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 look'd on the world with glorious eye,

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him:

  He, spying her, bounc'd in, whereas he stood;

  O Jove, quoth she, why was not I a flood?