“ ‘Hymen had now, in some ill-fated hour, Their hands united, as their hearts before. While their soft moments in delights they waste, And each new day was dearer than the past, Picus would sometimes o’er the forests rove, And mingle sports with intervals of love. It chanced, as once the foaming boar he chased, His jewels sparkling on his Tyrian vest, Lascivious Circe well the youth survey’d, As simpling on the flowery hills she stray’d: Her wishing eyes their silent message tell, And from her lap the verdant mischief fell. As she attempts at words, his courser springs O’er hills, and lawns, and ev’n a wish outwings.

“ ‘ “Thou shalt not ’scape me so,” pronounced the dame, “If plants have power, and spells be not a name.” She said, and forthwith form’d a boar of air, That sought the covert with dissembled fear. Swift to the thicket Picus wings his way, On foot, to chase the visionary prey.