“Though guilty Clytie thus the Sun betray’d, By too much passion she was guilty made. Excess of love begot excess of grief, Grief fondly bade her hence to hope relief. But angry Phoebus hears unmoved her sighs, And scornful from her loath’d embraces flies. All day, all night, in trackless wilds alone She pined, and taught the listening rocks her moan. On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare, Loose her attire, dishevell’d is her hair. Nine times the morn unbarr’d the gates of light, As oft were spread the alternate shades of night, So long no sustenance the mourner knew, Unless she drank her tears, or suck’d the dew. She turn’d about, but rose not from the ground, Turn’d to the sun still as he roll’d his round; On his bright face hung her desiring eyes, Till, fix’d to earth, she strove in vain to rise; Her looks their paleness in a flower retain’d, But here and there some purple streaks they gain’d. Still the loved object the fond leaves pursue, Still move their root the moving sun to view, And in the heliotrope the nymph is true.”