The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 3 (of 3). Christopher Marlowe

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      And, with still panting rock,4 there took his rest.

      So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun,

      As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,

      Because she took more from her than she left,

      And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:

      Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,

      Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.

      Amorous Leander, beautiful and young

      (Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung),

      Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none

      For whom succeeding times make5 greater moan.

      His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,

      Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,

      Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece

      To hazard more than for the golden fleece.

      Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her Sphere;

      Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.

      His body was as straight as Circe's wand;

      Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.

      Even as delicious meat is to the tast,

      So was his neck in touching, and surpast

      The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye,

      How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;

      And whose immortal fingers did imprint

      That heavenly path with many a curious dint

      That runs along his back; but my rude pen

      Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,

      Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice

      That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;

      Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his

      That leapt into the water for a kiss

      Of his own shadow, and, despising many,

      Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.

      Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,

      Enamour'd of his beauty had he been:

      His presence made the rudest peasant melt,

      That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;

      The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought,

      Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.

      Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,

      For in his looks were all that men desire,—

      A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye,

      A brow for love to banquet royally;

      And such as knew he was a man, would say,

      "Leander, thou art made for amorous play:

      Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?

      Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall."

      The men of wealthy Sestos every year,

      For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,

      Rose-cheek'd6 Adonis, kept a solemn feast:

      Thither resorted many a wandering guest

      To meet their loves: such as had none at all

      Came lovers home from this great festival;

      For every street, like to a firmament,

      Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went,

      Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd

      Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd,

      As if another Phaëton had got

      The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.

      But, far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd,

      And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind;

      For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony,

      So was her beauty to the standers by;

      Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery7 star

      (When yawning dragons draw her thirling8 car

      From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky,

      Where, crown'd with blazing light and majesty,

      She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood

      Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.

      Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,

      Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race,

      Incens'd with savage heat, gallop amain

      From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,

      So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,

      And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her:

      And as in fury of a dreadful fight,

      Their fellows being slain or put to flight,

      Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,

      So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken,

      Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;

      He whom she favours lives; the other dies:

      There might you see one sigh; another rage;

      And some, their violent passions to assuage,

      Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late!

      For faithful love will never turn to hate;

      And many, seeing great princes were denied,

      Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died.

      On this feast-day—O cursèd day and hour!—

      Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower

      To Venus' temple, where unhappily,

      As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.

      So fair a church as this had Venus none:

      The walls were of discolour'd9 jasper-stone,

      Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head

      A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,

      Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,

      And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.

      Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;

      The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass:

      There might you see the gods, in sundry shapes,

      Committing heady riots, incests, rapes;

      For know, that underneath this radiant flour10

      Was Danäe's statue in a brazen tower:

      Jove slily stealing from his sister's bed,

      To dally with Idalian Ganymed,

      And for his love Europa bellowing loud,

      And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud;

      Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net

      Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;

      Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy;

      Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy

      That СКАЧАТЬ