Old Beroe’s decrepit shape she wears, Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs, While in her trembling gait she totters on, And learns to tattle in the nurse’s tone. The goddess thus disguised in age, beguiled With pleasing stories her false foster-child. Much did she talk of love, and when she came To mention to the nymph her lover’s name, Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head, “ ’Tis well,” says she, “if all be true that’s said. But trust me, child, I’m much inclined to fear Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter. Many an honest, well-designing maid, Has been by these pretended gods betray’d. But if he be indeed the thund’ring Jove, Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love, Descend triumphant, from the ethereal sky, In all the pomp of his divinity, Encompass’d round by those celestial charms With which he fills the immortal Juno’s arms.”