Sore wept the centaur, and to Phoebus prayed; But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? Degraded of his power by angry Jove, In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove; And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak; On seven compacted reeds he used to play, And on his rural pipe to waste the day.

His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore The nymph Chariclo to the centaur bore, With hair dishevelled on her shoulders came To see the child, Ocyrrhöe was her name; She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse The depths of prophecy in sounding verse.

They say that he bent his manners to hersa tamed centaur grazing with a milk-white doe.