But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov’d the best.
They would have thought who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe’s vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kiss’d the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound:
And he, amidst his frolic play.