I thought some beast of prey was shelter’d there, And to the covert threw my certain spear; From whence a tender sigh my soul did wound: ‘Ah me!’ it cried, and did like Procris sound. Procris was there, too well the voice I knew, And to the place with headlong horror flew; Where I beheld her gasping on the ground, In vain attempting from the deadly wound To draw the dart, her love’s dear fatal gift! My guilty arms had scarce the strength to lift The beauteous load: my silks and hair I tore (If possible), to stanch the pressing gore; For pity begg’d her keep her flitting breath, And not to leave me guilty of her death. While I entreat she fainted fast away, And these few words had only strength to say: ‘By all the sacred bonds of plighted love, By all your reverence to the powers above, By all that made me charming once appear, By all the truth for which you held me dear, And last, by love, the cause through which I bleed, Let Aura never to my bed succeed.’ I then perceived the error of our fate, And told it her, but found and told too late!