To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreathIs very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludesFrom rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breathFail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia flyAverse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.O, write my name among that minstrel choir,And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!Enough of snow and hail at lastThe sire has sent in vengeance down:His bolts, at his own temple cast,Appall'd the town,Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's timeReturn, with all its monstrous sights,When Proteus led his flocks to climbThe flatten'd heights,When fish were in the elm-tops caught,Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,And does were floating, all distraught,Adown the tide.