Poems by Ovid

Poems

• Art of Beauty Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Once more, ye fair, attend your master's song,
  And learn what method will your charms prolong;
  What happy heart best recommends a face;
  What heightens beauty; what preserves a grace.
  
  Art improves nature; 'twas by art we found
  The vast advantages of furrow'd ground:
  The soil manur'd, a fruitful harvest bore,
  Where thorns and hungry brambles grew before.
  
  By art the gard'ner grafts his trees, to bear
  A kinder fruit, and recompense his care.
  
  A gilded roof delights our captive eyes,
  And stately monuments the sight surprise,
  Tho' sordid earth beneath the polish'd marble lies.
  
  The fleece may be with royal purple died,
  And India precious ivory provide,
  To please your fancies and supply your pride.
  
  When Tatius rul'd the ancient Sabine race,
  Then, rough and careless of a handsome face,
  The women took more pains to earn their bread
  At plough and cart, than how to dress the head;
  All day their task the busy matrons plied,
  Or spinning sat, as to their distaffs tied.
  
  The mother then at night would fold the sheep
  Her little daughter us'd by day to keep;
  And when at home, would cleave out logs of wood,
  Or kindle up a fire to boil their food.
  
  But you, by nature form'd in finer moulds,
  Must wrap your tender limbs in silken folds;
  Wear lawns and tissue, sleep in damask beds,
  And with gay knots and wires adorn your heads:
  Your ears with pendants, lockets on your arms,
  Besides a thousand other nameless charms.
  
  Nor needs this care to please a blush create;
  The men themselves have learned to dress of late.
  
  You are not now particular in clothes,
  The husband and the bridegroom both are beaux;
  Dress then, and 'tis no sin to dress with art,
  For that's the way to wound the lover's heart.
  
  E'en those that live remote in country towns,
  Will dress their hair with flowers and daisy crowns,
  And deck and prank themselves, to please the clowns.
  
  Besides, all women take a secret pride
  In being fine, or else they are belied;
  For when the conscious maid her glass explores,
  And finds she's handsome, she herself adores.
  
  Thus Juno's bird with silent pride will raise
  And spread his starry plumes, whene'er he meets with praise.
  
  This method will oblige our sex to love,
  And more than magic herbs their passions move.
  
  Trust not to philtres; all such stuff forbear;
  Nor try the venom of the lustful mare.
  
  'Tis all a jest; no snakes by such a force
  Enchanted burst, no rivers change their course;
  Nor can they make the moon from heaven descent
  Whate'er some superstitious fools pretend.
  
  First learn good breeding; that I first advise;
  Good carriage oft the other wants supplies.
  
  For when ill-natur'd age shall rudely plough
  Injurious furrows on your wrinkled brow,
  You then perhaps may chide the tell-tale glass,
  That shews the frightful ruins of your face;
  But if good humour to the last remain,
  E'en age may please, and love his force retain.
  
  Now on, my muse, and tell 'em, when they rise,
  When downy sleep forsakes their tender eyes,
  How they may look as fair as morning skies.
  
  Vetches, and beaten barley, let 'em take,
  And with the whites of eggs a mixture make;
  Then dry the precious paste with sun and wind
  And into powder very gently grind.
  
  Get hart's-horn next (but let it be the first
  That creature sheds), and beat it well to dust.
  
  Six pound in all; then mix and sift 'em well,
  And think the while how fond Narcissus fell;
  Six roots to you that pensive flower must yield
  To mingle with the rest, well bruis'd and cleanly pill'd.
  
  Two ounces next of gum, and thural seed,
  That for the gracious gods does incense breed,
  And let a double share of honey last succeed.
  
  With this whatever damsel paints her face,
  Will need no flattering glass to show a grace.

• Disappointment Read Poem Log in to favourite

  But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn't elegant;
  I hadn't yearned for her often in my prayers.
  
  Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:
  I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.
  
  I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came
  from the part of my sluggish loins that should bring joy.
  
  The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck
  (her arms were whiter than the Sithonian snows) ,
  and gave me greedy kisses, thrusting her fluttering tongue,
  and laid her eager thigh against my thigh,
  and whispering fond words, called me the lord of her heart
  and everything else that lovers murmur in joy.
  
  And yet, as if chill hemlock were smeared upon my body,
  my numb limbs would not act out my desire.
  
  I lay there like a log, a fraud, a worthless weight;
  my body might as well have been a shadow.
  
  What will my age be like, if old age ever comes,
  when even my youth cannot fulfill its role?
  
  Ah, I'm ashamed of my years.
  
  I'm young and a man: so what?
  
  I was neither young nor a man in my girlfriend's eyes.
  
  She rose like the sacred priestess who tends the undying flame,
  or a sister who's chastely lain at a dear brother's side.
  
  But not long ago blonde Chlide twice, fair Pitho three times,
  and Libas three times I enjoyed without a pause.
  
  Corinna, as I recall, required my services
  nine times in one short night - and I obliged!
  Has some Thessalian potion made my body limp,
  injuring me with noxious spells and herbs?
  
  Did some witch hex my name scratched on crimson wax
  and stab right through the liver with slender pins?
  
  By spells the grain is blighted and withers to worthless weeds;
  by blighting spells the founts run out of water.
  
  Enchantment strips the oaks of acorns, vines of grapes,
  and makes fruit fall to earth from unstirred boughs.
  
  Such magic arts could also sap my virile powers.
  
  Perhaps they brought this weakness on my thighs,
  and shame at what happened, too; shame made it all the worse:
  that was the second reason for my collapse.
  
  Yet what a girl I looked at and touched - but nothing more!
  I clung to her as closely as her gown.
  
  Her touch could make the Pylian sage feel young again,
  and make Tithonus friskier than his years.
  
  This girl fell to my lot, but no man fell to hers.
  
  What will I ask for now in future prayers?
  
  I believe the mighty gods must rue the gift they gave,
  since I have treated it so shabbily.
  
  Surely, I wanted entry: well, she let me in.
  
  Kisses: I got them.
  
  To lie at her side: There I was.
  
  What good was such great luck - to gain a powerless throne?
  
  What did I have, except a miser's gold?
  
  I was like the teller of secrets, thirsty at the stream,
  looking at fruits forever beyond his grasp.
  
  Whoever rose at dawn from the bed of a tender girl
  in a state fit to approach the sacred gods?
  
  I suppose she wasn't willing, she didn't waste her best
  caresses on me, try everything to excite me!
  That girl could have aroused tough oak and hardest steel
  and lifeless boulders with her blandishments.
  
  She surely was a girl to rouse all living men,
  but then I was not alive, no longer a man.
  
  What pleasure could a deaf man take in Phemius' song
  or painted pictures bring poor Thamyras?
  
  But what joys I envisioned in my private mind,
  what ways did I position and portray!
  And yet my body lay as if untimely dead,
  a shameful sight, limper than yesterday's rose.
  
  Now, look! When it's not needed, it's vigorous and strong;
  now it asks for action and for battle.
  
  Lie down, there - shame on you! - most wretched part of me.
  
  These promises of yours took me before.
  
  You trick your master, you made me be caught unarmed,
  so that I suffered a great and sorry loss.
  
  Yet this same part my girl did not disdain to take
  in hand, fondling it with a gentle motion.
  
  But when she saw no skill she had could make it rise
  and that it lay without a sign of life,
  'You're mocking me, ' she said.
  
  'You're crazy! Who asked you
  to lie down in my bed if you don't want to?
  
  You've come here cursed with woolen threads by some Aeaean
  witch, or worn out by some other love.
  
  '
  And straightway she jumped up, clad in a flowing gown
  (beautiful, as she rushed barefoot off) ,
  and, lest her maids should know that she had not been touched,
  began to wash, concealing the disgrace.
  
  This is quite the humorous poem, although it carries serious weight of impotency.

• Duplicity Read Poem Log in to favourite

  i
  Then must I always bear your endless accusations?
  
  They all prove false, but still I have to fight them.
  
  If I happen to glance at the marble theater's topmost row,
  you pick some girl in the crowd to moan about;
  or if a beautiful woman looks at me wordlessly,
  you charge she's using lovers' wordless signs.
  
  If I compliment a girl, you try to tear out my hair;
  if I criticize one, you think I've got something to hide.
  
  If I look well, I love no one - not even you;
  if I'm pale, you say that I'm pining for someone else.
  
  I wish I really had committed some such sin:
  punishment hurts less when you deserve it;
  but as it is, your wild indictments at every turn
  themselves forbid your wrath to have much weight.
  
  Think of the little long-eared donkey's wretched lot:
  continual beatings only make him stubborn.
  
  Now look, here's another charge: Cypassis, your coiffeuse,
  is cast at me for defiling her mistress's bed!
  The gods forbid that I, even if I yearned to sin,
  should find delight in a slave-girl's lowly lot!
  What man, being free, would want a servile liaison,
  or wish to embrace a body the whip has scarred?
  
  And furthermore, the girl's your personal beautician,
  and valued by you because of her skillful hands.
  
  Is it likely that I'd approach such a trusted serving-maid?
  
  What would I get, but rejection and exposure?
  
  By Venus and by the bow of her swift boy I swear,
  you'll never find me guilty of that crime.
  
  ii
  Cypassis, expert at dressing the hair in a thousand ways
  (but you ought to arrange the tresses of goddesses only)
  you that I've found quite polished in stolen ecstasy,
  fit for your mistress's service, but fitter for mine,
  whoever was it that told of our bodies joining together?
  
  Where did Corinna learn of our affair?
  
  Could I have blushed?
  
  Or slipped by a single word to give
  some sign that has betrayed our furtive joys?
  
  And what of it, if I argued that nobody could transgress
  with a servant, except for a man who was out of his mind
  The Thessalian burned with passion for lovely Briseis, a servant;
  the Mycenean leader loved Apollo's slave.
  
  I'm no greater man than Achilles, or the scion of Tantalus.
  
  How can what's fine for kings be foul for me?
  
  And yet, when your mistress turned her glowering eyes on you,
  I saw a deep blush spread all over your face.
  
  But how much more possessed I was, if you recall,
  I swore my faith by Venus's great godhead!
  (You, goddess, bid, I pray, the warm Southwind to blow
  those innocent lies across the Carpathian sea.
  
  )
  Now give me a sweet return for the favor I did you then,
  by bedding with me, you dusky Cypassis, today.
  
  Don't shake your head, you ingrate, pretending you're still afraid:
  you can please one of your masters, and that's enough.
  
  If you're silly enough to refuse, I'll confess all that we've done,
  making myself the betrayer of my own crime,
  and I'll tell your mistress how often we met, Cypassis, and where,
  and how many times we did it, and how many ways!

• Either She Was A Fool Read Poem Log in to favourite

  EITHER she was fool, or her attire was bad,
  Or she was not the wench I wished to have had.
  
  Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not,
  And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not.
  
  Though both of us performed our true intent,
  Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.
  
  She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,
  Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.
  
  And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue,
  And under mine her wanton thigh she flung,
  Yes, and she soothed me up, and called me "Sir,"
  And used all speech that might provoke and stir.
  
  Yet like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,
  It mocked me, hung down the head and sunk.
  
  Like a dull cipher, or rude block I lay,
  Or shade, or body was I, who can say?
  
  What will my age do, age I cannot shun,
  When in my prime my force is spent and done?
  
  I blush, that being youthful, hot, and lusty,
  I prove nor youth nor man, but old and rusty.
  
  Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice,
  Or one that with her tender brother lies.
  
  Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice,
  And Libas, and the white-cheeked Pitho thrice.
  
  Corinna craved it in a summer's night,
  And nine sweet bouts we had before daylight.
  
  What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian charms?
  
  May spells and drugs do silly souls such harms?
  
  With virgin wax hath some imbast my joints?
  
  And pierced my liver with sharp needles' points?
  
  Charms change corn to grass and make it die:
  By charms are running springs and fountains dry.
  
  By charms mast drops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,
  And fruit from trees when there's no wind at all.
  
  Why might not then my sinews be enchanted,
  And I grow faint as with some spirit haunted?
  
  To this, add shame: shame to perform it quailed me,
  And was the second cause why vigour failed me.
  
  My idle thoughts delighted her no more,
  Than did the robe or garment which she wore.
  
  Yet might her touch make youthful Pylius fire.
  
  And Tithon livelier than his years require.
  
  Even her I had, and she had me in vain,
  What might I crave more, if I ask again?
  
  I think the great gods grieved they had bestowed,
  The benefit: which lewdly I foreslowed,
  I wished to be received in, in I get me:
  To kiss, I kissed; to lie with her, she let me.
  
  Why was I blest?
  
  why make king to refuse it?
  
  Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it.
  
  So in a spring thrives he that told so much,
  And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch.
  
  Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,
  As she might straight have gone to church and prayed.
  
  Well I believe, she kissed not as she should,
  Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could.
  
  Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have moved,
  And with sweet words caused deaf rocks to have loved.
  
  Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
  But neither was I man nor lived then.
  
  Can deaf ears take delight when Phaemius sings?
  
  Or Thamyris in curious painted things?
  
  What sweet thought is there but I had the same?
  
  And one gave place still as another came.
  
  Yet notwithstanding, like one dead it lay,
  Drooping more than a rose pulled yesterday.
  
  Now, when he should not jet, he bolts upright,
  And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight.
  
  Lie down with shame, and see thou stir no more,
  Seeing thou would'st deceive me as before.
  
  Then cozenest me: by thee surprised am I,
  And bide sore loss with endless infamy.
  
  Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit
  To take it in her hand, and play with it.
  
  But when she saw it would by no means stand,
  But still drooped down, regarding not her hand,
  "Why mock'st thou me," she cried, "or being ill,
  Why bade thee lie down here against thy will?
  
  Either thou art witched with blood of frogs new dead,
  Or jaded cam'st thou from some other's bed.
  
  "
  With that, her loose gown on, from me she cast her,
  In skipping out her naked feet much graced her.
  
  And lest her maid should know of this disgrace,
  To cover it, spilt water on the place.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 1 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Quemadmodum a Cupidine, pro bellis amores scribere coactus sit
  We which were Ovids five books, now are three,
  For these before the rest preferreth he:
  If reading five thou plainst of tediousnesse,
  Two tane away, thy labor will be lesse:
  With Muse upreard I meant to sing of armes,
  Choosing a subject fit for feirse alarmes:
  Both verses were alike till Love (men say)
  Began to smile and tooke one foote away.
  
  Rash boy, who gave thee power to change a line?
  
  We are the Muses prophets, none of thine.
  
  What if thy Mother take Dianas bowe,
  Shall Dian fanne when love begins to glowe?
  
  In wooddie groves ist meete that Ceres Raigne,
  And quiver bearing Dian till the plaine:
  Who'le set the faire treste sunne in battell ray,
  While Mars doth take the Aonian harpe to play?
  
  Great are thy kingdomes, over strong and large,
  Ambitious Imp, why seekst thou further charge?
  
  Are all things thine?
  
  the Muses Tempe thine?
  
  Then scarse can Phoebus say, this harpe is mine.
  
  When in this workes first verse I trod aloft,
  Love slackt my Muse, and made my numbers soft.
  
  I have no mistris, nor no favorit,
  Being fittest matter for a wanton wit,
  Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver,
  Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver:
  And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee,
  Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee.
  
  Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits,
  I burne, love in my idle bosome sits.
  
  Let my first verse be sixe, my last five feete,
  Fare well sterne warre, for blunter Poets meete.
  
  Elegian Muse, that warblest amorous laies,
  Girt my shine browe with sea banke mirtle praise.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 10 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Groecinium quod eodem tempore duas amet
  Groecinus(well I wot) thou touldst me once,
  I could not be in love with twoo at once,
  By thee deceived, by thee surprisde am I,
  For now I love two women equallie:
  Both are wel favoured, both rich in array,
  Which is the loveliest it is hard to say:
  This seemes the fairest, so doth that to mee,
  And this doth please me most, and so doth she.
  
  Even as a boate, tost by contrarie winde,
  So with this love and that, wavers my minde.
  
  Venus, why doublest thou my endlesse smart?
  
  Was not one wench inough to greeve my heart?
  
  Why addst thou starres to heaven, leaves to greene woods,
  And to the vast deep sea fresh water flouds?
  
