Long had she labour’d to continue free From chains of love, and nuptial tyranny; And in her orchard’s small extent immured, Her vow’d virginity she still secured, Oft would loose Pan, and all the brutal train Of satyrs, tempt her innocence in vain. Vertumnus too pursued the maid no less; But with his rivals shared a like success. To gain access a thousand ways he tries: Oft, in the hind, the lover would disguise. The heedless lout comes shambling on, and seems Just sweating from the labour of his teams. Then, from the harvest of the mimic swain, Seems bending with a load of bearded grain. Sometimes a dresser of the vine he feigns, And lawless tendrils to their bounds restrains. Sometimes his sword a soldier shows; his rod An angler; still so various is the god. Now, in a forehead cloth, some crone he seems, A staff supplying the defect of limbs; Admittance thus he gains; admires the store Of fairest fruit; the fair possessor more; Then greets her with a kiss: the unpractised dame Admired a grandame kiss’d with such a flame.