The nymph Cyane, bewailing the loss of Proserpine, is changed into a fountain.
But still does Cyane the rape bemoan, And with the goddess’ wrongs laments her own: For the stolen maid, and for her injured spring, Time to her trouble no relief can bring; In her sad heart a heavy load she bears, Till the dumb sorrow turns her all to tears: Her mingling waters with that fountain pass, Of which she late immortal goddess was; Her varied members to a fluid melt; A pliant softness in her bones is felt; Her wavy locks first drop away in dew, And liquid next her slender fingers grew; The body’s change soon seizes its extreme; Her legs dissolve, and feet flow off in stream; Her arms, her back, her shoulders, and her side, Her swelling breasts, in little currents glide; A silver liquor only now remains Within the channel of her purple veins; Nothing to fill love’s grasp: her husband chaste Bathes in that bosom he before embraced.