Thus saying, from her husband’s hand her hand Soft she withdrew, and like a wood-nymph light, Oread or Dryad, or of Delia’s train, Betook her to the groves, but Delia’s self In gait surpassed and goddess-like deport, Though not as she with bow and quiver armed, But with such gardening tools as art, yet rude, Guiltless of fire, had formed, or Angels brought. To Pales, or Pomona, thus adorned, Likest she seemed⁠—Pomona when she fled Vertumnus⁠—or to Ceres in her prime, Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove. Her long with ardent look his eye pursued Delighted, but desiring more her stay. Oft he to her his charge of quick return Repeated; she to him as oft engaged To be returned by noon amid the bower, And all things in best order to invite Noontide repast, or afternoon’s repose. O much deceived, much failing, hapless Eve, Of thy presumed return! event perverse! Thou never from that hour in Paradise Found’st either sweet repast or sound repose; Such ambush, hid among sweet flowers and shades,