To hear her dear tongue robbed of such a joy,
Made the well-spoken nymph take such a toy,[109]
That down she sunk: when lightning from above
Shrunk her lean body, and, for mere free love,420
Turn'd her into the pied-plum'd Psittacus,
That now the Parrot is surnam'd by us,
Who still with counterfeit confusion prates
Naught but news common to the common'st mates.—
This told, strange Teras touch'd her lute, and sung
This ditty, that the torchy evening sprung.