Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, With gentle majesty and modest pride; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who should say, “Lo thus my strength is tried; And this I do to captivate the eye 281 Of the fair breeder that is standing by.” What recketh he his rider’s angry stir, His flattering “Holla”, or his “Stand, I say”? 284 What cares he now for curb or pricking spur? For rich caparisons or trappings gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 288 Look when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion’d steed, His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed: 292 So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone. Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300 Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather: To bid the wind a base he now prepares, And where he run or fly they know not whether; 304 For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings. He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her; She answers him as if she knew his mind, 308 Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels. 312 Then like a melancholy malcontent, He vails his tail that like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent: He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. 316 His love, perceiving how he was enrag’d, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d. His testy master goeth about to take him, When lo the unback’d breeder, full of fear, 320 Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there: As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them. 324 All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boisterous and unruly beast; And now the happy season once more fits That love-sick love by pleading may be blest; 328 For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong, When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: 332 So of concealed sorrow may be said, Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage; But when the heart’s attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. 336