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.