3610Or had been born under the Scorpion's head,
With amulets t' have struck thy beauty dead.
Ah! faithless Polupists, that thus can change
Into an hundred thousand shapes your minds!
Phoebe to you is constant; tides do range,
Yet back return; more settled are the winds—
Mere Pompholyx which with each breath does stray.
Your loves catch feathers too, and fly away.
Sometimes a fit of sullens seals your jaws,
In contemplation big (of Jove knows what),