“Justly this punishment was due to him, And less had been too little for his crime; But, O ye nymphs! that from the flood descend, What fault of yours the gods could so offend, With wings and claws your beauteous forms to spoil, Yet save your maiden face and winning smile? Were you not with her in Pergusa’s bowers, When Proserpine went forth to gather flowers? Since Pluto in his car the goddess caught, Have you not for her in each climate sought? And when on land you long had search’d in vain, You wish’d for wings to cross the pathless main: The earth and sea might witness to your care: The gods were easy, and return’d your prayer: With golden wing o’er foamy waves you fled, And to the sun your plumy glories spread. But lest the soft enchantment of your songs, And the sweet music of your flatt’ring tongues, Should quite be lost (as courteous fates ordain), Your voice and virgin beauty still remain.”