But his fair countenance pourtray’d his heart:
Then full of joy they wing’d their golden cart,
And vanish’d in th’ ethereal realms of bliss.
Now, when the other nymphs Apollo miss,
They veil’d their faces with their flowing hair,
And smote their bosoms, sighing in despair,—
Weeping lamentingly,—for each in vain
Had sought the great musician’s hand to gain:
Not as before—bewitchingly in gait—
But lovelorn now, and openly await