Where lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies: A wound the loving swine had trenched in his soft groin. No flower was nigh, . . . . . . but stole his blood and seemed with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth. Her voice is stopped she thinks he could not die. But through the floodgates breaks the silver rain, the crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair in the sweet channel of her bosom dropped. By this the boy that by her side lay killed was melted like a vapour from her sight, and in his blood that on the ground lay spilled a purple flower sprung up, chequered with white."