Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,And Cupid, still at Venus' side,And Lycus, beautiful and young,Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,Delight of Jove's high festival,Blest balm in trouble, hail and hearWhene'er I call!What, Albius! why this passionate despairFor cruel Glycera? why melt your voiceIn dolorous strains, because the perjured fairHas made a younger choice?See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glowsFor Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his headTo Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roesApulian wolves shall wed,Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yokeShe loves to couple forms and minds unlike,All for a heartless joke.