...
No more in the oak woods, Cypris, lament thy lord. It is no fair couch for Adonis, the lonely bed of reeds!
Now lay him down to sleep in his own soft coverlets, in a couch all of gold, that yearns for Adonis, though sad is he to look upon. Cast on him garlands and blossoms: all things have perished in his death, yea, all the flowers are faded. Sprinkle him with ointments of Syria, sprinkle him with unguents of myrrh. Nay, perish all perfumes, for Adonis, who was thy perfume, hath perished.
He reclines, the delicate Adonis, in his raiment of purple, and around him the Loves are weeping, and groaning aloud, clipping their locks for Adonis. And one upon his shafts, another on his bow is treading, and one hath loosed the sandals of Adonis, and another hath broken his own feathered quiver, and one in a golden vessel bears water, and another laves the wound, and another from behind him with his wings is fanning Adonis.
Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in the lament!
...
And woe, woe for Adonis, shrilly cry the Muses, neglecting Pæan (Apollo), and they lament Adonis aloud, and songs they chant to him, but he does not heed them, not that he is loath to hear, but that the Maiden of Hades doth not let him go.
Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him another year.