Pyrrha

What slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odors,

Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,

Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he

Of faith and changed gods complain, and seas

Rough with black winds, and storms

Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,

Who, always vacant, always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful. Hapless they

To whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me, in my vow'd

Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung,

My dank and dropping weeds

To the stern god of sea.