"Chained to a rock she stood; young Perseus stayed
His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid.
So sweet her form, so exquisitely fine,
She seemed a statue by a hand divine,
Had not the wind her waving tresses shewed
And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flowed.
Her faultless form the hero's bosom fires,
The more he looks, the more he still admires.
Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly,
And swift descended, fluttering, from on high."