Part 8
Lines 1177–1194
- 1177 'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy father's guise,
- 1178 Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
- 1179 For every little grief to wet his eyes:
- 1180 To grow unto himself was his desire,
- 1181 And so 'tis shine; but know, it is as good
- 1182 To wither in my breast as in his blood.
- 1183 'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
- 1184 Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
- 1185 Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
- 1186 My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
- 1187 There shall not be one minute in an hour
- 1188 Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'
- 1189 Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
- 1190 And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
- 1191 Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies
- 1192 In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
- 1193 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
- 1194 Means to immure herself and not be seen.