We'll, placed in Love's triumphant chariot high
Be drawn by milkwhite turtles through the sky,
And have for footmen Cupids running by.

A poet coachman, with celestial fire,
His gentle whip of melting pure desire,
Shall drive us while I do thy eyes admire.

Imperial laurel deck our temples round —
As victors, or as heated poets crowned,
Scorning to have commerce with the dull ground!

Thus we will drive o'er mighty hills of snow,
Viewing poor mortal lovers there below,
Wretches, alas! that know not where we go.