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She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath; . . . . . 1172
And says within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father’s guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire, . . . . . 1180
And so ’tis shine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.

‘Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right: . 1184
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.’

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, . . . . 1189
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey’d; . . . 1192
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.