“Now while the amorous god, with speedy pace, Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace, He fills his arms with reeds, new rising on the place: And while he sighs, his ill success to find, The tender canes were shaken by the wind, And breathed a mournful air, unheard before, That, much surprising Pan, yet pleased him more. Admiring this new music⁠—‘Thou,’ he said, ‘Who canst not be the partner of my bed, At least shall be the consort of my mind, And often, often to my lips be join’d.’ He form’d the reeds, proportion’d as they are, Unequal in their length, and wax’d with care: They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.”