The Passionate Pilgrim
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 than 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:
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him:
He, spying her, bounced in, whereas he stood:
'O! Jove', quoth she, 'why was I not a flood?'