Хилари Мантел: Год Шекспира

ʼAnd yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
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 stallèd 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:
ʼIf 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, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffed, or prey be gone:
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends, she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewd with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies.
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain, added to a river that is rank,
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale.
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
ʼTwixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-pale,
Being red she loves him best, and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet,
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who being looked on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what she did crave,
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink, than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
ʼO! pity’, gan she cry, ʼflint-hearted boy,
ʼTis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

ʼI have been wooed as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar,
Yet hath he been my captive, and my slave,
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

ʼOver my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrollèd crest,
And for my sake hath learned to sport, and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

ʼThus he that over-ruled, I over-swayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain.
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed;
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foiled the God of fight.

ʼTouch but my lips with those fair lips of thine
(Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red),
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head,
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies:
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

ʼArt thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink, so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play; our sport is not in sight:
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

ʼThe tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip:
Beauty within itself should not be wasted,
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

ʼWere I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled old,
Ill-nurtured, crookèd, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’er-worn, despisèd, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice;
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee,
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

ʼThou canst not see one winkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning.
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft, and plump, my marrow burning.
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

ʼBid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

ʼWitness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

ʼIs thine own heart to shine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected:
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
ʼTorches are made to light, jewels to wear,

Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear.
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse;
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty:
Thou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.

ʼUpon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live, when thou thyself art dead:
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.’