The winds turn'd powder-puffs; and, lo,
On every shrub a sharp toupee!
With silver clocks the river gods
Appear'd; and some will take their oath,
Or lay at least a thousand odds,
The clouds saliving spit white froth.
The youth abash'd thus to survey
So rude a scene himself outdo,
His sprightly genius to display,
Resolv'd on something odd and new: