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γείτονές εἰσι πόληες. Ἔρως δ᾿ ἑὰ τόξα τιταίνων
ἀμφοτέραις πολίεσσιν ἕνα ξύνωσεν ὀιστόν
ἠίθεον φλέξας καὶ παρθένον. οὔνομα δ᾿ αὐτῶν
ἱμερόεις τε Λέανδρος ἔην καὶ παρθένος Ἡρώ.
ἡ μὲν Σηστὸν ἔναιεν, ὁ δὲ πτολίεθρον ἀβύδου,
ἀμφοτέρων πολίων περικαλλέες ἀστέρες ἄμφω,
εἴκελοι ἀλλήλοισι. σὺ δ', εἴ ποτε κεῖθι περήσεις,
δίζεό μοί τινα πύργον, ὅπῃ ποτὲ Σηστιὰς Ἡρὼ
ἵστατο λύχνον ἔχουσα καὶ ἡγεμόνευε Λεάνδρῳ·
δίζεο δ᾿ ἀρχαίης ἁλιηχέα πορθμὸν Ἀβύδου
εἰσέτι που κλαίοντα μόρον καὶ ἔρωτα Λεάνδρου.
Like his dear name; " Leander, still my choice,
Come nought but my Leander: O, my voice,
Turn to Leander! Henceforth be all sounds,
Accents, and phrases, that show all griefs'wounds,
Analiz'd in Leander. O black change!
Trumpets, do you with thunder of your clange,
Drive out this change's horror—my voice faints:
Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints."
Thus cried she; for her mix'd soul could tell
Her love was dead: and when the morning fell
Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe,
Blushes, that bled out of her cheeks, did show,
Leander brought by Neptune, bruis'd and torn,
With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn;
To filthy usuring rocks, that would have blood,
Though they could get of him no other good.
She saw him, and the sight was much, much more
Than might have serv'd to kill her; should her store
Of giant sorrows speak ?—Burst,—die,—bleed,
And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed.
She fell on her Love's bosom, bugg'd it fast,
And with Leander's name she breath'd her last!
Neptune for pity in his arms did take them, Flung them into the air, and did awake them Like two sweet birds, surnam'd th" Acanthides , Which we call Thistle-warps, that near no sea Dare ever come, but still in couples fly, And feed on thistle tops, to testify The hardness of their first life in their last; The first, in thorns of love, that sorrows past: ! And so most beautiful their colours show, As none (so little) like them; her sad brow A sable velvet feather covers quite, E'en like the forehead cloth f that in the night, Or when they sorrow, ladies us'd to wear: Their wings, blue, red, and yellow, mix'd appear; Colours, that as we construe colours, paint Their states to life;—the yellow shows their saint, The dainty Venus, left them; blue, their truth; The red and black, ensigns of death and ruth.
Christopher Marlowe
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