  Yet this is better farre then lie alone,
  Let such as be mine enemies have none,
  Yea, let my foes sleepe in an emptie bed,
  And in the midst their bodies largely spread:
  But may soft love rowse up my drowsie eies,
  And from my mistris bosome let me rise:
  Let one wench cloy me with sweete loves delight,
  If one can doote, if not, two everie night,
  Though I am slender, I have store of pith,
  Nor want I strength, but weight to presse her with:
  Pleasure addes fuell to my lustfull fire,
  I pay them home with that they most desire:
  Oft have I spent the night in wantonnesse,
  And in the morne beene lively nerethelesse.
  
  Hees happie who loves mutuall skirmish slayes,
  And to the Gods for that death Ovid prayes.
  
  Let souldiour chase his enemies amaine,
  And with his bloud etemall honour gaine,
  Let marchants seeke wealth, and with perjured lips,
  Being wrackt, carowse the sea tir'd by their ships:
  But when I die, would I might droope with doing,
  And in the midst thereof, set my soule going,
  That at my filneralles some may weeping crie,
  Even as he led his life, so did he die.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 11 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam navigantem
  The lofty Pine from high mount Pelion raught
  Ill waies by rough seas wondring waves first taught,
  Which rashly twixt the sharpe rocks in the deepe,
  Caried the famous golden-fleeced sheepe.
  
  O would that no Oares might in seas have suncke,
  The Argos wrackt had deadly waters drunke.
  
  Loe country Gods, and known bed to forsake,
  Corinna meanes, and dangerous wayes to take.
  
  For thee the East and West winds make me pale,
  With Icy Boreas, and the Southerne gale:
  Thou shalt admire no woods or Citties there,
  The unjust seas all blewish do appeare.
  
  The Ocean hath no painted stones or shelles,
  The sucking shore with their aboundance swels.
  
  Maides on the shore, with marble white feete tread,
  So farre 'tis safe, but to go farther dread.
  
  Let others tell how winds fierce battailes wage,
  How Scyllaes and Caribdis waters rage.
  
  And with what rockes the feard Cerannia threat,
  In what gulfe either Syrtes have their seate.
  
  Beleeve, no tempest the beleever wreakes.
  
  Too late you looke back, when with anchors weighd,
  The crooked Barque hath her swift sailes displayd.
  
  The careflill ship-man now feares angry gusts,
  And with the waters sees death neere him thrusts,
  But if that Triton tosse the troubled floud,
  In all thy face will be no crimsen bloud.
  
  Then wilt thou Loedas noble twinne-starres pray,
  And he is happy whom the earth holds, say.
  
  It is more safe to sleepe, to read a booke,
  The ThracianHarpe with cunning to have strooke,
  But if my words with winged stormes hence slip,
  Yet Galatea favour thou her ship.
  
  The losse of such a wench much blame will gather,
  Both to the Sea-nimphes, and the Sea-nimphes father.
  
  Go, minding to returne with prosperous winde,
  Whose blast may hether strongly be inclinde,
  Let Nereus bend the waves unto this shore,
  Hether the windes blowe, here the spring-tide rore.
  
  Request milde Zephires helpe for thy availe,
  And with thy hand assist the swelling saile.
  
  I from the shore thy knowne ship first will see,
  And say it brings her that preserveth me;
  lIe clip and kisse thee with all contentation,
  For thy returne shall fall the vowd oblation,
  And in the forme of beds weele strowe soft sand,
  Each little hill shall for a table stand:
  There wine being fild, thou many things shalt tell,
  How almost wrackt thy ship in maine seas fell.
  
  And hasting to me, neither darkesome night,
  Nor violent South-windes did thee ought aifright.
  
  lIe thinke all true, though it be feigned matter.
  
  Mine owne desires why should my selfe not flatter?
  
  Let the bright day-starre cause in heaven this day be,
  To bring that happy time so soone as may be.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 12 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Exultat, quod amica potitus sit
  About my temples go triumphant bayes,
  Conquer'd Corinna in my bosome layes.
  
  She whom her husband, guard, and gate as foes,
  Least Arte should winne her, firmely did inclose.
  
  That victory doth chiefely triumph merit,
  Which without bloud-shed doth the pray inherit.
  
  No little ditched townes, no lowlie walles,
  But to my share a captive damsell falles.
  
  When Troy by ten yeares battle tumbled downe,
  With the Atrides many gainde renowne.
  
  But I no partner of my glory brooke,
  Nor can an other say his helpe I tooke.
  
  I guide and souldiour wunne the field and weare her,
  I was both horse-man, foote-man, standard bearer.
  
  Nor in my act hath fortune mingled chance,
  O care-got triumph hetherwards advance.
  
  Nor is my warres cause new, but for a Queene
  Europe, and Asia in firme peace had beene.
  
  The Laphithes, and the Centaures for a woman,
  To cruell armes their drunken selves did summon.
  
  A woman forc'd the Troyanes new to enter
  Warres, just Latinus, in thy kingdomes center:
  A woman against late-built Rome did send
  The SabineFathers, who sharpe warres intend.
  
  I saw how Bulls for a white Heifer strive,
  Shee looking on them did more courage give.
  
  And me with many, but yet me without murther,
  Cupid commands to move his ensignes flirther.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 13 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Isidem, ut parientem Corinnam iuvet
  While rashly her wombes burthen she casts out,
  Wearie Corinna hath her life in doubt.
  
  She secretly with me such harme attempted,
  Angry I was, but feare my wrath exempted.
  
  But she conceiv'd of me, or I am sure
  I oft have done, what might as much procure.
  
  Thou that frequents Canopus pleasant fields,
  Memphis, and Pharos that sweete date trees yeelds,
  And where swift Nile in his large channell slipping,
  By seaven huge mouthes into the sea is skipping,
  By fear'd Anubis visage I thee pray,
  So in thy Temples shall Osiris stay,
  And the dull snake about thy offrings creepe,
  And in thy pompe hornd Apis with thee keepe,
  Turne thy lookes hether, and in one spare twaine,
  Thou givest my mistris life, she mine againe.
  
  Shee oft hath serv'd thee upon certaine dayes,
  Where the French rout engirt themselves with Bayes.
  
  On labouring women thou doest pitty take,
  Whose bodies with their heavy burthens ake.
  
  My wench, Lucina, I intreat thee favour,
  Worthy she is, thou shouldst in mercy save her.
  
  In white, with incense Ile thine Altars greete,
  My selfe will bring vowed gifts before thy feete,
  Subscribing, Naso with Corinna sav'd:
  Do but deserve gifts with this title grav'd.
  
  But if in so great feare I may advize thee,
  To have this skirmish fought, let it suffice thee.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 14 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In amicam, quod abortivum ipsa fecerit
  What helpes it Woman to be free from warre?
  
  Nor being arrn'd fierce troupes to follow farre?
  
  If without battell selfe-wrought wounds annoy them,
  And their owne privie weapon'd hands destroy them.
  
  Who unborne infants first to slay invented,
  Deserv'd thereby with death to be tormented.
  
  Because thy belly should rough wrinckles lacke,
  Wilt thou thy wombe-inclosed off-spring wracke?
  
  Had ancient Mothers this vile custome cherisht,
  All humaine kinde by their default had perisht.
  
  Or stones, our stockes originall, should be hurld,
  Againe by some in this unpeopled world.
  
  Who should have Priams wealthy substance wonne,
  If watry Thetis had her childe fordone?
  
  In swelling wombe her twinnes had Ilia kilde?
  
  He had not beene that conquering Rome did build.
  
  Had Venus spoilde her bellies Troyane fruite,
  The earth of Caesars had beene destitute.
  
  Thou also, that wert borne faire, hadst decayed,
  If such a worke thy mother had assayed.
  
  My selfe that better dye with loving may
  Had seene, my mother killing me, no day.
  
  Why takest increasing grapes from Vine-trees full?
  
  With cruell hand why doest greene Apples pull?
  
  Fruites ripe will fall, let springing things increase,
  Life is no light price of a small surcease.
  
  Why with hid irons are your bowels tome?
  
  And why dire poison give you babes unborne?
  
  At Cholcis stain'd with childrens bloud men raile,
  And mother-murtherd Itis they bewaile,
  Both unkinde parents, but for causes sad,
  Their wedlocks pledges veng'd their husbands bad.
  
  What Tereus, what Jason you provokes,
  To plague your bodies with such harmeflill strokes?
  
  ArmenianTygers never did so ill,
  Nor dares the Lyonesse her young whelpes kill.
  
  But tender Damsels do it, though with paine,
  Oft dyes she that her paunch-wrapt child hath slaine.
  
  Shee dyes, and with loose haires to grave is sent,
  And who ere see her, worthily lament.
  
  But in the ayre let these words come to nought,
  And my presages of no weight be thought.
  
  Forgive her gratious Gods this one delict,
  And on the next fault punishment inflict.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 15 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad annulum, quem dono amicae dedit
  Thou ring that shalt my faire girles finger binde,
  Wherein is seene the givers loving minde:
  Be welcome to her, gladly let her take thee,
  And her small joynts incircling round hoope make thee.
  
  Fit her so well, as she is fit for me:
  And of just compasse for her knuckles bee.
  
  Blest ring thou in my mistris hand shalt lye,
  My selfe poore wretch mine owne gifts now envie.
  
  O would that sodainly into my gift,
  I could my selfe by secret Magicke shift.
  
  Then would I wish thee touch my mistris pappe,
  And hide thy left hand underneath her lappe.
  
  I would get off though straight, and sticking fast,
  And in her bosome strangely fall at last.
  
  Then I, that I may seale her privy leaves,
  Least to the waxe the hold-fast drye gemme cleaves,
  Would first my beautious wenches moist lips touch,
  Onely Ile signe nought, that may grieve me much.
  
  I would not out, might I in one place hit,
  But in lesse compasse her small fingers knit.
  
  My life, that I will shame thee never feare,
  Or be a bade thou shouldst refuse to beare.
  
  Weare me, when warlnest showers thy members wash,
  And through the gemme let thy lost waters pash.
  
  But seeing thee, I thinke my thing will swell,
  And even the ring performe a mans part well.
  
  Vaine things why wish I?
  
  go small gift from hand.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 16 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam, ut ad rura sua veniat
  Sulmo, Pelignies third part me containes,
  A small, but wholesome soyle with watrie veynes.
  
  Although the sunne to rive the earth incline,
  And the Icarian froward Dog-starre shine,
  Pelignian fields with liqued rivers flowe,
  And on the soft ground fertile greene grasse growe.
  
  With corne the earth abounds, with vines much more,
  And some few pastures PallasOlives bore.
  
  And by the rising herbes, where cleare springs slide,
  A grassie turffe the moistened earth doth hide.
  
  But absent is my fire, lyes ile tell none,
  My heate is heere, what moves my heate is gone.
  
  Pollux and Castor, might I stand betwixt,
  In heaven without thee would I not be fi,tt.
  
  Upon the cold earth pensive let them lay,
  That meane to travaile some long irkesome way.
  
  Or els will maidens, yong-mens mates, to go
  If they determine to persever so.
  
  Then on the rough Alpes should I tread aloft,
  My hard way with my mistrisse would seeme soft.
  
  With her I durst the LybianSyrtes breake through,
  And raging Seas in boistrous South-winds plough.
  
  No barking Dogs that Syllaes intrailes beare,
  Nor thy gulfes crooked Malea, would I feare.
  
  No flowing waves with drowned ships forth poured,
  Bycloyed Charibdis, and againe devoured.
  
  But if sterne Neptunes windie powre prevaile,
  And waters force, force helping Gods to faile,
  With thy white armes upon my shoulders seaze,
  So sweete a burthen I will beare with eaze.
  
  The youth oft swimming to his Hero kinde,
  Had then swum over, but the way was blinde.
  
  But without thee, although vine-planted ground
  Conteines me, though the streames in fields surround,
  Though Hindes in brookes the running waters bring,
  And coole gales shake the tall trees leavy spring,
  Healthfi'll PelignyI esteeme nought worth,
  Nor do I like the country of my birth.
  
  Sythia, Cilicia, Brittaine are as good,
  And rockes dyed crimson with Prometheus bloud.
  
  Elmes love the Vines, the Vines with Elmes abide,
  Why doth my mistresse from me oft devide?
  
  Thou swearest, devision should not twixt us rise,
  By me, and by my starres, thyradiant eyes.
  
  Maides words more vaine and light then falling leaves,
  Which as it seemes, hence winde and sea bereaves.
  
  If any godly care of me thou hast,
  Adde deeds unto thy promises at last.
  
  And with swift Naggs drawing thy little Coach,
  (Their reines let loose) right soone my house approach.
  
  But when she comes, you swelling mounts sinck downe,
  And falling vallies be the smooth-wayes crowne.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 17 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Quod Corinnae soli sit serviturus
  To serve a wench if any thinke it shame,
  He being Judge, I am convinc'd of blame.
  
  Let me be slandered, while my fire she hides,
  That Paphos, and the floud-beate Cithera guides.
  
  Would I had beene my mistresse gentle prey,
  Since some faire one I should of force obey.
  
  Beauty gives heart, Corinnas lookes excell,
  Aye me why is it knowne to her so well?
  
  But by her glasse disdainefull pride she learnes,
  Nor she her selfe but first trim'd up discernes.
  
  Not though thy face in all things make thee raigne,
  (O face most cunning mine eyes to detaine)
  Thou oughtst therefore to scorne me for thy mate,
  Small things with greater may be copulate.
  
  Love-snarde Calypso is supposde to pray,
  A mortall nimphes refusing Lord to stay.
  
  Who doubts, with Pelius, Thetis did consort,
  Egeria with just Numa had good sport,
  Venus with Vulcan, though smiths tooles laide by,
  With his stumpe-foote he halts ill-favouredly.
  
  This kinde of verse is not alike, yet fit,
  With shorter numbers the heroicke sit.
  
  And thou my light accept me how so ever,
  Lay in the mid bed, there be my law giver.
  
  My stay no crime, my flight no joy shall breede,
  Nor of our love to be asham'd we need,
  For great revenews I good verses have,
  And many by me to get glory crave.
  
  I know a wench reports her selfe Corinne,
  What would not she give that faire name to winne?
  
  But sundry flouds in one banke never go,
  Eurotas cold, and poplar-bearing Po.
  
  Nor in my bookes shall one but thou be writ,
  Thou doest alone give matter to my wit.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 18 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Macrum, quod de amoribus scribat
  To tragick verse while thou Achilles trainst,
  And new sworne souldiours maiden armes retainst,
  Wee Macer sit in Venus slothfull shade,
  And tender love hath great things hatefull made.
  
  Often at length, my wench depart, I bid,
  Shee in my lap sits still as earst she did.
  
  I sayd it irkes me: halfe to weping framed,
  Aye me she cries, to love, why art a shamed?
  
  Then wreathes about my necke her winding armes,
  And thousand kisses gives, that worke my harmes:
  I yeeld, and back my wit from battells bring,
  Domesticke acts, and mine owne warres to sing.
  
  Yet tragedies, and scepters fild my lines,
  But though I apt were for such high deseignes,
  Love laughed at my cloak, and buskines painted,
  And rule so soone with private hands acquainted.
  
  My Mistris deity also drewe me fro it,
  And Love triumpheth ore his buskind Poet.
  
  What lawfull is, or we professe Loves art,
  (Alas my precepts turne my selfe to smart)
  We write, or what Penelope sends Ulysses,
  Or Phillis teares that her Demophoon misses,
  What thanklesse Jason, Macareus, and Paris,
  Phedra, and Hipolite may read, my care is,
  And what poore Dido with her drawne sword sharpe,
  Doth say, with her that lov'd the Aonian harpe.
  
  As soone as from strange lands Salinus came,
  And writings did from diverse places frame,
  White-cheekt Penelope knewe Ulisses signe,
  The stepdame read Hyppolitus lustlesse line.
  
  Eneas to Elisa answere gives,
  And Phillis hath to reade; if now she lives.
  
  Jasons sad letter doth Hipsipile greete,
  Sappho her vowed harpe laies at Phoebus feete.
  
