'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid I 190 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen The Passionate Pilgrim. When I my love swears that she is made of truth, Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me, |