APOLLO and DAPHNE. An EPIGRAM. 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.