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Who, like a king perplexèd in his throne,

By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

Whereat each tributary subject quakes,

As when the wind, imprisoned in the ground,

Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,

Which with cold terror doth men’s mind confound.

This mutiny each part doth so surprise

That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes,

And, being opened, threw unwilling light

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trenched

In his soft flank, whose wonted lily-white

With purple tears that his wound wept was drenched.

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,

But stole his blood, and seemed with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth.

Over one shoulder doth she hang her head.

Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth.

She thinks he could not die, he is not dead.

Her voice is stopped, her joints forget to bow,

Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly

That her sight, dazzling, makes the wound seem three;

And then she reprehends her mangling eye,

That makes more gashes where no breach should be.

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