What sorrow was. Ashamed, the nymphs now hide,
And in their hiding-place they scan his side
But not a sound escapes their lovely lips:—
The while, he taps a thousand globes and sips
Until he staggers, and falls prone to ground:
Then haste the nymphs, the god they circle round!
’Tis vain attempting to describe the joy
Each goddess felt as they tripp’d round so coy:—
One, stray’ng beyond the bound’ry they had plann’d,
Most inadvertently trod on his hand;