“Oh Circe, be indulgent to my grief, And give a lovesick deity relief. Too well the mighty power of plants I know, To those my figure and new fate I owe. Against Messena, on the Ausonian coast, I Scylla view’d, and from that hour was lost. In tenderest sounds I sued; but still the fair Was deaf to vows, and pitiless to prayer. If numbers can avail, exert their power; Or energy of plants, if plants have more. I ask no cure; let but the virgin pine With dying pangs, or agonies, like mine.”

No longer Circe could her flame disguise, But to the suppliant god marine replies: “When maids are coy, have manlier aims in view; Leave those that fly, but those that like pursue. If love can be by kind compliance won, See, at your feet, the daughter of the sun.”

“Sooner,” said Glaucus, “shall the ash remove From mountains, and the swelling surges love, Or humble seaweed to the hills repair, Ere I think any but my Scylla fair.”