'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right.
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,
And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid
Their
mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
In her light
chariot quickly is conveyed,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.
-THE END-
.