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    Hero and Leander
    Hero and Leander
    Hero and Leander
    Ebook53 pages34 minutes

    Hero and Leander

    By Christopher Marlowe

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateJan 1, 1972
    Hero and Leander
    Author

    Christopher Marlowe

    Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) was a 16th century playwright, poet, and translator. Considered to be the most famous playwright in the Elizabethan era, Marlowe is believed to have inspired major artists such as Shakespeare. Marlowe was known for his dramatic works that often depicted extreme displays of violence, catering to his audience’s desires. Surrounded by mystery and speculation, Marlowe’s own life was as dramatic and exciting as his plays. Historians are still puzzled by the man, conflicted by rumors that he was a spy, questions about his sexuality, and suspicions regarding his death.

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      Book preview

      Hero and Leander - Christopher Marlowe

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Hero and Leander, by Christopher Marlowe

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Hero and Leander

      Author: Christopher Marlowe

      Release Date: July 7, 2006 [eBook #18781]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERO AND LEANDER***

      E-text prepared by Daniel Callahan

      from source material generously provided by

      Classic Literature Library

      (http://www.classic-literature.co.uk/)

      HERO AND LEANDER

      by

      Christopher Marlowe

      FIRST SESTIAD

      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

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