Raising its amorous head
To kiss those matchless feet,
And all heaven's host of eyes.
Checked thy career so fleet:
Entranced, but fearful all,
Saw thee, sweet Hebe, prostrate fall.
* * * * * *
But the bright cup? the nectared draught
Which Jove himself was to have quaffed!
Alas, alas, upturned it lay