‘How brilliant was her lips’ soft dye!’
And much that flute, the sly rogue, blaming,
For twisting lips so sweet awry.
The nymph look’d down—beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock’d—for, oh, ye creatures!
Ev’n when divine, you’re woman still.
V.
Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the goddess took,