What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume,Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade?Fair Pyrrha, say, for whomYour yellow hair you braid,So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall heLament that faith can fail, that gods can change,Viewing the rough black seaWith eyes to tempests strange,Who now is basking in your golden smile,And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind,Poor fool, nor knows the guileOf the deceitful wind!Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloudUntried! For me, they show in yonder faneMy dripping garments, vow'dTo Him who curbs the main.