POET And at his look she flatly falleth down, for looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth. The silly boy, believing she is dead, claps her pale cheek, . . . . . for on the grass she lies as she were slain. . . . . . A thousand ways he seeks to mend the hurt that his unkindness marred. He kisses her, and she by her good will will never rise, so he will kiss her still."