A thousand other shapes he wears with grace;
A thousand more varieties of face:
But who, in every shape, can count him o'er,
Who multiplies his person every hour?
What Muse his flying features can pursue,
Or keep his wand'ring countenance in view?
Had I a thousand mouths, a thousand tongues,
A throat of brass, and adamantine lungs,
I could not celebrate this Proteus' skill,
Who shifts his person and his face at will;
This Proteus, who out-numbers hosts alone;
A crowd himself; a multitude in one.