Dryope, who incautiously plucks a branch of the lotus-tree for the amusement of her infant son, is herself transformed by the angry sylvan deities into a tree of the same species.
She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs; When the fair consort of her son replies; “Since you a servant’s ravish’d form bemoan, And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own, Let me (tears and grief permit) relate A nearer wo, a sister’s stranger fate. No nymph of all Oechalia could compare, For beauteous form, with Dryope the fair; Her tender mother’s only hope and pride (Myself the offspring of a second bride), This nymph, compress’d by him who rules the day, Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey, Andraemon loved; and bless’d in all those charms That pleased a god, succeeded to her arms.