  Nor of thee Macer that resoundst forth armes,
  Is golden love hid in Mars mid alarmes.
  
  There Paris is, and Helens crymes record,
  With Laodameia mate to her dead Lord.
  
  Unlesse I erre to these thou more incline,
  Then warres, and from thy tents wilt come to mine.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 19 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad rivalem, cui uxor curae non erat
  Foole if to keepe thy wife thou hast no neede,
  Keepe her for me, my more desire to breede.
  
  Wee skorne things lawfiill, stolne sweetes we affect,
  Cruell is he, that loves whom none protect.
  
  Let us both lovers hope, and feare a like,
  And may repulse place for our wishes strike.
  
  What should I do with fortune that nere failes me?
  
  Nothing I love, that at all times availes me.
  
  Wily Corinna sawe this blemish in me,
  And craftily knowes by what meanes to winne me.
  
  Ah often, that her hale head aked, she lying,
  Wild me, whose slowe feete sought delay, be flying.
  
  Ah oft how much she might she feignd offence;
  And doing wrong made shew of innocence.
  
  So having vext she nourisht my warme fire,
  And was againe most apt to my desire.
  
  To please me, what faire termes and sweet words ha's shee,
  Great gods what kisses, and how many gave she?
  
  Thou also that late tookest mine eyes away,
  Oft couzen me, oft being wooed say nay.
  
  And on thy thre-shold let me lie dispred,
  Suffring much cold by hoary nights frost bred.
  
  So shall my love continue many yeares,
  This doth delight me, this my courage cheares.
  
  Fat love, and too much fulsome me annoyes,
  Even as sweete meate a glutted stomacke cloyes.
  
  In brazen tower had not Danae dwelt,
  A mothers joy by Jove she had not felt.
  
  While JunoJo keepes when hornes she wore,
  Jove liked her better then he did before.
  
  Who covets lawfull things takes leaves from woods,
  And drinkes stolne waters in surrownding floudes.
  
  Her lover let her mocke, that long will raigne,
  Aye me, let not my warnings cause my paine.
  
  What ever haps, by suifrance harme is done,
  What flies, I followe, what followes me I shunne.
  
  But thou of thy faire damsell too secure,
  Beginne to shut thy house at evening sure.
  
  Search at the dore who knocks oft in the darke,
  In nights deepe silence why the ban-dogges barke.
  
  Whether the subtile maide lines bringes and carries,
  Why she alone in empty bed oft tarries.
  
  Let this care some-times bite thee to the quick,
  That to deceits it may me forward pricke.
  
  To steale sands from the shore he loves alife,
  That can effect a foolish wittalls wife.
  
  Now I forewarne, unlesse to keepe her stronger,
  Thou doest beginne, she shall be mine no longer.
  
  Long have I borne much, hoping time would beate thee
  To guard her well, that well I might entreate thee.
  
  Thou suifrest what no husband can endure,
  But of my love it will an end procure.
  
  Shall I poore soule be never interdicted?
  
  Nor never with nights sharpe revenge afflicted?
  
  In sleeping shall I fearelesse drawe my breath?
  
  Wilt nothing do, why I should wish thy death?
  
  Can I but loath a husband growne a baude?
  
  By thy default thou doest our joyes defraude.
  
  Some other seeke that may in patience strive with thee,
  To pleasure me, for-bid me to corive with thee.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 2 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Bagoum, ut custodiam puelloe sibi commissoe laxiorem habeat
  Bagous whose care doth thy Mistrisse bridle,
  While I speake some fewe, yet fit words be idle.
  
  I sawe the damsell walking yesterday
  There where the porch doth Danaus fact display.
  
  Shee pleas'd me, soone I sent, and did her woo,
  Her trembling hand writ back she might not doo.
  
  And asking why, this answeare she redoubled,
  Because thy care too much thy Mistresse troubled.
  
  Keeper if thou be wise cease hate to cherish,
  Beleeve me, whom we feare, we wish to perish.
  
  Nor is her husband wise, what needes defence
  When un-protected ther is no expence?
  
  But fliriously he follow his loves fire
  And thinke her chast whom many doe desire.
  
  Stolne liberty she may by thee obtaine,
  Which giving her, she may give thee againe.
  
  Wilt thou her fault leame, she may make thee tremble,
  Feare to be guilty, then thou maiest desemble.
  
  Thinke when she reades, her mother letters sent her,
  Let him goe forth knowne, that unknowne did enter,
  Let him goe see her though she doe not languish
  And then report her sicke and full of anguish.
  
  If long she stayes, to thinke the time more short
  Lay downe thy forehead in thy lap to snort.
  
  Enquire not what with Isis may be done
  Nor feare least she to th' theater's runne.
  
  Knowing her scapes thine honour shall encrease,
  And what lesse labour then to hold thy peace?
  
  Let him please, haunt the house, be kindly usd,
  Enjoy the wench, let all else be refusd.
  
  Vaine causes fame of him the true to hide,
  And what she likes, let both hold ratifide.
  
  When most her husband bends the browes and frownes,
  His fauning wench with her desire he crownes.
  
  But yet sometimes to chide thee let her fall
  Counterfet teares: and thee lewd hangman call.
  
  Object thou then what she may well excuse,
  To staine all faith in truth, by false crimes use.
  
  Of wealth and honour so shall grow thy heape,
  Do this and soone thou shalt thy freedome reape.
  
  On tell-tales neckes thou seest the linke-knitt chaines,
  The filthy prison faithlesse breasts restraines.
  
  Water in waters, and fruite flying touch
  Tantalus seekes, his long tongues game is such.
  
  While Junos watch-man Io too much eyde,
  Him timelesse death tooke, she was deifide.
  
  I sawe ones legges with fetters blacke and blewe,
  By whom the husband his wives incest knewe.
  
  More he deserv'd, to both great harme he fram'd,
  The man did grieve, the woman was defam'd.
  
  Trust me all husbands for such faults are sad
  Nor make they any man that heare them glad.
  
  If he loves not, deafe eares thou doest importune,
  Or if he loves, thy tale breedes his misfortune.
  
  Nor is it easily prov'd though manifest,
  She safe by favour of her judge doth rest.
  
  Though himselfe see; heele credit her denyall,
  Condemne his eyes, and say there is no tryall.
  
  Spying his mistrisse teares, he will lament
  And say this blabbe shall suffer punnishment.
  
  Why fightst galust oddes?
  
  to thee being cast do happe
  Sharpe stripes, she sitteth in the judges lappe.
  
  To meete for poyson or vilde facts we crave not,
  My hands an unsheath'd shyning weapon have not.
  
  Wee seeke that through thee safely love we may,
  What can be easier then the thing we pray?

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 3 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Eunuchum servantem dominam
  Aye me an Eunuch keepes my mistrisse chaste,
  That cannot Venus mutuall pleasure taste.
  
  Who first depriv'd yong boyes of their best part,
  With selfe same woundes he gave, he ought to smart.
  
  To kinde requests thou wouldst more gentle prove,
  If ever wench had made luke-warme thy love:
  Thou wert not borne to ride, or armes to beare,
  Thy hands agree not with the warlike speare.
  
  Men handle those, all manly hopes resigne,
  Thy mistrisse enseignes must be likewise thine.
  
  Please her, her hate makes others thee abhorre,
  If she discardes thee, what use servest thou for?
  
  Good forme there is, yeares apt to play togither,
  Unmeete is beauty without use to wither.
  
  Shee may deceive thee, though thou her protect,
  What two determine never wants effect.
  
  Our prayers move thee to assist our drift,
  While thou hast time yet to bestowe that gift.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 4 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Quod amet mulieres, cuiuscunque formoe sint
  I meane not to defend the scapes of any,
  Or justifie my vices being many,
  For I confesse, if that might merite favour,
  Heere I display my lewd and loose behaviour.
  
  I loathe, yet after that I loathe, I runne:
  Oh how the burthen irkes, that we should shun.
  
  I cannot rule my selfe, but where love please
  Am driven like a ship upon rough seas,
  No one face likes me best, all faces moove,
  A hundred reasons makes me ever love.
  
  If any eie mee with a modest looke,
  I burne, and by that blushfiill glance am tooke:
  And she thats coy I like for being no clowne,
  Me thinkes she should be nimble when shees downe.
  
  Though her sowre looks a Sabines browe resemble,
  I thinke sheele doe, but deepely can dissemble.
  
  If she be learned, then for her skill I crave her,
  If not, because shees simple I would have her.
  
  Before Callimachus one preferres me farre,
  Seeing she likes my bookes, why should we jarre?
  
  Another railes at me, and that I write,
  Yet would I lie with her if that I might.
  
  Trips she, it likes me well, plods she, what than?
  
  She would be nimbler, lying with a man.
  
  And when one sweetely sings, then straight I long,
  To quaver on her lippes even in her song,
  Or if one touch the lute with art and cunning,
  Who would not love those hands for their swift running?
  
  And she I like that with a majestie,
  Foldes up her armes, and makes low curtesie.
  
  To leave my selfe, that am in love with all,
  Some one of these might make the chastest fall.
  
  If she be tall, shees like an Amazon,
  And therefore filles the bed she lies uppon:
  If short, she lies the rounder: to speake troth,
  Both short and long please me, for I love both:
  I thinke what one undeckt would be, being drest;
  Is she attired, then shew her graces best.
  
  A white wench thralles me, so doth golden yellowe,
  And nut-browne girles in doing have no fellowe.
  
  If her white necke be shadowde with blacke haire,
  Why so was Ledas, yet was Leda faire.
  
  Amber trest is shee, then on the morne thinke I,
  My love alludes to everie historie:
  A yong wench pleaseth, and an old is good,
  This for her looks, that for her woman-hood:
  Nay what is she that any Romane loves,
  But my ambitious ranging mind approoves?

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 5 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam corruptam
  No love is so dere (quiverd Cupid flie)
  That my chiefe wish should be so oft to die.
  
  Minding thy fault, with death I wish to revill,
  Alas a wench is a perpetuall evill.
  
  No intercepted lines thy deedes display,
  No gifts given secretly thy crime bewray.
  
  O would my proofes as vaine might be withstood,
  Aye me poore soule, why is my cause so good.
  
  He's happy, that his love dares boldly credit,
  To whom his wench can say, I never did it.
  
  He's cruell, and too much his griefe doth favour
  That seekes the conquest by her loose behaviour.
  
  Poore wretch I sawe when thou didst thinke I slumbred,
  Not drunke, your faults in the spilt wine I numbred.
  
  I sawe your nodding eye-browes much to speake,
  Even from your cheekes parte of a voice did breake.
  
  Not silent were thine eyes, the boord with wine
  Was scribled, and thy fingers writ a line.
  
  I knew your speech (what do not lovers see?
  
  )
  And words that seem'd for certaine markes to be.
  
  Now many guests were gone, the feast being done,
  The youthfull sort to divers pastimes runne.
  
  I sawe you then unlawfull kisses joyne,
  (Such with my tongue it likes me to purloyne).
  
  None such the sister gives her brother grave,
  But such kinde wenches let their lovers have.
  
  Phoebus gave not Diana such tis thought,
  But Venus often to her Mars such brought.
  
  What doest, I cryed, transportst thou my delight?
  
  My lordly hands ile throwe upon my right.
  
  Such blisse is onely common to us two,
  In this sweete good, why hath a third to do?
  
  This, and what grife inforc'd me say I say'd,
  A scarlet blush her guilty face arayed.
  
  Even such as by Aurora hath the skie,
  Or maides that their betrothed husbands spie.
  
  Such as a rose mixt with a lilly breedes,
  Or when the Moone travailes with charmed steedes.
  
  Or such, as least long yeares should turne the die,
  Arackne staynes Assyrian ivory.
  
  To these, or some of these like was her colour,
  By chaunce her beauty never shined fuller.
  
  She viewed the earth: the earth to viewe, beseem'd her.
  
  She looked sad: sad, comely I esteem'd her.
  
  Even kembed as they were, her lockes to rend,
  And scratch her faire soft cheekes I did intend.
  
  Seeing her face, mine upreard armes discended,
  With her owne armor was my wench defended.
  
  I that ere-while was fierce, now humbly sue,
  Least with worse kisses she should me indue.
  
  She laught, and kissed so sweetely as might make
  Wrath-kindled Jove away his thunder shake.
  
  I grieve least others should such good perceive,
  And wish hereby them all unknowne to leave.
  
  Also much better were they then I tell,
  And ever seemed as some new sweete befell.
  
  Tis ill they pleas'd so much, for in my lips,
  Lay her whole tongue hid, mine in hers she dips.
  
  This grieves me not, no joyned kisses spent,
  Bewaile I onely, though I them lament.
  
  No where can they be taught but in the bed,
  I know no maister of so great hire sped.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 6 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In mortem psittaci
  The parrat from east India to me sent,
  Is dead, al-fowles her exequies frequent.
  
  Go goodly birdes, striking your breasts bewaile,
  And with rough clawes your tender cheekes assaile.
  
  For wofull haires let piece-torne plumes abound,
  For long shrild trumpets let your notes resound.
  
  Why Philomele doest Tereus leudnesse mourne?
  
  All wasting years have that complaint out worne.
  
  Thy tunes let this rare birdes sad funerall borrowe,
  Itis is great, but auntient cause of sorrowe.
  
  All you whose pineons in the cleare aire sore,
  But most thou friendly turtle-dove, deplore.
  
  Full concord all your lives was you betwixt,
  And to the end your constant faith stood fixt.
  
  What Pylades did to Orestes prove,
  Such to the parrat was the turtle dove.
  
  But what availde this faith?
  
  her rarest hue?
  
  Or voice that howe to change the wilde notes knew?
  
  What helpes it thou wert given to please my wench,
  Birdes haples glory, death thy life doth quench.
  
  Thou with thy quilles mightst make greene Emeralds darke,
  And passe our scarlet of red saifrons marke.
  
  No such voice-feigning bird was on the ground,
  Thou spokest thy words so well with stammering sound.
  
  Envy hath rapt thee, no fierce warres thou movedst,
  Vaine babling speech, and pleasant peace thou lovedst.
  
  Behould how quailes among their battailes live,
  Which do perchance old age unto them give.
  
  A little fild thee, and for love of talke,
  Thy mouth to taste of many meates did balke.
  
  Nuts were thy food, and Poppie causde thee sleepe,
  Pure waters moisture thirst away did keepe.
  
  The ravenous vulture lives, the Puttock hovers
  Around the aire, the Cadesse raine discovers,
  And Crowes survive armes-bearing Pallas hate,
  Whose life nine ages scarce bring out of date.
  
  Dead is that speaking image of mans voice,
  The Parrat given me, the farre worlds best choice.
  
  The greedy spirits take the best things first,
  Supplying their voide places with the worst.
  
  Thersites did Protesilaus survive,
  And Hector dyed his brothers yet alive.
  
  My wenches vowes for thee what should I show,
  Which storrnie South-windes into sea did blowe?
  
  The seventh day came, none following mightst thou see,
  And the fates distaffe emptie stood to thee,
  Yet words in thy benummed palate rung,
  Farewell Corinna cryed thy dying tongue.
  
  Elisium hath a wood of holme trees black,
  Whose earth doth not perpetuall greene-grasse lacke,
  There good birds rest (if we beleeve things hidden)
  Whence uncleane fowles are said to be forbidden.
  
  There harrnelesse Swans feed all abroad the river,
  There lives the Phoenix one alone bird ever.
  
  There Junoes bird displayes his gorgious feather,
  And loving Doves kisse eagerly together.
  
  The Parrat into wood receiv'd with these,
  Turnes all the goodly birdes to what she please.
  
  A grave her bones hides, on her corps great grave,
  The little stones these little verses have.
  
  This tombe approoves, I pleasde my mistresse well,
  My mouth in speaking did all birds excell.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 7 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Amica se purgat, quod ancillam non amet
  Doost me of new crimes aiwayes guilty frame?
  
  To over-come, so oft to fight I shame.
  
  If on the Marble Theater I looke,
  One among many is to grieve thee tooke.
  
  If some faire wench me secretly behold,
  Thou arguest she doth secret markes unfold.
  
  If I praise any, thy poore haires thou tearest,
  If blame, dissembling of my fault thou fearest.
  
