For love, Apollo kept the herds

Of Thessaly's king, and, his lyre unused,

He called to his bulls on the gentle pipe.

How oft has Jove himself put on

The lower forms of life, who rules

The sky and the clouds. Now a bird he seems,300

With white wings hovering, with voice

More sweet than the song of the dying swan;

Now with lowering front, as a wanton bull,

He offers his back to the sport of maids;