Thus, ZEPHIR oft the nymph assail'd,
As oft his little arts had fail'd:
The folds of silk, the ribs of whale,
Resisted still his feeble gale.
With these repulses vex'd at heart,
Poor ZEPHIR has recourse to art:
And his own weakness to supply,
Calls in a brother of the sky,
The rude South-West; whose mildest play
Is war, mere war, the Russian way:
A tempest-maker by his trade,
Who knows to ravish, not persuade.