Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:
With arms sublime that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 40
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man’s feeble race what ills await,
Labour and penury, the racks of pain,
Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,
And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! 45