“Oh, well-beloved Jove! I pray thee, hear
My tale of sorrow, which to thee I bear.
O Jove, acquainted with my nature best,
Thou know’st, alone, the cravings of my breast;
Fann’d by the nymphs’ most inspirating strain,
I sought the bowl, and fired my foolish brain:
I cried aloud to thee, as Jupiter,
But lacked, I ween, a right interpreter:
To Venus and to Mars I rais’d my voice,
For they were three respectively my choice;