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Breath for breath, and bliss for bliss.Thus at eve, and thus the morrow!

His freaks, by love betimes is known:He ne'er will leave, within a mill,

EARLY one day, the Muse, when eagerly bent on adornment,Follow'd a swift-running streamlet, the quietest nook by it seeking.Quickly and noisily flowing, the changeful surface distortedEver her moving form; the goddess departed in anger.Yet the stream call'd mockingly after her, saying: "What, truly!Wilt thou not view, then, the truth, in my mirror so clearly depicted?"But she already was far away, on the brink of the ocean,In her figure rejoicing, and duly arranging her garland.