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;