While the fat entrails crackle in the fire, And sheets of smoke, in sweet perfume, aspire; Till Proteus, rising from his oozy bed, Thus to the poor desponding lover said: “No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ, For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy. You must, once more, the unwary nymph surprise, As coolly in her grot she slumbering lies; Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands, And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands; Still hold her under every different shape, Till, tired she tries no longer to escape.” Thus he, then sunk beneath the glassy flood, And broken accents flutter’d where he stood.