Pyrrha, in shady rose-strewn spot
Dallying in love's sweet sport?
For whom that innocent-seeming knot
In which your golden strands you dress
With all the art of artlessness?
Deluded lad! How oft he'll weep
O'er changèd gods! How oft, when dark
The billows roughen on the deep,
Storm-tossed he'll see his wretched bark!
Unused to Cupid's quick mutations,