  If I looke well, thou thinkest thou doest not move,
  If ill, thou saiest I die for others love.
  
  Would I were culpable of some offence,
  They that deserve paine, beare't with patience.
  
  Now rash accusing, and thy vaine beliefe,
  Forbid thine anger to procure my griefe.
  
  Loe how the miserable great eared Asse,
  Duld with much beating slowly forth doth passe.
  
  Behold Cypassis wont to dresse thy head,
  Is charg'd to violate her mistresse bed.
  
  The Gods from this sinne rid me of suspition,
  To like a base wench of despisd condition.
  
  With Venus game who will a servant grace?
  
  Or any back made rough with stripes imbrace?
  
  Adde she was diligent thy locks to braide,
  And for her skill to thee a grateflill maide.
  
  Should I sollicit her that is so just:
  To take repulse, and cause her shew my lust?
  
  I sweare by Venus, and the wingd boyes bowe,
  My selfe unguilty of this crime I know.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 8 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Cypassim ancillam Corinnoe
  Cypassis that a thousand wayes trimst haire,
  Worthy to keembe none but a Goddesse faire,
  Our pleasant scapes shew thee no clowne to be,
  Apt to thy mistrisse, but more apt to me.
  
  Who that our bodies were comprest bewrayde?
  
  Whence knowes Corinna that with thee I playde?
  
  Yet blusht I not, nor usde I any saying,
  That might be urg'd to witnesse our false playing.
  
  What if a man with bond-women offend,
  To prove him foolish did I ere contend?
  
  Achilles burnt with face of captive Briseis,
  Great Agamemnon lov'd his servant Chriseis.
  
  Greater then these my selfe I not esteeme,
  What graced Kings, in me no shame I deeme.
  
  But when on thee her angry eyes did rush,
  In both thy cheekes she did perceive thee blush,
  But being present, might that worke the best,
  By VenusDeity how did I protest.
  
  Thou Goddesse doest command a warme South-blast,
  My false oathes in Carpathian seas to cast.
  
  For which good turne my sweete reward repay,
  Let me lie with thee browne Cypasse to day.
  
  Ungrate why feignest new feares?
  
  and doest refuse;
  Well majest thou one thing for thy Mistresse use.
  
  If thou deniest foole, lie our deeds expresse,
  And as a traitour mine owne fault confesse.
  
  Telling thy mistresse, where I was with thee,
  How oft, and by what meanes we did agree.

• Elegia: Book 1, Number 9 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Cupidinem
  O Cupid that doest never cease my smart,
  O boy that lyest so slothfull in my heart.
  
  Why me that alwayes was thy souldiour found,
  Doest harme, and in thy tents why doest me wound?
  
  Why burnes thy brand, why strikes thy bow thy friends?
  
  More glory by thy vanquisht foes assends.
  
  Did not Pelides whom his Speare did grieve,
  Being requirde, with speedy helpe relieve?
  
  Hunters leave taken beasts, pursue the chase,
  And then things found do ever flirther pace.
  
  We people wholy given thee, feele thine armes,
  Thy dull hand stayes thy striving enemies harmes.
  
  Doest joy to have thy hooked Arrowes shaked,
  In naked bones?
  
  love hath my bones left naked.
  
  So many men and maidens without love,
  Hence with great laude thou maiest a triumph move.
  
  Rome if her strength the huge world had not fild,
  With strawie cabins now her courts should build.
  
  The weary souldiour hath the conquerd fields,
  His sword layed by, safe, though rude places yeelds.
  
  The Docke in harbours ships drawne from the flouds,
  Horse freed from service range abroad the woods.
  
  And time it was for me to live in quiet,
  That have so oft serv'd pretty wenches dyet.
  
  Yet should I curse a God, if he but said,
  Live without love, so sweete ill is a maide.
  
  For when my loathing it of heate deprives me,
  I know not whether my mindes whirle-wind drives me.
  
  Even as a head-strong courser beares away,
  His rider vainely striving him to stay,
  Or as a sodaine gale thrustes into sea,
  The haven touching barcke now nere the lea,
  So wavering Cupid bringes me backe amaine,
  And purple Love resumes his dartes againe.
  
  Strike boy, I offer thee my naked brest,
  Heere thou hast strength, here thy right hand doth rest.
  
  Here of themselves thy shafts come, as if shot,
  Better then I their quiver knowes them not.
  
  Haples is he that all the night lies quiet
  And slumbring, thinkes himselfe much blessed by it.
  
  Foole, what is sleepe but image of cold death,
  Long shalt thou rest when Fates expire thy breath.
  
  But me let crafty damsells words deceive,
  Great joyes by hope I inly shall conceive.
  
  Now let her flatter me, now chide me hard,
  Let me enjoy her oft, oft be debard.
  
  Cupid by thee, Mars in great doubt doth trample,
  And thy step-father fights by thy example.
  
  Light art thou, and more windie then thy winges,
  Joyes with uncertaine faith thou takest and brings.
  
  Yet Love, if thou with thy faire mother heare,
  Within my brest no desert empire beare.
  
  Subdue the wandring wenches to thy raigne,
  So of both people shalt thou homage gaine.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 1 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Quod pro gigantomachia amores scribere sit coactus
  (That he is compelled to write of love-affairs, rather than the battle of the Giants)
  I, Ovid, poet of my wantonness,
  Born at Peligny, to write more address.
  
  So Cupid wills, far hence be the severe,
  You are unapt my looser lines to hear.
  
  Let maids whom hot desire to husbands lead,
  And rude boys touch'd with unknown love me read,
  That some youth hurt as I am with Love's bow
  His own flame's best acquainted signs may know,
  And, long admiring, say by what means learn'd
  Hath this same poet my sad chance discern'd?
  
  I durst the great celestial battles tell,
  Hundred-hand Gyges, and had done it well,
  With earth's revenge and how Olympus' top
  High Ossa bore, mount Pelion up to prop.
  
  Jove and Jove's thunderbolts I had in hand
  Which for his heav'n fell on the Giants' band.
  
  My wench her door shut, Jove's affairs I left,
  Even Jove himself out off my wit was reft.
  
  Pardon me Jove, thy weapons aid me nought,
  Her shut gates greater lightning than thine brought.
  
  Toys, and light elegies my darts I took,
  Quickly soft words hard doors wide open strook.
  
  Verses deduce the horned bloody moon
  And call the sun's white horses back at noon.
  
  Snakes leap by verse from caves of broken mountains
  And turned streams run backward to their fountains.
  
  Verses ope doors, and locks put in the post
  Although of oak, to yield to verses boast.
  
  What helps it me of fierce Achill to sing?
  
  What good to me will either Ajax bring?
  
  Or he who war'd and wand'red twenty year?
  
  Or woful Hector whom wild jades did tear ?
  
  But when I praise a pretty wench's face
  She in requital doth me oft embrace.
  
  A great reward.
  
  Heroes of famous names
  Farewell, your favour nought my mind inflames.
  
  Wenches, apply your fair looks to my verse
  Which golden love doth unto me rehearse.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 10 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Graecinum quod eodem tempore duas amet
  (To Graecinus, that he loves two at the same time)
  Groecinus (well I wot) thou told'st me once,
  I could not be in love with two at once,
  By thee deceived, by thee surprised am I,
  For now I love two women equally:
  Both are well-favoured, both rich in array,
  Which is the loveliest it's hard to say:
  This seems the fairest, so doth that to me,
  And this doth please me most, and so doth she.
  
  Even as a boat, toss'd by contrary wind,
  So with this love and that, wavers my mind.
  
  Venus, why doublest thou my endless smart?
  
  Was not one wench enough to grieve my heart?
  
  Why add'st thou stars to heaven, leaves to green woods,
  And to the vast deep sea fresh water floods?
  
  Yet this is better far then lie alone,
  Let such as be mine enemies have none,
  Yea, let my foes sleep in an empty bed,
  And in the midst their bodies largely spread:
  But may soft love rouse up my drowsy eyes,
  And from my mistress' bosom let me rise:
  Let one wench cloy me with sweet loves' delight,
  If one can do't, if not, two every night,
  Though I am slender, I have store of pith,
  Nor want I strength, but weight to press her with:
  Pleasure adds fuel to my lustful fire,
  I pay them home with that they most desire:
  Oft have I spent the night in wantonness,
  And in the morn been lively ne'ertheless.
  
  He's happy who love's mutual skirmish slays,
  And to the gods for that death Ovid prays.
  
  Let soldier chase his enemies amain,
  And with his blood eternal honour gain,
  Let merchants seek wealth, and with perjured lips,
  Being wrack'd, carouse the sea tir'd by their ships:
  But when I die, would I might droop with doing,
  And in the midst thereof, set my soul going,
  That at my funerals some may weeping cry,
  Even as he led his life, so did he die.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 11 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam navigantem
  (To his mistress going to sea)
  The lofty pine from high Mount Pelion raught
  Ill ways by rough seas wond'ring waves first taught,
  Which rashly 'twixt the sharp rocks in the deep,
  Carried the famous golden-fleeced sheep.
  
  O would that no oars might in seas have sunk,
  The Argos wrack'd had deadly waters drunk.
  
  Lo, country gods, and known bed to forsake,
  Corinna means, and dangerous ways to take.
  
  For thee the east and west winds make me pale,
  With icy Boreas, and the southern gale:
  Thou shalt admire no woods or cities there,
  The unjust seas all bluish do appear.
  
  The ocean hath no painted stones or shells,
  The sucking shore with their abundance swells.
  
  Maids on the shore, with marble-white feet tread,
  So far 'tis safe, but to go farther dread.
  
  Let others tell how winds fierce battles wage,
  How Scylla's and Charybdis' waters rage.
  
  And with what rocks the fear'd Cerannia threat,
  In what gulf either Syrtes have their seat.
  
  Let others tell this, and what each one speaks
  Believe, no tempest the believer wreaks.
  
  Too late you look back, when with anchors weigh'd,
  The crooked bark hath her swift sails display'd.
  
  The careful ship-man now fears angry gusts,
  And with the waters sees death near him thrusts,
  But if that Triton toss the troubled flood,
  In all thy face will be no crimson blood.
  
  Then wilt thou Leda's noble twin-stars pray,
  And he is happy whom the earth holds, say.
  
  It is more safe to sleep, to read a book,
  The Thracian harp with cunning to have strook,
  But if my words with winged storms hence slip,
  Yet Galatea favour thou her ship.
  
  The loss of such a wench much blame will gather,
  Both to the sea-nymphs, and the sea-nymphs' father.
  
  Go, minding to return with prosperous wind,
  Whose blast may hither strongly be inclined,
  Let Nereus bend the waves unto this shore,
  Hither the winds blow, here the spring-tide roar.
  
  Request mild Zephyrus' help for thy avail,
  And with thy hand assist the swelling sail.
  
  I from the shore thy known ship first will see,
  And say it brings her that preserveth me;
  I'll clip and kiss thee with all contentation,
  For thy return shall fall the vow'd oblation,
  And in the form of beds we'll strew soft sand,
  Each little hill shall for a table stand:
  There wine being fill'd, thou many things shalt tell,
  How almost wrack'd thy ship in main seas fell.
  
  And hasting to me, neither darksome night,
  Nor violent south-winds did thee ought affright.
  
  I'll think all true, though it be feigned matter.
  
  Mine own desires why should myself not flatter?
  
  Let the bright day-star cause in heaven this day be,
  To bring that happy time so soon as may be.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 12 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Exultat, quod amica potitus sit
  (He boasts that he has conquered his mistress)
  About my temples go triumphant bays,
  Conquer'd Corinna in my bosom lays.
  
  She whom her husband, guard, and gate, as foes,
  Lest Art should win her, firmly did enclose.
  
  That victory doth chiefly triumph merit,
  Which without bloodshed doth the pray inherit.
  
  No little ditched towns, no lowly walls,
  But to my share a captive damsel falls.
  
  When Troy by ten years battle tumbled down,
  With the Atrides many gain'd renown.
  
  But I no partner of my glory brook,
  Nor can another say his help I took.
  
  I, guide and soldier, won the field and wear her,
  I was both horseman, footman, standard bearer.
  
  Nor in my act hath fortune mingled chance,
  O care-got triumph hitherwards advance.
  
  Nor is my war's cause new, but for a queen
  Europe, and Asia in firm peace had been.
  
  The Laphiths and the Centaurs, for a woman,
  To cruel arms their drunken selves did summon.
  
  A woman forc'd the Troyans new to enter
  Wars, just Latinus, in thy kingdom's centre:
  A woman against late-built Rome did send
  The Sabine fathers, who sharp wars intend.
  
  I saw how bulls for a white heifer strive,
  She looking on them did more courage give.
  
  And me with many, but yet me without murther,
  Cupid commands to move his ensigns further.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 13 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Isidem, ut parientem Corinnam iuvet
  (To Isis, to help Corinna give birth)
  While rashly her womb's burden she casts out,
  Weary Corinna hath her life in doubt.
  
  She secretly with me such harm attempted,
  Angry I was, but fear my wrath exempted.
  
  But she conceiv'd of me, or I am sure
  I oft have done, what might as much procure.
  
  Thou that frequents Canopus' pleasant fields,
  Memphis, and Pharos that sweet date trees yields,
  And where swift Nile in his large channel slipping,
  By seven huge mouths into the sea is skipping,
  By fear'd Anubis visage I thee pray,
  So in thy Temples shall Osiris stay,
  And the dull snake about thy off'rings creep,
  And in thy pomp horn'd Apis with thee keep,
  Turn thy looks hither, and in one spare twain,
  Thou giv'st my mistress life, she mine again.
  
  She oft hath serv'd thee upon certain days,
  Where the French rout engirt themselves with bays.
  
  On labouring women thou dost pity take,
  Whose bodies with their heavy burdens ache.
  
  My wench, Lucina, I intreat thee favour,
  Worthy she is, thou should'st in mercy save her.
  
  In white, with incense I'll thine altars greet,
  Myself will bring vow'd gifts before thy feet,
  Subscribing, Naso with Corinna sav'd:
  Do but deserve gifts with this title grav'd.
  
  But if in so great fear I may advise thee,
  To have this skirmish fought, let it suffice thee.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 14 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In amicam, quod abortivum ipsa fecerit
  (Against his mistress, because she has herself procured an abortion)
  What helps it, woman, to be free from war?
  
  Nor being arrn'd fierce troops to follow far?
  
  If without battle self-wrought wounds annoy them,
  And their own privy-weapon'd hands destroy them.
  
  Who unborn infants first to slay invented,
  Deserv'd thereby with death to be tormented.
  
  Because thy belly should rough wrinkles lack,
  Wilt thou thy womb-enclosed offspring wrack?
  
  Had ancient mothers this vile custom cherish'd,
  All human kind by their default had perish'd.
  
  Or stones, our stock's original, should be hurl'd,
  Again by some in this unpeopled world.
  
  Who should have Priam's wealthy substance won,
  If wat'ry Thetis had her child fordone?
  
  In swelling womb her twins had Ilia kill'd?
  
  He had not been that conquering Rome did build.
  
  Had Venus spoil'd her belly's Troyan fruit,
  The earth of Caesars had been destitute.
  
  Thou also, that wert born fair, had'st decayed,
  If such a work thy mother had assayed.
  
  Myself that better die with loving may
  Had seen, my mother killing me, no day.
  
  Why tak'st increasing grapes from vine-trees full?
  
  With cruel hand why dost green apples pull?
  
  Fruits ripe will fall, let springing things increase,
  Life is no light price of a small surcease.
  
  Why with hid irons are your bowels torn?
  
  And why dire poison give you babes unborn?
  
  At Cholcis stain'd with children's blood men rail,
  And mother-murder'd Itis they bewail,
  Both unkind parents, but for causes sad,
  Their wedlocks' pledges veng'd their husbands bad.
  
  What Tereus, what Jason you provokes,
  To plague your bodies with such harmful strokes?
  
  Armenian tigers never did so ill,
  Nor dares the lioness her young whelps kill.
  
  But tender damsels do it, though with pain,
  Oft dies she that her paunch-wrapp'd child hath slain.
  
  She dies, and with loose hairs to grave is sent,
  And who e'er see her, worthily lament.
  
