Hero and Leander. Christopher Marlowe

      On Hellespont, guilty of true-love's blood,

      In view and opposite two cities stood,

      Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might;

      The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.

      At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,

      Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,

      And offered as a dower his burning throne,

      Where she should sit for men to gaze upon.

      The outside of her garments were of lawn,

      The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;

      Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,

      Where Venus in her naked glory strove

      To please the careless and disdainful eyes

      Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.

      Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,

      Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.

      Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,

      From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.

      Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves

      Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.

      Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,

      When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;

      And there for honey bees have sought in vain,

      And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.

      About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,

      Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.

      She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind

      Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,

      Or warm or cool them, for they took delight

      To play upon those hands, they were so white.

      Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,

      And branched with blushing coral to the knee;

      Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,

      Such as the world would wonder to behold.

      Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,

      Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.

      Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined

      And looking in her face was strooken blind.

      But this is true: so like was one the other,

      As he imagined Hero was his mother.

      And oftentimes into her bosom flew,

      About her naked neck his bare arms threw,

      And laid his childish head upon her breast,

      And, with still panting rocked, 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 suffered wrack,

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

      Amorous Leander, beautiful and young,

      (whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung,)

      Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none

      For whom succeeding times make greater moan.

      His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,

      Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,

      Would have allured the vent'rous 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 sipped out nectar from his hand.

      Even as delicious meat is to the taste,

      So was his neck in touching, and surpassed

      The white of Pelop's 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 leaped 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

      Enamoured of his beauty had he been.

      His presence made the rudest peasant melt

      That in the vast uplandish country dwelt.

      The barbarous Thracian soldier, moved with nought,

      Was moved 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-cheeked 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

      Glistered with breathing stars who, where they went,

      Frighted the melancholy earth which deemed

      Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed,

      As if another Phaeton had got

      The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.

      But far above the loveliest Hero shined

      And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind,

      For like sea nymphs' enveigling Harmony,

      So was her beauty to the standers by.

      Nor that night-wandering, pale, and wat'ry star

      (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car

      From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky

      Where, crowned with blazing light and majesty,

      She proudly sits) more overrules 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,

      Incensed