Up from the lovely damsel’s breast a pair of rose-buds sprung!
Then she awoke, and with her hand those treasures sought to veil;
But strict their duty to fulfil the parted fingers fail.
Now rising from her couch she flies, as nimble as a roe,
To where a fountain’s limpid stream adown the rock doth flow:
She bathes her cheek, her large dark eyes and eke her snow-white arms
A genial glow, unfelt before, the favour’d fountain warms.
In order not to lose its strength, between the rocks it ran
Fermenting, and a source of health became to suff’ring man:
The grot with crutches was hung round; the lame, who hither come,