He gave to mortals corn on every plain,
But she those sweets which mitigate my pain.
Hail, then, ye kisses! that can best assuage
The pangs of love, and soften all its rage!
Ye balmy kisses! that from roses sprung;
Roses! on which the lips of Venus hung:
Your bard am I; while yet the Aonian shades
Boast their proud verdures and their flowery glades,
While yet a laurel guards the sacred spring,
My fond, impassioned muse of you shall sing;