There lives a son that sucked an earthly mother,

May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, Musing the morning is so much o'erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love: 15 She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:

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,

20

A second fear through all her sinews spread,

Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:

This way she runs, and now she will no further,

But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways:

55

She treads the path that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet naught at all respecting;

In hand with all things, naught at all effecting.

60

Here kenneled in a brake she finds a hound,

And asks the weary catitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venomed sores the only sovereign plaster;

And here she meets another sadly scowling 65

To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.