To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses—
Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses
Thee, in some happy grot?
For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair
Dost thou entwine in cunning carelessnesses?
Alas, poor boy! Who thee, in fond belief, caresses
Deeming thee wholly fair!
How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan,
When fair to foul shall change—and he, unskilful
In pilotage, beholds—with tempests wildly wilful—