Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star, shot thro' the sky, Above the pillared town.
Attic honey thickens the nectar-like Falernian. Such drink deserves to be mixed by Ganymede.