Page 2270 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

For every little grief to wet his eyes;
To grow unto himself was his desire, [1180]
And so ’tis thine; 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.
Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest; [1185]
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 [1190]
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies,

In her light chariot quickly is convey’d,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.

FINIS