Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont;
If, when the wint’ry tempest roar’d,
He sped to Hero nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current pour’d,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
For me, degenerate, modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,