Warbling in air perceived his lovely lay,
And from a rising ground beheld him play:
When one, the wildest, with dishevelled hair
That loosely streamed, and ruffled in the air:
Soon as her frantic eye the lyrist spied
'See, see, the hater of our sex,' she cried,
Then at his face her missive javelin sent,
Which whizzed along, and brushed him as it went;
But the soft wreaths of Ivy twisted round,
Prevent a deep impression of the wound,