I thought that I was wholly free, 
That I had Love upon the shelf; 
"Hereafter," I declared in glee, 
"I'll have my evenings to myself." 
How can such mortal beauty live? 
(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)

Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold; 
Her hands are featly formed and taper; 
Her--well, the rest ought not be told 
In any modest family paper. 
Fair as Ischomache, and bright 
As Brimo. Quæque queen is right.

O goddesses of long ago, 
A shepherd called ye sweet and slender. 
He saw ye, so he ought to know; 
But sooth to her ye must surrender. 
O may a million years not trace 
A single line upon that face!