Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine;
To me the joyous season brings
But added torture on his sunny wings.
Then Love, the tyrant of my breast,
Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest,
Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms,
And fills my trembling soul with new alarms;
Like Boreas from his Thracian plains,
Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns,
And rages still, the madd'ning power—