And while with passion she repeats her call,
The violets from her lap and lilies fall:
She misses them, poor heart! and makes new moan:
Her lilies, oh! are lost, her violets gone.
O'er hills the ravisher, and valleys speeds,
By name encouraging his foamy steeds;
He rattles o'er their necks the rusty reins,
And ruffles with the stroke their shaggy manes
Throws to his dreadful steeds the slackened rein,
And strikes his iron sceptre through the main;