TO DAPHNE, FLEEING FROM APOLLO

"An alchemist is running after you,
Daphne, he's called the Sun, and you're so rude?
Without a doubt you're acting like a bat,
since Sun and light you so swiftly elude.

He plans to have you, as I understand it,
if he can catch you in this forest dark:
his quiver's noisy, but his purse is voiceless;
the dog must be near death, since it won't bark.

A hawker of the signs and of the planets,
he's making funny faces, gesturing,
all laden down with steamy days and comets."

This I said; and to stiff laurel bark
she grafted herself on, to flee his wiles,
and the Sun, pickled, was left in the dark.