“Again beloved, esteemed, caressed, Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed, Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep: My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm; My hand pale winter’s rage disarm, And youth and spring shall here once more their revels keep.”⁠—

A feather now of golden hue He smiling from his pinion drew; This to the poet’s hand the boy commits; And straight before Anacreon’s eyes The fairest dreams of fancy rise, And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.

His bosom glows with amorous fire Eager he grasps the magic lyre; Swift o’er the tuneful chords his fingers move: The feather plucked from Cupid’s wing Sweeps the too-long-neglected string, While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of love.