‘Fy, Salmacis: what! always idle; fy! Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize, And mix the toils of hunting with they ease.’ Nor quivers she, nor arrows, e’er would seize, Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease; But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide, Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide; Now in the limpid stream she views her face, And dress’d her image in the floating glass: On beds of leaves she pow reposed her limbs, Now gather’d flowers that grew about her streams, And then by chance was gathering, as she stood To view the boy, and long’d for what she view’d.

“Fain would she meet the youth with hasty feet, She fain would meet him, but refused to meet Before her looks were set with nicest care, And well deserved to be reputed fair.