Apollo and Daphne

WHEN Phoebus was am'rous, and long'd to be rude,
Miss Daphne cry'd Pish! and ran swift to the wood,
And rather than do such a naughty affair,
She became a fine laurel to deck the God's hair.

The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution;
For sure to turn tree was an odd resolution!
Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.