O'er all his veins the wand'ring passion burns,He calls her nymph, and ev'ry nymph by turns.Her form to lovely Venus he prefers,Or swears that Venus' must be such as hers.She, proud to rule, yet strangely fram'd to teize,Neglects his offers while her airs she plays,Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown,In brisk disorder trips it up and down,Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm,And sits, and blushes, smiles; and yields, in form."Now take what Jove design'd (she softly cry'd)"This box thy portion, and myself thy bride:"Fir'd with the prospect of the double charms,He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone:The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown!The winds were silent, all the waves asleep,And heav'n was trac'd upon the flatt'ring deep;But whilst he looks unmindful of a storm,And thinks the water wears a stable form,What dreadful din around his ears shall rise!What frowns confuse his picture of the skies!At first the creature man was fram'd alone,Lord of himself, and all the world his own.For him the nymphs in green forsook the woods,For him the nymphs in blue forsook the floods;In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave,They bore him heroes in the secret cave.0