him,
           as she would be thrust,
          And governed him in strength,
           though not in lust.

    So soon was
         she along as
           he was down,
           Each leaning
               on their elbows
                   and their hips;
        Now doth
             she stroke his cheek,
           now doth he frown,
         And
           'gins to chide,
               but soon
                 she stops his lips,
    And kissing speaks,
           with lustful language broken,
         'If thou wilt chide,
               thy lips shall never open.'

    He burns with bashful shame;
        she with her tears
            Doth quench the maiden
                  burning of his cheeks;
        Then with her windy sighs
               and golden hairs
             To fan
              and blow them dry
                  again she seeks.
    He saith she is immodest,
           blames her miss;
         What follows more
             she murders with a kiss.

    Even as an empty eagle,
           sharp by fast,
         Tires with her beak
               on feathers,