  But in the air let these words come to nought,
  And my presages of no weight be thought.
  
  Forgive her gracious gods this one delict,
  And on the next fault punishment inflict.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 15 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad annulum, quem dono amicae dedit
  (To the ring, which he has given as a present to his mistress)
  Thou ring that shalt my fair girl's finger bind,
  Wherein is seen the giver's loving mind:
  Be welcome to her, gladly let her take thee,
  And her small joints encircling round hoop make thee.
  
  Fit her so well, as she is fit for me:
  And of just compass for her knuckles be.
  
  Blest ring, thou in my mistress' hand shalt lie,
  Myself, poor wretch, mine own gifts now envy.
  
  O would that suddenly into my gift,
  I could myself by secret magic shift.
  
  Then would I wish thee touch my mistress' pap,
  And hide thy left hand underneath her lap.
  
  I would get off though straight, and sticking fast,
  And in her bosom strangely fall at last.
  
  Then I, that I may seal her privy leaves,
  Lest to the wax the hold-fast dry gem cleaves,
  Would first my beautious wench's moist lips touch,
  Only I'll sign nought, that may grieve me much.
  
  I would not out, might I in one place hit,
  But in less compass her small fingers knit.
  
  My life, that I will shame thee never fear,
  Or be a load thou should'st refuse to bear .
  
  Wear me, when warmest showers thy members wash,
  And through the gem let thy lost waters pash.
  
  But seeing thee, I think my thing will swell,
  And even the ring perform a man's part well.
  
  Vain things why wish I?
  
  Go, small gift, from hand,
  Let her my faith with thee given understand.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 16 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam, ut ad rura sua veniat
  (To his mistress, that she should come to his place in the country)
  Sulmo, Peligny's third part me contains,
  A small, but wholesome soil with watery veins.
  
  Although the sun to rive the earth incline,
  And the Icarian froward dog-star shine,
  Pelignian fields with liquid rivers flow,
  And on the soft ground fertile green grass grow.
  
  With corn the earth abounds, with vines much more,
  And some few pastures Pallas' olives bore.
  
  And by the rising herbs, where clear springs slide,
  A grassy turf the moisten'd earth doth hide.
  
  But absent is my fire, lies I'll tell none,
  My heat is here, what moves my heat is gone.
  
  Pollux and Castor, might I stand betwixt,
  In heaven without thee would I not be fix'd.
  
  Upon the cold earth pensive let them lay,
  That mean to travel some long irksome way.
  
  Or else will maidens, young-men's mates, to go
  If they determine to persever so.
  
  Then on the rough Alps should I tread aloft,
  My hard way with my mistress would seem soft.
  
  With her I durst the Lybian Syrtes break through,
  And raging seas in boist'rous south-winds plough.
  
  No barking dogs that Scylla's entrails bear,
  Nor thy gulfs, crook'd Malea, would I fear.
  
  No flowing waves with drowned ships forth pour'd,
  By cloyed Charybdis, and again devour'd.
  
  But if stern Neptune's windy power prevail,
  And waters force, force helping gods to fail,
  With thy white arms upon my shoulders seize,
  So sweet a burden I will bear with ease.
  
  The youth oft swimming to his Hero kind,
  Had then swum over, but the way was blind.
  
  But without thee, although vine-planted ground
  Contains me, though the streams in fields surround,
  Though hinds in brooks the running waters bring,
  And cool gales shake the tall trees leavy spring,
  Healthful Peligny I esteem nought worth,
  Nor do I like the country of my birth.
  
  Scythia, Cilicia, Britain are as good,
  And rocks died crimson with Prometheus' blood.
  
  Elms love the vines, the vines with elms abide,
  Why doth my mistress from me oft divide?
  
  Thou swear'st, division should not 'twixt us rise,
  By me, and by my stars, thy radiant eyes.
  
  Maids' words more vain and light than falling leaves,
  Which, as it seems, hence wind and sea bereaves.
  
  If any godly care of me thou hast,
  Add deed unto thy promises at last.
  
  And with swift nags drawing thy little coach,
  (Their reins let loose) right soon my house approach.
  
  But when she comes, you swelling mounts sink down,
  And falling valleys be the smooth ways' crown.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 17 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Quod Corinnae soli sit serviturus
  (That he is going to serve Corinna alone)
  To serve a wench if any think it shame,
  He being judge, I am convinc'd of blame.
  
  Let me be slander'd, while my fire she hides,
  That Paphos, and the flood-beat Cithera guides.
  
  Would I had been my mistress' gentle prey,
  Since some fair one I should of force obey.
  
  Beauty gives heart, Corinna's looks excel,
  Ay me, why is it known to her so well?
  
  But by her glass disdainful pride she learns,
  Nor she herself but first trimm'd up discerns.
  
  Not though thy face in all things make thee reign,
  (O face most cunning mine eyes to detain)
  Thou ought'st therefore to scorn me for thy mate,
  Small things with greater may be copulate.
  
  Love-snar'd Calypso is suppos'd to pray,
  A mortal nymph's refusing Lord to stay.
  
  Who doubts, with Pelius, Thetis did consort,
  Egeria with just Numa had good sport,
  Venus with Vulcan, though smith's tools laid by,
  With his stump-foot he halts ill-favour'dly.
  
  This kind of verse is not alike, yet fit,
  With shorter numbers the heroic sit.
  
  And thou, my light, accept me howsoever,
  Lay in the mid bed, there be my law-giver.
  
  My stay no crime, my flight no joy shall breed,
  Nor of our love to be asham'd we need,
  For great revenues I good verses have,
  And many by me to get glory crave.
  
  I know a wench reports herself Corinne,
  What would not she give that fair name to win?
  
  But sundry floods in one bank never go,
  Eurotas cold, and poplar-bearing Po.
  
  Nor in my books shall one but thou be writ,
  Thou dost alone give matter to my wit.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 18 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Macrum, quod de amoribus scribat
  (To Macer, that he is writing of love)
  To tragic verse while thou Achilles train'st,
  And new-sworn soldiers maiden arms retain'st,
  We, Macer, sit in Venus' slothful shade,
  And tender love hath great things hateful made.
  
  Often at length, my wench depart, I bid,
  She in my lap sits still as erst she did.
  
  I said 'It irks me': half to weeping fram'd,
  'Ay me' she cries, 'to love, why art asham'd?
  
  '
  Then wreathes about my neck her winding arms,
  And thousand kisss gives, that work my harms:
  I yield, and back my wit from battles bring,
  Domestic acts, and mine own wars to sing.
  
  Yet Tragedys, and sceptres fill'd my lines,
  But though I apt were for such high designs,
  Love laughed at my cloak, and buskins painted,
  And rule so soon with private hands acquainted.
  
  My mistress' deity also drew me fro' it,
  And love triumpheth o'er his buskin'd poet.
  
  What lawful is, or we professe love's art,
  (Alas my precepts turn myself to smart)
  We write, or what Penelope sends Ulysses,
  Or Phillis tears that her Demophoon misses,
  What thankless Jason, Macareus, and Paris,
  Phaedra, and Hippolyte may read, my care is,
  And what poor Dido with her drawn sword sharp,
  Doth say, with her that lov'd the Aonian harp.
  
  As soon as from strange lands Salinus came,
  And writings did from divers places frame,
  White-cheek'd Penelope knew Ulisses sign,
  The stepdame read Hippolytus' lustless line.
  
  Aeneas to Elisa answer gives,
  And Phyllis hath to read; if now she lives.
  
  Jason's sad letter doth Hypsipyle greet,
  Sappho her vow'd harp lays at Phoebus' feet.
  
  Nor of thee, Macer, that resound'st forth arms,
  Is golden love hid in Mars mid-alarms.
  
  There Paris is, and Helen's crimes record,
  With Laodamia, mate to her dead lord.
  
  Unless I err, to these thou more incline,
  Than wars, and from thy tents wilt come to mine.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 19 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad rivalem, cui uxor curae non erat
  (To his rival, that his wife was of no concern to him)
  Fool, if to keep thy wife thou hast no need,
  Keep her for me, my more desire to breed.
  
  We scorn things lawful, stol'n sweets we affect,
  Cruel is he, that loves whom none protect.
  
  Let us both lovers hope, and fear alike,
  And may repulse place for our wishes strike.
  
  What should I do with fortune that ne'er fails me?
  
  Nothing I love, that at all times avails me.
  
  Wily Corinna saw this blemish in me,
  And craftily knows by what means to win me.
  
  Ah, often, that her hale head ach'd, she lying,
  Will'd me, whose slow feet sought delay, be flying.
  
  Ah, oft how much she might she feign'd offence;
  And, doing wrong, made show of innocence.
  
  So, having vex'd, she nourish'd my warm fire,
  And was again most apt to my desire.
  
  To please me, what fair terms and sweet words has she,
  Great gods, what kisses, and how many gave she?
  
  Thou also that late took'st mine eyes away,
  Oft cozen me, oft being woo'd say nay.
  
  And on thy threshold let me lie dispread,
  Suff'ring much cold by hoary nights' frost bred.
  
  So shall my love continue many years,
  This doth delight me, this my courage chears.
  
  Fat love, and too much fulsome, me annoys,
  Ev'n as sweet meat a glutted stomach cloys.
  
  In brazen tower had not Danae dwelt,
  A mother's joy by Jove she had not felt.
  
  While Juno Io keeps when horns she wore,
  Jove liked her better than he did before.
  
  Who covets lawful things takes leaves from woods,
  And drinks stol'n waters in surrounding floods.
  
  Her lover let her mock, that long will reign,
  Ay me, let not my warnings cause my pain.
  
  Whatever haps, by suff'rance harm is done,
  What flies, I follow, what follows me I shun.
  
  But thou of thy fair damsel too secure,
  Begin to shut thy house at evening sure.
  
  Search at the door who knocks oft in the dark,
  In night's deep silence why the ban-dogs bark.
  
  Whether the subtle maid lines brings and carries,
  Why she alone in empty bed oft tarries.
  
  Let this care sometimes bite thee to the quick,
  That to deceits it may me forward prick.
  
  To steal sands from the shore he loves alife,
  That can affect a foolish wittol's wife.
  
  Now I forewarn, unless to keep her stronger,
  Thou dost begin, she shall be mine no longer.
  
  Long have I borne much, hoping time would beat thee
  To guard her well, that well I might entreat thee.
  
  Thou suff'rest what no husband can endure,
  But of my love it will an end procure.
  
  Shall I, poor soul, be never interdicted?
  
  Nor never with night's sharp revenge afflicted?
  
  In sleeping shall I fearless draw my breath?
  
  Wilt nothing do, why I should wish thy death?
  
  Can I but loath a husband grown a bawd?
  
  By thy default thou dost our joys defraud.
  
  Some other seek that may in patience strive with thee,
  To pleasure me, forbid me to corrive with thee.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 2 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Bagoum, ut custodiam puellae sibi commissae laxiorem habeat
  (To Bagous, that he should keep watch with greater laxity over the girl committed to his charge)
  Bagous, whose care doth thy mistress bridle,
  While I speak some few, yet fit, words be idle.
  
  I saw the damsel walking yesterday
  There where the porch doth Danaus' fact display.
  
  She pleas'd me, soon I sent, and did her woo,
  Her trembling hand writ back she might not do.
  
  And asking why, this answer she redoubled,
  Because thy care too much thy mistress troubled.
  
  Keeper, if thou be wise, cease hate to cherish,
  Believe me, whom we fear, we wish to perish.
  
  Nor is her husband wise, what needs defence
  When unprotected there is no expense?
  
  But furiously he follow his love's fire
  And think her chaste whom many do desire.
  
  Stol'n liberty she may by thee obtain,
  Which, giving her, she may give thee again.
  
  Wilt thou her fault learn, she may make thee tremble,
  Fear to be guilty, then thou mayst dissemble.
  
  Think when she reads, her mother letters sent her,
  Let him go forth known, that unknown did enter,
  Let him go see her though she do not languish
  And then report her sick and full of anguish.
  
  If long she stays, to think the time more short
  Lay down thy forehead in thy lap to snort.
  
  Enquire not what with Isis may be done
  Nor fear lest she to the theatre's run.
  
  Knowing her scapes thine honour shall increase,
  And what less labour then to hold thy peace?
  
  Let him please, haunt the house, be kindly us'd,
  Enjoy the wench, let all else be refus'd.
  
  Vain causes fame of him the true to hide,
  And what she likes, let both hold ratified.
  
  When most her husband bends the brows and frowns,
  His fawning wench with her desire he crowns.
  
  But yet sometimes to chide thee let her fall
  Counterfeit tears: and thee lewd hangman call.
  
  Object thou then what she may well excuse,
  To stain all faith in truth, by false crimes use.
  
  Of wealth and honour so shall grow thy heap,
  Do this and soon thou shalt thy freedom reap.
  
  On tell-tales necks thou seest the link-knit chains,
  The filthy prison faithless breasts restrains.
  
  Water in waters, and fruit flying touch
  Tantalus seeks, his long tongue's game is such.
  
  While Juno's watchman, Io, too much eyed,
  Him timeless death took, she was deified.
  
  I saw one's legs with fetters black and blue,
  By whom the husband his wife's incest knew.
  
  More he deserv'd, to both great harm he fram'd,
  The man did grieve, the woman was defam'd.
  
  Trust me, all husbands for such faults are sad
  Nor make they any man that hear them glad.
  
  If he loves not, deaf ears thou dost importune,
  Or if he loves, thy tale breeds his misfortune.
  
  Nor is it easily prov'd though manifest,
  She safe by favour of her judge doth rest.
  
  Though himself see; he'll credit her denial,
  Condemn his eyes, and say there is no trial.
  
  Spying his mistress' tears, he will lament
  And say this blab shall suffer punishment.
  
  Why fight'st 'gainst odds?
  
  To thee, being cast, do hap
  Sharp stripes, she sitteth in the judge's lap.
  
  To meet for poison or vilde facts we crave not,
  My hands an unsheath'd shining weapon have not.
  
  We seek that through thee safely love we may,
  What can be easier then the thing we pray?

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 3 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Eunuchum servantem dominam
  (To the eunuch house-servant)
  Ay me, an Eunuch keeps my mistress chaste,
  That cannot Venus' mutual pleasure taste.
  
  Who first depriv'd young boys of their best part,
  With selfsame wounds he gave, he ought to smart.
  
  To kind requests thou would'st more gentle prove,
  If ever wench had made luke-warm thy love:
  Thou wert not born to ride, or arms to bear ,
  Thy hands agree not with the warlike spear .
  
  Men handle those, all manly hopes resign,
  Thy mistress' ensigns must be likewise thine.
  
  Please her, her hate makes others thee abhor,
  If she discards thee, what use serv'st thou for?
  
  Good form there is, years apt to play together,
  Unmeet is beauty without use to wither.
  
  She may deceive thee, though thou her protect,
  What two determine never wants effect.
  
  Our prayers move thee to assist our drift,
  While thou hast time yet to bestowe that gift.
  
  BOOK 2, ELEGY 4
  Quod amet mulieres, cuiuscunque formae sint
  (That he loves women, whatever their looks)
  I mean not to defend the scapes of any,
  Or justify my vices being many,
  For I confess, if that might merit favour,
  Here I display my lewd and loose behaviour.
  
  I loathe, yet after that I loathe, I run:
  Oh how the burden irks, that we should shun.
  
  I cannot rule myself, but where love please
  Am driven like a ship upon rough seas,
  No one face likes me best, all faces move,
  A hundred reasons makes me ever love.
  
  If any eye me with a modest look,
  I burn, and by that blushful glance am took:
  And she that's coy I like for being no clown,
  Methinks she should be nimble when she's down.
  
  Though her sour looks a Sabine's brow resemble,
  I think she'll do, but deeply can dissemble.
  
  If she be learned, then for her skill I crave her,
  If not, because she's simple I would have her.
  
  Before Callimachus one prefers me far,
  Seeing she likes my books, why should we jar?
  
  Another rails at me, and that I write,
  Yet would I lie with her if that I might.
  
  Trips she, it likes me well, plods she, what than?
  
  She would be nimbler, lying with a man.
  
