Her, just returning from her father’s brook, Jove had beheld, with a desiring look: “And, O fair daughter of the flood,” he said, “Worthy alone of Jove’s imperial bed; Happy whoever shall those charms possess; The king of gods (nor is thy lover less) Invites thee to yon cooler shades, to shun The scorching rays of the meridian sun: Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove: No puny power, but he whose high command Is unconfined, who rules the seas and land, And tempers thunder in his awful hand. O fly not:” for she fled from his embrace, O’er Lerna’s pastures: he pursued the chase Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain. At length the god, who never asks in vain, Involved with vapours, imitating night, Both air and earth; and then suppress’d her flight. Meantime the jealous Juno, from on high, Survey’d the fruitful fields of Arcady, And wonder’d that the mist should overrun The face of daylight, and obscure the sun. No natural cause she found, from brooks, or bogs,