‘Thou diest, O thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown away as a dream. Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves along the halls! With thee has the girdle of my beauty perished. For why, ah overbold, didst thou follow the chase, and being so fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to fight with beasts?’ So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament: _Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _he hath perished the lovely Adonis_! A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings forth the rose, the tears, the wind-flower. _Woe_, _woe for Adonis_, _he hath perished_; _the lovely Adonis_! No more in the oak-woods, Cypris, lament thy lord. It is no fair couch for Adonis, the lonely bed of leaves! Thine own bed, Cytherea, let him now possess,—the dead Adonis. Ah, even in death he is beautiful, beautiful in death, as one that hath fallen on sleep. Now lay him down to sleep in his own soft coverlets, wherein with thee through the night he shared the holy slumber in a couch all of gold, that yearns for Adonis, though sad is he to look upon. Cast on him garlands and blossoms: all things have perished in his death, yea all the flowers are faded. Sprinkle him with ointments of Syria, sprinkle him with unguents of myrrh. Nay, perish all perfumes, for Adonis, who was thy perfume, hath perished. He reclines, the delicate Adonis, in his raiment of purple, and around him the Loves are weeping, and groaning aloud, clipping their locks for Adonis. And one upon his shafts, another on his bow is treading, and one hath loosed the sandal of Adonis, and another hath broken his own feathered quiver, and one in a golden vessel bears water, and another laves the wound, and another from behind him with his wings is fanning Adonis. _Woe_, _woe for Cytherea_, _the Loves join in the lament_! Every torch on the lintels of the door has Hymenaeus quenched, and hath torn to shreds the bridal crown, and _Hymen_ no more, _Hymen_ no more is the song, but a new song is sung of wailing. ‘_Woe_, _woe for Adonis_,’ rather than the nuptial song the Graces are shrilling, lamenting the son of Cinyras, and one to the other declaring, _He hath perished_, _the lovely Adonis_. And _woe_, _woe for Adonis_, shrilly cry the Muses, neglecting Paeon, and they lament Adonis aloud, and songs they chant to him, but he does not heed them, not that he is loth to hear, but that the Maiden of Hades doth not let him go. Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from thy dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him another year. II THE LOVE OF ACHILLES _Lycidas sings to Myrson a fragment about the loves of Achilles and Deidamia_. * * * * * _Myrson_. Wilt thou be pleased now, Lycidas, to sing me sweetly some sweet Sicilian song, some wistful strain delectable, some lay of love, such as the Cyclops Polyphemus sang on the sea-banks to Galatea?