  And when one sweetly sings, then straight I long,
  To quaver on her lips ev'n in her song,
  Or if one touch the lute with art and cunning,
  Who would not love those hands for their swift running?
  
  And she I like that with a majesty,
  Folds up her arms, and makes low courtesy.
  
  To leave myself, that am in love with all,
  Some one of these might make the chastest fall.
  
  If she be tall, she's like an Amazon,
  And therefore fills the bed she lies upon:
  If short, she lies the rounder: to speak troth,
  Both short and long please me, for I love both:
  I think what one undeckt would be, being dress'd;
  Is she attired, then show her graces best.
  
  A white wench thralls me, so doth golden yellow,
  And nut-brown girls in doing have no fellow.
  
  If her white neck be shadowed with black hair,
  Why so was Leda's, yet was Leda fair.
  
  Amber-tress'd is she, then on the morn think I,
  My love alludes to every history:
  A young wench pleaseth, and an old is good,
  This for her looks, that for her womanhood:
  Nay what is she that any Roman loves,
  But my ambitious ranging mind approves?

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 5 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam corruptam
  (To his unfaithful mistress)
  No love is so dear (quiver'd Cupid, fly)
  That my chief wish should be so oft to die.
  
  Minding thy fault, with death I wish to revel,
  Alas a wench is a perpetual evil.
  
  No intercepted lines thy deeds display,
  No gifts given secretly thy crime bewray.
  
  O would my proofs as vain might be withstood,
  Ay me, poor soul, why is my cause so good.
  
  He's happy, that his love dares boldly credit,
  To whom his wench can say, I never did it.
  
  He's cruel, and too much his grief doth favour
  That seeks the conquest by her loose behaviour.
  
  Poor wretch, I saw when thou didst think I slumber'd,
  Not drunk, your faults in the spilt wine I number'd.
  
  I saw your nodding eyebrows much to speak,
  Even from your cheeks part of a voice did break.
  
  Not silent were thine eyes, the board with wine
  Was scribbled, and thy fingers writ a line.
  
  I knew your speech (what do not lovers see?
  
  )
  And words that seem'd for certain marks to be.
  
  Now many guests were gone, the feast being done,
  The youthful sort to divers pastimes run.
  
  I saw you then unlawful kisses join,
  (Such with my tongue it likes me to purloin).
  
  None such the sister gives her brother grave,
  But such kind wenches let their lovers have.
  
  Phoebus gave not Diana such 'tis thought,
  But Venus often to her Mars such brought.
  
  'What dost?
  
  ', I cried, 'Transport'st thou my delight?
  
  My lordly hands I'll throw upon my right.
  
  Such bliss is only common to us two,
  In this sweet good, why hath a third to do?
  
  This, and what grief enforc'd me say I said,
  A scarlet blush her guilty face arrayed.
  
  Even such as by Aurora hath the sky,
  Or maids that their betrothed husbands spy.
  
  Such as a rose mixed with a lily breeds,
  Or when the moon travels with charmed steeds.
  
  Or such as, lest long years should turn the die,
  Arachne stains Assyrian ivory.
  
  To these, or some of these, like was her colour,
  By chance her beauty never shined fuller.
  
  She viewed the earth: the earth to view, beseem'd her.
  
  She looked sad: sad, comely I esteem'd her.
  
  Even kembed as they were, her locks to rend,
  And scratch her fair soft cheeks I did intend.
  
  Seeing her face, mine uprear'd arms descended,
  With her own armour was my wench defended.
  
  I that ere-while was fierce, now humbly sue,
  Lest with worse kisses she should me endue.
  
  She laugh'd, and kiss'd so sweetly as might make
  Wrath-kindled Jove away his thunder shake.
  
  I grieve lest others should such good perceive,
  And wish hereby them all unknown to leave.
  
  Also much better were they than I tell,
  And ever seem'd as some new sweet befell.
  
  'Tis ill they pleas'd so much, for in my lips,
  Lay her whole tongue hid, mine in hers she dips.
  
  This grieves me not, no joined kisses spent,
  Bewail I only, though I them lament.
  
  No where can they be taught but in the bed,
  I know no master of so great hire sped.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 6 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In mortem psittaci
  (On the death of a parrot)
  The parrot, from east India to me sent,
  Is dead, all fowls her exequies frequent.
  
  Go goodly birds, striking your breasts bewail,
  And with rough claws your tender cheeks assail.
  
  For woeful hairs let piece-torn plumes abound,
  For long shrill'd trumpets let your notes resound.
  
  Why, Philomel, dost Tereus' lewdness mourn?
  
  All wasting years have that complaint outworn.
  
  Thy tunes let this rare bird's sad funeral borrow,
  Itis is great, but ancient cause of sorrow.
  
  All you whose pinions in the clear air soar,
  But most, thou friendly turtle-dove, deplore.
  
  Full concord all your lives was you betwixt,
  And to the end your constant faith stood fix'd.
  
  What Pylades did to Orestes prove,
  Such to the parrot was the turtle-dove.
  
  But what availed this faith?
  
  Her rarest hue?
  
  Or voice that how to change the wild notes knew?
  
  What helps it thou wert given to please my wench,
  Birds hapless glory, death thy life doth quench.
  
  Thou with thy quills might'st make green emeralds dark,
  And pass our scarlet of red saffrons mark.
  
  No such voice-feigning bird was on the ground,
  Thou spok'st thy words so well with stammering sound.
  
  Envy hath rapt thee, no fierce wars thou mov'dst,
  Vain babbling speech, and pleasant peace thou lov'dst.
  
  Behold how quails among their battles live,
  Which do perchance old age unto them give.
  
  A little fill'd thee, and for love of talk,
  Thy mouth to taste of many meats did balk.
  
  Nuts were thy food, and poppy caused thee sleep,
  Pure water's moisture thirst away did keep.
  
  The ravenous vulture lives, the puttock hovers
  Around the air, the caddesse rain discovers,
  And crows survive arms-bearing Pallas' hate,
  Whose life nine ages scarce bring out of date.
  
  Dead is that speaking image of man's voice,
  The parrot given me, the far world's best choice.
  
  The greedy spirits take the best things first,
  Supplying their void places with the worst.
  
  Thersites did Protesilaus survive,
  And Hector died, his brothers yet alive.
  
  My wench's vows for thee what should I show,
  Which stormy south-winds into sea did blow?
  
  The seventh day came, none following might'st thou see,
  And the Fates' distaff empty stood to thee,
  Yet words in thy benumbed palate rung:
  'Farewell Corinna' cried thy dying tongue.
  
  Elisium hath a wood of holm-trees black,
  Whose earth doth not perpetual green grass lack,
  There good birds rest (if we believe things hidden)
  Whence unclean fowls are said to be forbidden.
  
  There harrnless swans feed all abroad the river,
  There lives the Phoenix, one alone bird ever.
  
  There Juno's bird displays his gorgeous feather,
  And loving doves kiss eagerly together.
  
  The parrot into wood receiv'd with these,
  Turns all the goodly birds to what she please.
  
  A grave her bones hides, on her corpse great grave,
  The little stones these little verses have:
  'This tomb approves, I pleased my mistress well,
  My mouth in speaking did all birds excel'.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 7 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Amicae se purgat, quod ancillam non amet
  (He clears himself of his mistress's accusation that he loves her maid)
  Dost me of new crimes always guilty frame?
  
  To overcome, so oft to fight I shame.
  
  If on the Marble Theatre I look,
  One among many is to grieve thee took.
  
  If some fair wench me secretly behold,
  Thou arguest she doth secret marks unfold.
  
  If I praise any, thy poor hairs thou tear'st,
  If blame, dissembling of my fault thou fear'st.
  
  If I look well, thou think'st thou dost not move,
  If ill, thou say'st I die for others' love.
  
  Would I were culpable of some offence,
  They that deserve pain, bear 't with patience.
  
  Now rash accusing, and thy vain belief,
  Forbid thine anger to procure my grief.
  
  Lo, how the miserable great-ear'd ass,
  Dull'd with much beating slowly forth doth pass.
  
  Behold Cypassis wont to dress thy head,
  Is charg'd to violate her mistress' bed.
  
  The gods from this sin rid me of suspicion,
  To like a base wench of despis'd condition.
  
  With Venus' game who will a servant grace?
  
  Or any back made rough with stripes embrace?
  
  Add, she was diligent thy locks to braid,
  And for her skill to thee a grateful maid.
  
  Should I solicit her that is so just
  To take repulse, and cause her show my lust?
  
  I swear by Venus, and the wing'd boy's bow,
  My self unguilty of this crime I know.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 8 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Cypassim ancillam Corinnae
  (To Cypassis, Corinna's maid)
  Cypassis that a thousand ways trimm'st hair,
  Worthy to comb none but a goddess fair,
  Our pleasant scapes show thee no clown to be,
  Apt to thy mistress, but more apt to me.
  
  Who that our bodies were compressed bewray'd?
  
  Whence knows Corinna that with thee I play'd?
  
  Yet blushed I not, nor used I any saying,
  That might be urg'd to witness our false playing.
  
  What if a man with bondwomen offend,
  To prove him foolish did I e'er contend?
  
  Achilles burnt with face of captive Briseis,
  Great Agamemnon lov'd his servant Chriseis.
  
  Greater then these myself I not esteem,
  What graced kings, in me no shame I deem.
  
  But when on thee her angry eyes did rush,
  In both thy cheeks she did perceive thee blush,
  But being present, might that work the best,
  By Venus' deity, how did I protest.
  
  Thou, goddess, dost command a warm south-blast,
  My false oaths in Carpathian seas to cast.
  
  For which good turn my sweet reward repay,
  Let me lie with thee brown Cypass today.
  
  Ungrate, why feign'st new fears and dost refuse?
  
  Well mayst thou one thing for thy mistress use.
  
  If thou deniest, fool, I'll our deeds express,
  And as a traitor mine own fault confess.
  
  Telling thy mistress, where I was with thee,
  How oft, and by what means we did agree.

• Elegia: Book 2, Number 9 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad Cupidinem
  (To Cupid)
  O Cupid, that dost never cease my smart,
  O boy that liest so slothful in my heart.
  
  Why me that always was thy soldier found,
  Dost harm, and in thy tents why dost me wound?
  
  Why burns thy brand, why strikes thy bow thy friends?
  
  More glory by thy vanquish'd foes ascends.
  
  Did not Pelides whom his spear did grieve,
  Being required, with speedy help relieve?
  
  Hunters leave taken beasts, pursue the chase,
  And then things found do ever further pace.
  
  We people wholly given thee, feel thine arms,
  Thy dull hand stays thy striving enemies' harms.
  
  Dost joy to have thy hooked arrows shaked,
  In naked bones?
  
  Love hath my bones left naked.
  
  So many men and maidens without love,
  Hence with great laud thou mayst a triumph move.
  
  Rome, if her strength the huge world had not fill'd,
  With strawy cabins now her courts should build.
  
  The weary soldier hath the conquer'd fields,
  His sword layed by, safe, though rude places yields.
  
  The dock inharbours ships drawn from the floods,
  Horse freed from service range abroad the woods.
  
  And time it was for me to live in quiet,
  That have so oft serv'd pretty wenches' diet.
  
  Yet should I curse a god, if he but said,
  Live without love, so sweet ill is a maid.
  
  For when my loathing it of heat deprives me,
  I know not whether my mind's whirlwind drives me.
  
  Even as a headstrong courser bears away,
  His rider vainly striving him to stay,
  Or as a sudden gale thrusts into sea,
  The haven touching bark now near the lea,
  So wavering Cupid brings me back amain,
  And purple Love resumes his darts again.
  
  Strike boy, I offer thee my naked breast,
  Here thou hast strength, here thy right hand doth rest.
  
  Here of themselves thy shafts come, as if shot,
  Better then I their quiver knows them not.
  
  Hapless is he that all the night lies quiet
  And slumb'ring, thinks himself much blessed by it.
  
  Fool, what is sleep but image of cold death,
  Long shalt thou rest when Fates expire thy breath.
  
  But me let crafty damsels words deceive,
  Great joys by hope I inly shall conceive.
  
  Now let her flatter me, now chide me hard,
  Let me enjoy her oft, oft be debarr'd.
  
  Cupid by thee, Mars in great doubt doth trample,
  And thy step-father fights by thy example.
  
  Light art thou, and more windy then thy wings,
  Joys with uncertain faith thou tak'st and brings.
  
  Yet Love, if thou with thy fair mother hear ,
  Within my breast no desert empire bear.
  
  Subdue the wandring wenches to thy reign,
  So of both people shalt thou homage gain.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 1 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Deliberatio poetae, utrum elegos pergat scribere an potius tragedias
  (The deliberation of the poet on whether he should continue writing elegies, or tragedies instead)
  An old wood stands, uncut of long years' space,
  'Tis credible some godhead haunts the place.
  
  In midst thereof a stone-pav'd sacred spring,
  Where round about small birds most sweetly sing.
  
  Here while I walk, hid close in shady grove,
  To find, what work my muse might move, I strove.
  
  Elegia came with hairs perfumed sweet,
  And one, I think, was longer, of her feet.
  
  A decent form, thin robe, a lover's look,
  By her foot's blemish greater grace she took.
  
  Then with huge steps came violent Tragedy,
  Stern was her front, her cloak on ground did lie.
  
  Her left hand held abroad a regal sceptre,
  The Lydian buskin in fit paces kept her.
  
  And first she said, 'When will thy love be spent,
  O poet, careless of thy argument?
  
  Wine-bibbing banquets tell thy naughtiness,
  Each cross-way's corner doth as much express.
  
  Oft some points at the prophet passing by,
  And this is he whom fierce love burns, they cry.
  
  A laughing-stock thou art to all the city,
  While without shame thou sing'st thy lewdness' ditty.
  
  'Tis time to move grave things in lofty style,
  Long hast thou loiter'd; greater works compile.
  
  The subject hides thy wit,;men's acts resound,
  This thou wilt say to be a worthy ground.
  
  Thy muse hath played what may mild girls content,
  And by those numbers is thy first youth spent.
  
  Now give the Roman Tragedy a name,
  To fill my laws thy wanton spirit frame.
  
  This said, she mov'd her buskins gaily varnish'd,
  And sev'n times shook her head with thick locks garnish'd.
  
  The other smil'd, (I wot) with wanton eyes,
  Err I?
  
  Or myrtle in her right hand lies.
  
  'With lofty words stout Tragedy', she said,
  'Why tread'st me down?
  
  Art thou aye gravely play'd?
  
  Thou deign'st unequal lines should thee rehearse,
  Thou fight'st against me, using mine own verse.
  
  Thy lofty style with mine I not compare,
  Small doors unfitting for large houses are.
  
  Light am I, and with me, my care, light Love,
  Not stronger am I, than the thing I move.
  
  Venus without me should be rustical,
  This goddess' company doth to me befall.
  
  What gate thy stately words cannot unlock,
  My flatt'rihg speeches soon wide open knock.
  
  And I deserve more than thou canst in verity,
  By suff'ring much not borne by thy severity.
  
  By me Corinna learns, cozening her guard,
  To get the door with little noise unbarr'd.
  
  And slipp'd from bed, cloth'd in a loose night-gown,
  To move her feet unheard in setting down.
  
  Ah, how oft on hard doors hung I engrav'd,
  From no man's reading fearing to be sav'd.
  
  But till the keeper went forth, I forget not,
  The maid to hide me in her bosom let not.
  
  What gift with me was on her birthday sent,
  But cruelly by her was drown'd and rent?
  
  First of thy mind the happy seeds I knew,
  Thou hast my gift, which she would from thee sue.
  
  '
  She left; I said, 'You both I must beseech,
  To empty air may go my fearful speech.
  
  With sceptres, and high buskins th'one would dress me,
  So through the world should bright renown express me.
  
  The other gives my love a conquering name,
  Come therefore, and to long verse shorter frame.
  
  Grant, Tragedy, thy poet times least tittle,
  Thy labour ever lasts, she asks but little.
  
  '
  She gave me leave, soft loves in time make haste,
  Some greater work will urge me on at last.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 10 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam, a cuius amore discedere non potest
  (To his mistress, whom he cannot stop loving)
  Long have I borne much, mad thy faults me make:
  Dishonest love my wearied breast forsake,
  Now have I freed myself, and fled the chain,
  And what I have borne, shame to bear again.
  
