Chapter III: Zenophile

Sweet is the music of that air, by Pan of Arcady,
Thou drawest from the harpstrings, too sweet, Zenophile;
The thronging loves on every side close in and press me nigh,
And leave me scarce a breathing space, so whither can I fly?
Is it thy beauty or thy song that kindles my desire,
Thy grace, or every thing thou art? For I am all on fire.