BUT to resume my thread, and not extend Too much the subjects which our plan suspend; This Cymon, who's the hero of our tale, When walking near the banks that form the dale Through which Scamander's waters freely flow, Observed a youthful charmer thither go, To breathe the cool refreshing breeze around; That on its verdant borders oft she'd found. Her veil was floating, and her artless dress, A shepherdess seemed clearly to express. Tall, elegantly formed, with beauteous mien, And ev'ry feature lovely to be seen, Young Cymon felt emotion and surprise, And thought 'twas Venus that had caught his eyes, Who on the river's side her charms displayed, Those wondrous treasures all perfection made. A GROT was nigh, to which the simple fair, Not dreaming ills, was anxious to repair; The heat, some evil spirit, and the place, Invited her the moment to embrace, To bathe within the stream that near her ran; And instantly her project she began. THE spark concealed himself; each charm admired; Now this, now that, now t'other feature fired; A hundred beauties caught his eager sight; And while his bosom felt supreme delight, He turned his thoughts advantages to take, And of the maiden's error something make; Assumed the character, and dress; and air; That should a wat'ry deity declare; Within the gliding flood his vestments dipt: A crown of rushes on his head he slipt; Aquatick herbs and plants around he twined: Then Mercury intreated to be kind, And Cupid too, the wily god of hearts; How could the innocent resist these arts? AT length a foot so fair the belle exposed, E'en Galatea never such disclosed; The stream, that glided by, received the prize; Her lilies she beheld with downcast eyes, And, half ashamed, herself surveyed at ease, While round the zephyrs wantoned in the breeze.