  We vanquish, and tread tam'd love under feet,
  Victorious wreathes at length my temples greet.
  
  Suffer, and harden: good grows by this grief,
  Oft bitter juice brings to the sick relief.
  
  I have sustain'd so oft thrust from the door,
  To lay my body on the hard moist floor.
  
  I know not whom thou lewdly didst embrace,
  When I to watch supplied a servant's place.
  
  I saw when forth a tired lover went,
  His side past service, and his courage spent.
  
  Yet this is less, then if he had seen me,
  May that shame fall mine enemies' chance to be.
  
  When have not I fixed to thy side close laid?
  
  I have thy husband, guard, and fellow play'd.
  
  The people by my company she pleas'd,
  My love was cause that more men's love she seiz'd.
  
  What should I tell her vain tongue's filthy lies,
  And to my loss God-wronging perjuries?
  
  What secret becks in banquets with her youths,
  With privy signs, and talk dissembling truths?
  
  Hearing her to be sick, I thither ran,
  But with my rival sick she was not than.
  
  These harden'd me, with what I keep obscure,
  Some other seek, who will these things endure.
  
  Now my ship in the wished haven crown'd,
  With joy hears Neptune's swelling waters sound.
  
  Leave thy once powerful words, and flatteries,
  I am not as I was before, unwise.
  
  Now love, and hate my light breast each way move;
  But victory, I think, will hap to love.
  
  I'll hate, if I can; if not, love 'gainst my will:
  Bulls hate the yoke, yet what they hate have still.
  
  I fly her lust, but follow beauty's creature;
  I loath her manners, love her body's feature.
  
  Nor with thee, nor without thee can I live,
  And doubt to which desire the palm to give.
  
  Or less fair, or less lewd would thou might'st be,
  Beauty with lewdness doth right ill agree.
  
  Her deeds gain hate, her face entreateth love:
  Ah, she doth more worth then her vices prove.
  
  Spare me, O by our fellow bed, by all
  The gods who by thee to be perjur'd fall,
  And by thy face to me a power divine,
  And by thine eyes whose radiance burns out mine.
  
  Whate'er thou art, mine art thou: choose this course,
  Wilt have me willing, or to love by force?
  
  Rather I'll hoist up sail, and use the wind,
  That I may love yet, though against my mind.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 11 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Dolet amicam suam ita suis carminibus innotuisse ut rivales multos sibi pararit
  (He grieves that his mistress has been given so much publicity by his poems that he
  has provided himself with many rivals)
  What day was that, which all sad haps to bring,
  White birds to lovers did not always sing?
  
  Or is I think my wish against the stars?
  
  Or shall I plain some god against me wars?
  
  Who mine was call'd, whom I lov'd more then any,
  I fear with me is common now to many.
  
  Err I?
  
  Or by my books is she so known?
  
  'Tis so: by my wit her abuse is grown.
  
  And justly: for her praise why did I tell?
  
  The wench by my fault is set forth to sell.
  
  The bawd I play, lovers to her I guide:
  Her gate by my hands is set open wide.
  
  'Tis doubtfiil whether verse avail, or harm,
  Against my good they were an envious charm.
  
  When Thebes, when Troy, when Caesar should be writ,
  Alone Corinna moves my wanton wit.
  
  With Muse oppos'd would I my lines had done,
  And Phoebus had forsook my work begun.
  
  Nor, as use will not poets' record hear ,
  Would I my words would any credit bear .
  
  Scylla by us her father's rich hair steals,
  And Scylla's womb mad raging dogs conceals.
  
  We cause feet fly, we mingle hairs with snakes,
  Victorious Perseus a wing'd steed's back takes.
  
  Our verse great Tityus a huge space out-spreads,
  And gives the viper-curled dog three heads.
  
  We make Enceladus use a thousand arms,
  And men enthrall'd by mermaids' singing charms.
  
  The east winds in Ulysses bags we shut,
  And blabbing Tantalus in mid-waters put.
  
  Niobe flint, Callist we make a bear,
  Bird-changed Procne doth her Itys tear.
  
  Jove turns himself into a swan, or gold,
  Or his bull's horns Europa's hand doth hold.
  
  Proteus what should I name?
  
  Teeth, Thebes first seed?
  
  Oxen in whose mouths burning flames did breed?
  
  Heav'n star Electra that bewail'd her sisters?
  
  The ships, whose godhead in the sea now glisters?
  
  The sun turn'd back from Atreus' cursed table?
  
  And sweet-touch'd harp that to move stones was able?
  
  Poets' large power is boundless, and immense,
  Nor have their words true history's pretence,
  And my wench ought to have seem'd falsely prais'd,
  Now your credulity harm to me hath rais'd.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 12 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  De Iunonis festo
  (On the festival of Juno)
  When fruit-fill'd Tuscia should a wife give me,
  We touch'd the walls, Camillus, won by thee.
  
  The Priests to Juno did prepare chaste feasts,
  With famous pageants, and their home-bred beasts.
  
  To know their rites, well recompenc'd my stay,
  Though thither leads a rough steep hilly way.
  
  There stands an old wood with thick trees dark clouded,
  Who sees it, grants some deity there is shrouded.
  
  An altar takes men's incense, and oblation,
  An altar made after the ancient fashion.
  
  Here when the pipe with solemn tunes doth sound,
  The annual pomp goes on the cover'd ground.
  
  White heifers by glad people forth are led,
  Which with the grass of Tuscan fields are fed.
  
  And calves from whose fear'd front no threat'ning flies,
  And little pigs, base hog-sties' sacrifice,
  And rams with horns their hard heads wreathed back.
  
  Only the goddess-hated goat did lack,
  By whom disclos'd, she in the high woods took,
  Is said to have attempted flight forsook.
  
  Now is the goat brought through the boys with darts,
  And give to him that the first wound imparts.
  
  Where Juno comes, each youth, and pretty maid,
  Show large ways with their garments there displayed.
  
  Jewels and gold their virgin tresses crown,
  And stately robes to their gilt feet hang down.
  
  As is the use, the nuns in white veils clad,
  Upon their heads the holy mysteries had.
  
  When the chief pomp comes, loud the people hollow,
  And she her vestal virgin priests doth follow.
  
  Such was the Greek pomp, Agamemnon dead,
  Which fact, and country wealth Halesus fled.
  
  And having wander'd now through sea and land,
  Built walls high-tower'd with a prosperous hand.
  
  He to th'Etrurians Juno's feast commended,
  Let me, and them by it be aye befriended.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 13 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam si peccatura est, ut occulte peccet
  (To his mistress, that if she sin, she sin in secret)
  Seeing thou art fair, I bar not thy false playing,
  But let not me poor soul know of thy straying.
  
  Nor do I give thee counsel to live chaste,
  But that thou would'st dissemble when 'tis past.
  
  She hath not trod awry that doth deny it,
  Such as confess, have lost their good names by it.
  
  What madness is't to tell night pranks by day,
  And hidden secrets openly to bewray?
  
  The strumpet with the stranger will not do,
  Before the roome be clear, and door put to.
  
  Will you make shipwreck of your honest name,
  And let the world be witness of the same?
  
  Be more advis'd, walk as a puritan,
  And I shall think you chaste, do what you can.
  
  Slip still, only deny it when 'tis done,
  And before folk immodest speeches shun,
  The bed is for lascivious toyings meet,
  There use all tricks, and tread shame under feet.
  
  When you are up and dress'd, be sage and grave,
  And in the bed hide all the faults you have,
  Be not ashamed to strip you being there,
  And mingle thighs, yours ever mine to bear .
  
  There in your rosy lips my tongue entomb,
  Practise a thousand sports when there you come,
  Forbear no wanton words you there would speak,
  And with your pastime let the bedstead creak,
  But with your robes, put on an honest face,
  And blush, and seem as you were full of grace.
  
  Deceive all, let me err, and think I'm right,
  And like a wittol think thee void of sleight.
  
  Why see I lines so oft receiv'd and given,
  This bed, and that by tumbling made uneven,
  Like one start up, your hair toss'd and displac'd,
  And with a wanton's tooth, your neck new-rac'd?
  
  Grant this, that what you do I may not see,
  If you weigh not ill speeches, yet weigh me:
  My soul fleets when I think what you have done,
  And thorough every vein doth cold blood run,
  Then thee whom I must love I hate in vain,
  And would be dead, but dying with thee remain.
  
  I'll not sift much, but hold thee soon excus'd,
  Say but thou wert injuriously accus'd.
  
  Though while the deed be doing you be took,
  And I see when you ope the two-leaved book:
  Swear I was blind, yield not, if you be wise,
  And I will trust your words more then mine eyes.
  
  From him that yields, the garland is quickly got,
  Teach but your tongue to say, I did it not,
  And being justified by two words, think
  The cause acquits you not, but I that wink.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 14 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Tender Love's mother, a new poet get,
  This last end to my elegies is set,
  Which I Peligny's foster-child have fram'd,
  (Nor am I by such wanton toys defam'd)
  Heir of an ancient house, if help that can,
  Not only by war's rage made gentleman.
  
  In Virgil Mantua joys: in Catul Verone,
  Of me Peligny's nation boasts alone,
  Whom liberty to honest arms compell'd,
  When careful Rome in doubt their prowess held.
  
  And some guest viewing wat'ry Sulmo's walls,
  Where little ground to be enclos'd befalls,
  'How such a poet could you bring forth', says,
  'How small soe'er, I'll you for greatest praise'.
  
  Both loves to whom my heart long time did yield,
  Your golden ensigns pluck out of my field,
  Horn'd Bacchus' graver fury doth distil,
  A greater ground with great horse is to till.
  
  Weak elegies, delightful Muse, farewell;
  A work, that after my death, here shall dwell.
  
  FINIS

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 2 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amicam cursum equorum spectantem
  (To his mistress, watching horse-racing)
  I sit not here the noble horse to see,
  Yet whom thou favour'st, pray may conqueror be.
  
  To sit, and talk with thee I hither came,
  That thou mayst know with love thou mak'st me flame.
  
  Thou view'st the course, I thee: let either heed
  What please them, and their eyes let either feed.
  
  What horse-driver thou favour'st most is best,
  Because on him thy care doth hap to rest.
  
  Such chance let me have: I would bravely run,
  On swift steeds mounted till the race were done.
  
  Now would I slack the reins, now lash their hide,
  With wheels bent inward now the ring-turn ride.
  
  In running if I see thee, I shall stay,
  And from my hands the reins will slip away.
  
  Ah Pelops from his coach was almost fell'd,
  Hippodamia's looks while he beheld.
  
  Yet he attain'd by her support to have her,
  Let us all conquer by our mistress' favour.
  
  In vain why fly'st back?
  
  Force conjoins us now:
  The place's laws this benefit allow.
  
  But spare my wench, thou at her right hand seated,
  By thy side's touching ill she is entreated.
  
  And sit thou rounder, that behind us see,
  For shame press not her back with thy hard knee.
  
  But on the ground thy clothes too loosely lie,
  Gather them up, or lift them, lo, will I.
  
  Envious garments, so good legs to hide,
  The more thou look'st, the more the gown envied.
  
  Swift Atalanta's flying legs, like these,
  Wish in his hands grasp'd did Hippomenes.
  
  Coat-tuck'd Diana's legs are painted like them,
  When strong wild beasts she stronger hunts to strike them.
  
  Ere these were seen, I burn'd: what will these do.
  
  Flames into flame, floods thou pour'st seas into?
  
  By these, I judge, delight me may the rest,
  Which lie hid under her thin veil suppressed.
  
  Yet in the meantime wilt small winds bestow,
  That from thy fan, mov'd by my hand may blow?
  
  Or is my heat of mind, not of the sky?
  
  Is't women's love my captive breast doth fry?
  
  While thus I speak, black dust her white robes ray:
  Foul dust, from her fair body, go away.
  
  Now comes the pomp; themselves let all men cheer:
  The shout is nigh; the golden pomp comes here.
  
  First, Victory is brought with large spread wing,
  Goddess come here, make my love conquering.
  
  Applaud you, Neptune, that dare trust his wave,
  The sea I use not: me my earth must have.
  
  Soldier applaud thy Mars: no wars we move,
  Peace pleaseth me, and in mid-peace is love.
  
  With augurs Phoebus, Phoebe with hunters stands,
  To thee, Minerva, turn the craftsmen's hands.
  
  Ceres and Bacchus countrymen adore,
  Champions please Pollux, Castor loves horsemen more
  Thee, gentle Venus, and the boy that flies,
  We praise: great goddess aid my enterprise.
  
  Let my new mistress grant to be beloved:
  She beck'd, and prosperous signs gave as she moved.
  
  What Venus promis'd, promise thou we pray,
  Greater than her, by her leave, th'art, I'll say.
  
  The gods and their rich pomp witness with me,
  For evermore thou shalt my mistress be.
  
  Thy legs hang down: thou mayst, if that be best,
  Awhile thy tiptoes on the foot-stool rest.
  
  Now greatest spectacles the praetor sends,
  Four chariot-horses from the lists' ev'n ends.
  
  I see whom thou affect'st: he shall subdue,
  The horses seem as thy desire they knew.
  
  Alas he runs too far about the ring,
  What dost?
  
  Thy wagon in less compass bring.
  
  What dost, unhappy?
  
  Her good wishes fade,
  Let with strong hand the rein to bend be made.
  
  One slow we favour; Romans, him revoke:
  And each give signs by casting up his cloak.
  
  They call him back: lest their gowns toss thy hair,
  To hide thee in my bosom straight repair.
  
  But now again the barriers open lie;
  And forth the gay troops on swift horses fly.
  
  At least now conquer, and out-run the rest:
  My mistress' wish confirm with my request.
  
  My mistress hath her wish, my wish remain:
  He holds the palm: my palm is yet to game.
  
  She smil'd, and with quick eyes behight some grace:
  Pay it not here, but in an other place.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 3 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  De amica, quae periuraverat
  (Concerning his mistress, who has perjured herself)
  What, are there gods?
  
  Herself she hath forswore,
  And yet remains the face she had before.
  
  How long her locks were, ere her oath she took:
  So long they be, since she her faith forsook.
  
  Fair white with rose red was before commix'd:
  Now shine her looks pure white and red betwixt.
  
  Her foot was small: her foot's form is most fit:
  Comely tall was she, comely tall she's yet.
  
  Sharp eyes she had: radiant like stars they be,
  By which she perjur'd oft hath lied to me.
  
  In sooth th'eternal powers grant maids society
  Falsely to swear , their beauty hath some deity.
  
  By her eyes I remember late she swore,
  And by mine eyes, and mine were pained sore.
  
  Say gods: if she unpunish'd you deceive,
  For others faults, why do I loss receive?
  
  But did you not so envy Cepheus' daughter,
  For her ill-beauteous mother judg'd to slaughter?
  
  'Tis not enough, she shakes your record off;
  And unreveng'd mock'd gods with me doth scoff.
  
  But by my pain to purge her perjuries,
  Cozen'd, I am the cozener's sacrifice.
  
  God is a name, no substance, fear'd in vain,
  And doth the world in fond belief detain.
  
  Or if there be a God, he loves fine wenches,
  And all things too much in their sole power drenches.
  
  Mars girts his deadly sword on for my harm:
  Pallas lance strikes me with unconquer'd arm.
  
  At me Apollo bends his pliant bow:
  At me Jove's right-hand lightning hath to throw.
  
  The wronged gods dread fair ones to offend,
  And fear those, that to fear them least intend.
  
  Who now will care the altars to perfume?
  
  Tut, men should not their courage so consume.
  
  Jove throws down woods and castles with his fire:
  But bids his darts from perjur'd girls retire.
  
  Poor Semele, among so many burn'd;
  Her own request to her own torment turn'd.
  
  But when her lover came, had she drawn back,
  The father's thigh should unborn Bacchus lack.
  
  Why grieve I?
  
  And of heaven reproaches pen?
  
  The gods have eyes and breasts as well as men.
  
