Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: 820 So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight. Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood, 824 Or ’stonish’d as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. 828 And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: 832 “Ay me!” she cries, and twenty times, “Woe, woe!” And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemporally a woeful ditty; 836 How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote, How love is wise in folly foolish witty: Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. 840 Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short, If pleas’d themselves, others they think, delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport: 844 Their copious stories oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done. For who hath she to spend the night withal, But idle sounds resembling parasites; 848 Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says, “’Tis so:” they answer all, “’Tis so;” And would say after her, if she said “No.” 852 Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; 856 Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar tops and hills seem burnish’d gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow: “Oh thou clear god, and patron of all light, 860 From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.” This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 865 Musing the morning is so much o’erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love; She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn. 868 Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 872 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. 876