And cried, "The task to me belongs."
Light flow'd the strain of wayward smiles.
Of blushes and of tears he sung,
Of mournful swains arrang'd in files,
And hearts on eye-shot arrows hung.
But Beauty frown'd; "This lay from thee!
Proud rebel, dost thou break thy chain?
Wit may devise a sportive glee,
But Love should languish and complain."
To whom the God: "When you disguise