- description
- # 11. 1147—1170
## Overview
This section, titled "11. 1147—1170," is a segment of text extracted from a larger document. It contains poetic verses and is part of a chapter titled "VENVS AND ADONIS." The section spans lines 3080 to 3114 of its source file.
## Context
This section was automatically extracted from the file `pdf-01KG6Q7Q25RHMFT3SJXPV18VFF.txt` as part of the "PDF Workflow Main Test 2026-01-30T00:26:53" collection. It follows the section "ll. 1123—1146" and precedes the section "II. 1171—1194."
## Contents
The text within this section comprises a poem, likely a continuation or part of "VENVS AND ADONIS." The verses describe a lament, possibly by Venus, over the death of Adonis. The poem includes imagery of a flower that is compared to Adonis's breath and is described as having "green-dropping sap" that the speaker "coöpares to teares." The speaker then addresses the flower, referring to it as "the next of blood" and promising to keep it close. The section concludes with the speaker departing in a chariot drawn by doves, heading to Paphos. The poem is marked with "FINIS," indicating the end of this particular piece.
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- 2026-01-30T06:25:42.947Z
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- gemini-2.5-flash-lite
- description_title
- 11. 1147—1170
- end_line
- 3114
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T06:24:08.804Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3080
- text
- 11. 1147—1170
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# VENVS AND ADONIS.
She bowes her head, the new-fprong floure to fmel,
Comparing it to her Adonis breath,
And saies within her bofome it shall dwell,
Since he himselfe is reft from her by death;
She crop's the ftalke, and in the breach appears,
Green-dropping fap, which she coöpares to teares.
Poore floure (quoth she) this was thy fathers guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet fmelling fire,
For euerie little griefe to wet his eies,
To grow vnto himfelfe was his desire;
And so tis thine, but know it is as good,
To wither in my breft, as in his blood.
Here was thy fathers bed, here in my breft,
Thou art the next of blood, and tis thy right.
Lo in this hollow cradle take thy reft,
My throbbing hart shall rock thee day and night;
There shall not be one minute in an houre,
VVherein I wil not kisse my sweet loues floure.
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her filuer doues, by whose swift aide,
Thee mistresse mounted through the emptie skies,
In her light chariot, quickly is conuaide,
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen,
Meanes to immure her felfe, and not be seen.
FINIS
- title
- 11. 1147—1170