1961171She bowes her head, the new-
sprong
floure to
smel,
1172Comparing it to her Adonis breath,
1173And
saies within her bo
some it
shall dwell,
1174Since he him
selfe is reft from her by death;
1175 She crop's the
stalke, and in the breach appeares,
1176 Green-dropping
sap, which
she cōpares to teares.
1971177Poore
floure (quoth
she) this was thy fathers gui
se,
1178Sweet i
ssue of a more
sweet
smelling
sire,
1179For euerie little griefe to wet his eies,
1180To grow vnto him
selfe was his de
sire;
1181 And
so tis thine, but know it is as good,
1182 To wither in my bre
st, as in his blood.
1981183Here was thy fathers bed, here in my bre
st,
1184Thou art the next of blood, and tis thy right.
1185Lo in this hollow cradle take thy re
st,
1186My throbbing hart
shall rock thee day and night;
1187 There
shall not be one minute in an houre,
1188 Wherein I wil not ki
sse my
sweet loues
floure.
1991189Thus weary of the world, away
she hies,
1190And yokes her
siluer doues, by who
se
swift aide,
1191Their mi
stre
sse mounted through the emptie skies,
1192In her light chariot, quickly is conuaide,
1193 Holding their cour
se to Paphos, where their queen,
1194 Meanes to immure her
selfe, and not be
seen.