Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view, Heard from afar his groans, and own’d them true, And turn’d her snowy swans, and backward flew. But as she saw him gasp his latest breath, And quivering agonize in pangs of death, Down with swift flight she plunged, nor rage forbore, At once her garments and her hair she tore: With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast, The fates upbraided, and her love confess’d. “Nor shall they yet,” she cried, “the whole devour, With uncontroll’d inexorable power. For thee, lost youth, my tears and restless pain Shall in immortal monuments remain: With solemn pomp, in annual rites return’d, Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn’d. Could Pluto’s queen with jealous fury storm, And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform? Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise, And in a flower bid her fallen hero rise?” Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows⁠— The scented blood in little bubbles rose; Little as rainy drops, which fluttering fly, Borne by the winds, along a lowering sky. Short time ensued, till where the blood was shed,