Classic Poem

In those first times, when nymphs were rude and coy,
The gods, disguis'd, laid ambushes for joy:
From Jove in feathers, harmless to the sight,
Leda, without a blush, accepts delight.
Mira! as chaste as Leda, and more fair,
Forgive an anxious lover's jealous care;
And, O take heed! for, if such tales were true,
The gods may practise these designs on you:
Their heav'n and all their brightness they will quit
For any form that may to you admit.
See how the wanton bird, at ev'ry glance,
Spreads his gay plumes, and feels an am'rous trance!
Press'd by that hand he melts at ev'ry touch;
Press'd by that hand who would not melt as much?
The queen of Beauty shall forsake the dove;
Henceforth the Parrot be the bird of Love.