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 Tender of speech, and had no hardihood But was nigh feeble of her fearful blood; Her mercy in her was so marvellous From her least years, that seeing her school-fellows That read beside her stricken with a rod, She would cry sore and say some word to God That he would ease her fellow of his pain. There is no touch of sun or fallen rain That ever fell on a more gracious thing. In middle Rome there was in stone-working The church of Venus painted royally. The chapels of it were some two or three, In each of them her tabernacle was And a wide window of six feet in glass Coloured with all her works in red and gold. The altars had bright cloths and cups to hold The wine of Venus for the services, Made out of honey and crushed wood-berries That shed sweet yellow through the thick wet red, That on high days was borne upon the head Of Venus' priest for any man to drink; So that in drinking he should fall to think On some fair face, and in the thought thereof Worship, and such should triumph in his love. For this soft wine that did such grace and good Was new trans-shaped and mixed with Love's own blood, That in the fighting Trojan time was bled; For which came such a woe to Diomed