She made thee, Neptune, like a wanton steer, Pacing the meads for love of Arne dear: Next, like a stream, thy burning flame to slake; And like a ram, for fair Bisaltis’ sake. Then Ceres in a steed your vigour tried, Nor could the mare the yellow goddess hide: Next, to a fowl transform’d, you won by force The snake-hair’d mother of the winged horse; And, in a dolphin’s fishy form, subdued Melantho sweet, beneath the oozy flood.

All these the maid with lively features drew, And open’d proper landscapes to the view. There Phobus, roving like a country swain, Attunes his jolly pipe along the plain; For lovely Isso’s sake, in stepherd’s weeds, O’er pastures green his bleating flock he feeds. There Bacchus, imaged like the clustering grape, Melting, bedrops Erigone’s fair lap: And there old Saturn, stung with youthful heat, Form’d like a stallion, rushes to the feat. Fresh flowers, which twists of ivy intertwine, Mingling a running foliage, close the neat design.