Nor o'er that furrow bend its way,
Where he beheld his infant lay.
The Queen, whom Jove with love assail'd,
And in the husband's form prevail'd;
The King, whose horses Diomed,
And grave Ulysses captive led;
And now conclude with that blest time,
We should enjoy, while in its prime.
So place the initials, and they'll say,
A month, not quite so warm as May.