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Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,

They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.’

By this, the boy that by her side lay killed

Was melted like a vapour from her sight,

And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled

A purple flower sprung up, chequered with white,

Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood

Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.

She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath,

And says within her bosom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death.

She crops the stalk, and in the breath appears

Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

‘Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘this was thy father’s guise–

Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire–

For every little grief to wet his eyes.

To grow unto himself was his desire,

And so ‘tis thine; but know it is as good

To wither in my breast as in his blood.

‘Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast.

Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right.

Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest;

My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night.

There shall not be one minute in an hour

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