“If he be dead, O no, it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it, O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. 940 Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant’s heart. “Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing him, thy power had lost his power. 944 The destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower. Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled, And not death’s ebon dart to strike him dead. 948 “Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? 952 Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.” Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vail’d her eyelids, who like sluices stopp’d 956 The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp’d But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. 960 O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow; Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; 964 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; 968 All entertain’d, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best, then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. 972 By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; 976 For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison’d in her eye, like pearls in glass; 980 Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d. O hard-believing love, how strange it seems 985 Not to believe, and yet too credulous; Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous, 988 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought, Adonis lives, and death is not to blame; 992 It was not she that call’d him all to naught; Now she adds honours to his hateful name. She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 996