VI. Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the
herd1 gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A
longing2 tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a
brook3, 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
mantle4 by, And stood
stark5 naked on the brook's green brim： The sun look'd 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！'
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