Which, lighted by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She wore no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind;
Or warm, or cool them; for they took delight
To play upon those hands, they were so white.
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin’d
And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother:
And often-times into her bosom flew,