When Lady Venus takes her leisure
A young man with a feathered cap
Is sometimes told to sit beside her
And sing, or play the lute, or flute.
One cultivates clouds, the other
Deeper cushioned accord, both suit
Her cooling hour unarrayed
As she settles back,
A modest hand upon her lap.
And listens, while the poor boy dotes
On other beauties than his notes.
But better than he knows, he sings: