Yet sorry for her grief, which he could not amend;
The gentle boy 'gan wipe her eyes, and clear those lights:
Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine.
The Graces tuckt her hair, which hung like threads of gold
Along her ivory breast, the treasure of delights.
All things with her to weep, it seemèd did incline;
The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.
The air did help them mourn, with dark clouds, rain and mist;
Forbearing many a day to clear itself again:
Which made them eftsoons fear the days of Pyrrha should