Over this seeming she now rises. Venus, they say, so rose. But shameful, to be loved, divided, fed to the mathematic hounds whose pack increased of her, made brooded worlds to howl profusion. This was her dreaming: her sleep they gave a turbid waking, and called it day, and all that happened real. But it happened not, it was not rising; thus they desired, and were cursed with passion’s stolen images, which to the thievish touch dissolve. Against those louring weathers she rises now. And the mist passes: It was but sulky fabrication.