What slender youth, whom many roses crown,
Whose hair rich liquid unguents steal adown,
Wooes thee, coy Pyrrha, in some pleasant grot?
For whom dost thou thy golden tresses knot
Neat in thine elegance? How oft he’ll weep
Thy faith and gods as mutable! The deep
How oft, poor simple novice, he’ll admire
Blackening beneath the savage tempest’s ire,
Who now enjoys thee in thy golden days,
Unconscious how the changing wind betrays;
Ah, credulous! and fondly hopes to find
Thee his for ever, and for ever kind.
Woe unto whom thou glitterest untried!
My votive picture, in his temple, tells
I’ve hung my garments, reeking from the tide,
Before the God, whose power the ocean quells.