Her flute he prais’d in terms extatic,
Wishing it dumb—nor car’d how soon—
For Wisdom’s notes, howe’er chromatic,
To Love seem always out of tune.
But long as he found face to flatter,
The nymph found breath to shake and thrill;
As, weak or wise—it doth not matter—
Woman, at heart, is woman still.
IV.
Love chang’d his plan, with warmth exclaiming,