He loved her not with roses, apples, or with curlèd hair;
But with the Furies' rage. All other things he little plied.
Full often to their fold, from pastures green, without a guide,
His sheep returnèd home: when all the while he singing lay
In honour of his Love, and on the shore consumed away
From morning until night; sick of the wound, fast by the heart,
Which mighty Venus gave, and in his liver stuck the dart.
For which, this remedy he found, that sitting oftentimes
Upon a rock and looking on the sea, he sang these rhymes:
"O Galatea fair, why dost thou shun thy lover true?