'Twas thou, O nymph, that ledd'st along
The fair Dione's wanton choir,
While to thy blithest, softest song,
Ten thousand Cupids strung the lyre:
Aloft in air the cherubs play'd,
What time, in Cypria's myrtle-shade,
Young Adonis slumbering lay
On a bed of blushing flowers,
Call'd to life by early May,
And the rosy-bosomed Hours:
The Queen of love beheld her darling boy,
In amorous mood she nestled to his side,
And thus, to melt his frozen breast to joy,
Her wanton art she gayly-smiling try'd.