- cid
- bafkreif5hcptdvciyl2g2jhse6f6e7dpqbobkjejnjho6yxhuiv6o5sxwm
- content_type
- image/jpeg
- filename
- 06_poems_pericles_facsimiles_1905_oxford_page_0124.jpg
- height
- 2400
- key
- pdf-page-1769752375852-i6yn8k6pew
- ocr_model
- mistral-ocr-latest
- page_number
- 124
- size
- 346067
- text
- # VENYS AND ADONIS.
WVith this he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those faire armes which bound him to her brest,
And homeward through the dark lawnd runs apace,
Leaues loue vpon her backe, deeply distrest,
Looke how a bright star shooteth from the skye;
So glides he in the night from Venus eye.
Which after him she dartes, as one on shore
Gazing vpon a late embarked friend,
Till the wilde waues will haue him seene no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting cloudes contend:
So did the merciless, and pitchie night,
Fold in the obiect that did seed her sight.
Whereat amas’d as one that vnaware,
Hath dropt a precious iewell in the flood,
Or stonisht, as night wandrers often are,
Their light blowne out in some mistrustfull wood;
Euen so confounded in the darke she lay,
Hauing lost the faire discourse of her way.
And now she beates her heart, whereat it grones,
That all the neighbour caues as seeming troubled,
Make verball repetition of her mones,
Passion on passion, deeply is redoubled,
Ay me, she cries, and twentie times, wo, wo,
And twentie ecchoes, twentie times crie so,
Fij
II. 811—834
- text_extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:13:31.529Z
- text_extracted_by
- ocr-service
- text_has_content
- true
- text_images_count
- 0
- text_source
- ocr
- uploaded
- true
- width
- 1750