If Venus when she wailed her dear Adonis slain,
Ought moved in thy fierce heart, compassion of her woe:
His noble sister's plaints, her sighs and tears emong;
Would sure have made thee mild, and inly rue her pain.
Aurora half so fair, herself did never show;
When from old Tithon's bed, she weeping did arise.
The blinded archer-boy, like lark in shower of rain,
Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend
Under those crystal drops which fell from her fair eyes;
And at their brightest beams him proined in lovely wise.