Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim:
The sun looked on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in whereas he stood;'O Jove,' quoth she, 'why was not I a flood!'