  Were I a god, I should give women leave,
  With lying lips my godhead to deceive,
  Myself would swear , the wenches true did swear ,
  And I would be none of the gods severe.
  
  But yet their gift more moderately use,
  Or in mine eyes, good wench, no pain transfuse.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 4 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad virum servantem coniugem
  (To the husband keeping a watch on his spouse)
  Rude man, 'tis vain, thy damsel to commend
  To keeper's trust: their wits should them defend.
  
  Who, without fear, is chaste, is chaste in sooth:
  Who, because means want, doeth not, she doth.
  
  Though thou her body guard, her mind is stain'd:
  Nor, lest she will, can any be restrain'd.
  
  Nor canst by watching keep her mind from sin.
  
  All being shut out, th'adulterer is within.
  
  Who may offend, sins least; power to do ill,
  The fainting seeds of naughtiness doth kill.
  
  Forbear to kindle vice by prohibition,
  Sooner shall kindness game thy will's fruition.
  
  I saw a horse against the bit stiff-neck'd,
  Like lightning go, his struggling mouth being check'd.
  
  When he perceiv'd the reins let slack, he stay'd,
  And on his loose mane the loose bridle laid.
  
  How to attain, what is denied, we think,
  Even as the sick desire forbidden drink.
  
  Argus had either way an hundred eyes,
  Yet by deceit Love did them all surprise.
  
  In stone, and iron walls Danae shut,
  Came forth a mother, though a maid there put.
  
  Penelope, though no watch look'd unto her,
  Was not defil'd by any gallant wooer.
  
  What's kept, we covet more: the care makes theft:
  Few love what others have unguarded left.
  
  Nor doth her face please, but her husband's love;
  I know not, what men think should thee so move.
  
  She is not chaste that's kept, but a dear whore:
  Thy fear is than her body valued more.
  
  Although thou chafe, stol'n pleasure is sweet play,
  She pleaseth best, I fear, if any say.
  
  A free-born wench, no right 'tis up to lock:
  So use we women of strange nations' stock.
  
  Because the keeper may come, say 'I did it',
  She must be honest to thy servant's credit.
  
  He is too clownish, whom a lewd wife grieves,
  And this town's well-known customs not believes,
  Where Mars his sons not without fault did breed,
  Remus and Romulus, Ilia's twin-born seed.
  
  Cannot a fair one, if not chaste, please thee?
  
  Never can these by any means agree.
  
  Kindly thy mistress use, if thou be wise.
  
  Look gently, and rough husbands laws despise.
  
  Honour what friends thy wife gives, she'll give many:
  Least labour so shall win great grace of any.
  
  So shalt thou go with youths to feasts together,
  And see at home much that thou ne'er brought'st thither.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 5 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ad amnem, dum iter faceret ad amicam
  (To the river, while he travels to his mistress)
  Flood with reed-grown slime banks, till I be past
  Thy waters stay: I to my mistress haste.
  
  Thou hast no bridge, nor boat with ropes to throw,
  That may transport me without oars to row.
  
  Thee I have pass'd, and knew thy stream none such,
  When thy waves brim did scarce my ankles touch.
  
  With snow thaw'd from the next hill now thou rushest,
  And in thy foul deep waters thick thou gushest.
  
  What helps my haste: what to have ta'en small rest?
  
  What day and night to travel in her quest?
  
  If standing here I can by no means get,
  My foot upon the further bank to set.
  
  Now wish I those wings noble Perseus had,
  Bearing the head with dreadful adders clad,
  Now wish the chariot, whence corn seeds were found,
  First to be thrown upon the untill'd ground.
  
  I speak old poets' wonderful invention,
  Ne'er was, nor shall be, what my verses mention.
  
  Rather thou large bank over-flowing river,
  Slide in thy bounds, so shalt thou run for ever.
  
  (Trust me) land-stream thou shalt no envy lack,
  If I a lover be by thee held back.
  
  Great floods ought to assist young men in love,
  Great floods the force of it do often prove.
  
  In mid Bithynia, 'tis said, Inachus,
  Grew pale, and in cold fords hot lecherous.
  
  Troy had not yet been ten years siege outstander,
  Whem nymph Neaera rapt thy looks Scamander.
  
  What?
  
  Not Alpheus in strange lands to run,
  Th'Arcadian virgin's constant love hath won?
  
  And Creusa unto Zanthus first affied,
  They say Peneus near Phthia's town did hide.
  
  What should I name Aesop, that Thebe lov'd,
  Thebe, who mother of five daughters prov'd?
  
  If Achelous, I ask where thy horns stand,
  Thou say'st, broke with Alcides' angry hand.
  
  Not Calydon, nor Aetolia did please:
  One Dejanira was more worth then these.
  
  Rich Nile by seven mouths to the vast sea flowing,
  Who so well keeps his water's head from knowing,
  Is by Evadne thought to take such flame,
  As his deep whirlpools could not quench the same.
  
  Dry Enipeus, Tyro to embrace,
  Fly back his stream charg'd, the stream charg'd, gave place.
  
  Nor pass I thee, who hollow rocks down tumbling,
  In Tibur's field with wat'ry foam art rumbling,
  Whom Ilia pleas'd, though in her looks grief revell'd,
  Her cheeks were scratch'd, her goodly hairs dishevell'd.
  
  She, wailing Mars' sin, and her uncle's crime,
  Stray'd bare-foot through sole places on a time.
  
  Her, from his swift waves, the bold flood perceiv'd,
  And from the mid-ford his hoarse voice upheav'd,
  Saying, 'Why sadly tread'st my banks upon,
  Ilia, sprung from Idaean Laomedon?
  
  Where's thy attire?
  
  Why wand'rest here alone?
  
  To stay thy tresses white veil hast thou none?
  
  Why weep'st?
  
  And spoil'st with tears thy wat'ry eyes?
  
  And fiercely knock'st thy breast that open lies?
  
  His heart consists of flint, and hardest steel
  That seeing thy tears any joy can feel.
  
  Fear not: to thee our court stands open wide,
  There shalt be lov'd: Ilia, lay fear aside.
  
  Thou o'er a hundred nymphs or more shalt reign:
  For five score nymphs or more our floods contain.
  
  Nor, Roman stock, scorn me so much (I crave)
  Gifts than my promise greater thou shalt have.
  
  '
  This said he: she her modest eyes held down,
  Her woeful bosom a warm shower did drown.
  
  Thrice she prepar'd to fly, thrice she did stay,
  By fear depriv'd of strength to run away.
  
  Yet rending with enraged thumb her tresses,
  Her trembling mouth these unmeet sounds expresses.
  
  'O would in my forefathers' tombe, deep laid,
  My bones had been, while yet I was a maid.
  
  Why, being a vestal, am I woo'd to wed,
  Deflowr'd and stained in unlawful bed?
  
  Why stay I?
  
  Men point at me for a whore,
  Shame, that should make me blush, I have no more.
  
  '
  This said: her coat hoodwink'd her fearful eyes,
  And into water desperately she flies.
  
  'Tis said the slippery stream held up her breast,
  And kindly gave her what she liked best.
  
  And I believe some wench thou hast affected:
  But woods and groves keep your faults undetected.
  
  While thus I speak, the waters more abounded:
  And from the channel all abroad surrounded.
  
  Mad stream, why dost our mutual joys defer?
  
  Clown, from my journey why dost me deter?
  
  How would'st thou flow wert thou a noble flood,
  If thy great fame in every region stood?
  
  Thou hast no name, but com'st from snowy mountains;
  No certain house thou hast, nor any fountains.
  
  Thy springs are nought but rain and melted snow:
  Which wealth, cold winter doth on thee bestow.
  
  Either th'art muddy in mid-winter tide:
  Or full of dust dost on the dry earth slide.
  
  What thirsty traveller ever drunk of thee?
  
  Who said with grateful voice 'Perpetual be'?
  
  Harmful to beasts, and to the fields thou proves:
  Perchance these, others, me mine own loss moves.
  
  To this I fondly loves of floods told plainly:
  I shame so great names to have used so vainly:
  I know not what expecting, I ere while
  Nam'd Achelaus, Inachus, and Nile,
  But for thy merits I wish thee, white stream,
  Dry winters aye, and suns in heat extreme.

• Elegia: Book 3, Number 8 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Tibulli mortem deflet
  (He grieves for the death of Tibullus)
  If Thetis, and the morn their sons did wail,
  And envious fates great goddesses assail,
  Sad Elegia, thy woeful hairs unbind:
  Ah, now a name too true thou hast, I find.
  
  Tibullus, thy work's poet, and thy fame,
  Burns his dead body in the funeral flame.
  
  Lo, Cupid brings his quiver spoiled quite,
  His broken bow, his fire-brand without light.
  
  How piteously with drooping wings he stands,
  And knocks his bare breast with self-angry hands.
  
  The locks spread on his neck receive his tears,
  And shaking sobs his mouth for speeches bears.
  
  So at Aeneas' burial, men report,
  Fair-fac'd Iulus, he went forth thy court.
  
  And Venus grieves, Tibullus life being spent,
  As when the wild boar Adon's groin had rent.
  
  The gods' care we are call'd, and men of piety,
  And some there be that think we have a deity.
  
  Outrageous death profanes all holy things
  And on all creatures obscure darkness brings.
  
  To Thracian Orpheus, what did parents good?
  
  Or songs amazing wild beasts of the wood?
  
  Where Linus by his father Phoebus layed
  To sing with his unequall'd harp is said.
  
  See Homer, from whose fountain ever fill'd,
  Pierian dew to poets is distill'd.
  
  Him the last day in black Avern hath drown'd,
  Verses alone are with continuance crown'd.
  
  The work of poets lasts Troy's labour's fame,
  And that slow web night's falsehood did unframe.
  
  So Nemesis, so Delia famous are,
  The one his first love, th'other his new care.
  
  What profit to us hath our pure life bred?
  
  What to have lain alone in empty bed?
  
  When bad fates take good men, I am forbod,
  By secret thoughts to think there is a god.
  
  Live godly, thou shalt die, though honour heaven,
  Yet shall thy life be forcibly bereaven.
  
  Trust in good verse, Tibullus feels death's pains,
  Scarce rests of all what a small urn contains.
  
  Thee, sacred poet, could sad flames destroy?
  
  Nor fear'd they thy body to annoy?
  
  The holy gods' gilt temples they might fire,
  That durst to so great wickedness aspire.
  
  Eryx' bright empress turn'd her looks aside,
  And some, that she refrain'd tears have denied.
  
  Yet better is't, than if Corcyra's isle
  Had thee unknown interr'd in ground most vile.
  
  Thy dying eyes here did thy mother close,
  Nor did thy ashes her last off'rings lose.
  
  Part of her sorrow here thy sister bearing,
  Comes forth her uncomb'd locks asunder tearing.
  
  Nemesis and thy first wench join their kisses,
  With thine, nor this last fire their presence misses.
  
  Delia departing, 'Happier lov'd', she saith,
  'Was I: thou liv'dst, while thou esteem'dst my faith.
  
  '
  Nemesis answers, 'What's my loss to thee?
  
  His fainting hand in death engrasped me'.
  
  If aught remains of us but name, and spirit,
  Tibullus doth Elysium's joy inherit.
  
  Their youthful brows with ivy girt to meet him,
  With Calvus, learn'd Catullus, come and greet him.
  
  And thou, if falsely charg'd to wrong thy friend,
  Gallus that car'dst not blood and life to spend.
  
  With these thy soul walks, souls if death release,
  The godly sweet Tibullus doth increase.
  
  Thy bones I pray may in the urn safe rest,
  And may th'earth's weight thy ashes nought molest.

• Elegy For Tibullus Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If Memnon's mother mourned, Achilles's mother mourned,
  and our sad fates can touch great goddesses,
  then weep, and loose your hair in grief you never earned,
  Elegy, now ah! too much like your name.
  
  That bard whose work was yours, who gave you fame, Tibullus,
  burns on the mounded pyre, a lifeless corpse.
  
  See Venus's boy, bearing his quiver upside down;
  his bow is broken and his torch is quenched;
  look how he goes dejected:  his wings trail on the ground;
  he smites his naked breast with violent hand;
  his tears dampen the curls that fall around his neck,
  and heaving sobs keep breaking on his lips.
  
  (Just so he went out, fair Iulus, from your house,
  they say, at his brother Aeneas's funeral.
  
  )
  No less was Venus stunned by her Tibullus's death
  than when the fierce boar smote her lover's thigh.
  
  They say we bards are sacred, favorites of the gods,
  and even that there's something holy in us,
  but that churl Death defiles every sacred thing:
  his shadowy hand appropriates us all.
  
  Was Orpheus saved by his father and mother, who were gods,
  or by his songs that tamed the astonished beasts?
  
  They say that that same father sang 'Linos!  Ai, Linos! '
  deep in the woods on his reluctant lyre.
  
  And Homer, too, from whom, as from an endless fount,
  bards' lips are moistened with the Muses' waters,
  one last day pulled him under Avernus's murky wave:
  his songs alone escaped the greedy pyre.
  
  The work of bards endures:  Troy's famous sufferings,
  and the endless shroud, undone by nightly fraud.
  
  So Nemesis and Delia:  both their names will live,
  the one his first, the one his latest love.
  
  But what use now your rites?
  
  What use the Egyptian rattle?
  
  What use, to have slept alone in an empty bed?
  
  When harsh fate steals away the good (forgive my words!)
  I almost want to believe there are no gods.
  
  Live virtuous:  you will die.
  
  Respect the gods:  grim Death
  will drag you from their altars to your grave.
  
  Write glorious verse, and see!  here Tibullus lies:
  one small urn holds the dust of what he was.
  
  Is it you the blazing pyre bears off, O sacred bard,
  not dreading to be fed upon your breast?
  
  Flames that dare so great a blasphemy would burn
  the golden temples of the blessed gods!
  She turned aside her gaze who rules Mt.
  
  Eryx's heights,
  and some say she could not restrain her tears.
  
  And yet it's better thus than if Phaeacia's land
  had strewn mere dirt on your neglected grave.
  
  Here, as you fled life, your mother closed your streaming
  eyes, and brought her last gifts to your ashes.
  
  Here your sister joined your mother in her grief
  and came with loosened hair all disarrayed.
  
  And with their kisses Nemesis and your first love
  joined theirs, and did not leave your pyre forsaken,
  and Delia, as she left, said, 'Happier far your love
  for me:  you lived, while I was still your flame.
  
  '
  'Why, ' Nemesis replied, 'do you grieve for my loss?
  
  Dying, he clutched me with his failing hand.
  
  '
  If anything remains of us but name and shade,
  Elysium's vale will be Tibullus's home,
  and you will greet him, learned Catullus, ivy bound
  on your young brow, with Calvus at your side,
  and you (if it is false that you betrayed your friend)
  Gallus, careless of your blood and soul.
  
  These shades will be your comrades, if any shades there are:
  you have joined the blessed, elegant Tibullus.
  
  May your bones find repose within their sheltering urn,
  and may earth not lie heavy on your ashes.
  
  - translated from the Latin by Jon Corelis

• Elegy V Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In summer's heat and mid-time of the day
  To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
  One window shut, the other open stood,
  Which gave such light, as twinkles in a wood,
  Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,
  Or night being past, and yet not day begun.
  
  Such light to shamefast maidens must be shown,
  Where they must sport, and seem to be unknown.
  
  Then came Corinna in a long loose gown,
  Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down:
  Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed
  Or Layis of a thousand wooers sped.
  
  I snatched her gown, being thin, the harm was small,
  Yet strived she to be covered there withal.
  
  And striving thus as one that would be chaste,
  Betrayed herself, and yeilded at the last.
  
  Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
  Not one wen in her body could I spy.
  
  What arms and shoulders did I touch and see,
  How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me.
  
  How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
  
  How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
  
  To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,
  I clinged her naked body, down she fell,
  Judge you the rest, being tired she bade me kiss,
  Jove sent me more such afternoons as this.

• In Summer's Heat Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In summer's heat and mid-time of the day,
  To rest my limbs upon a bed I lay,
  One window shut, the other open stood,
  Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood
  Like twilight glimpse at setting of the sun,
  Or night being past and yet not day begun.
  
  Such light to shamefaced maidens must be shown,
  Where they may sport, and seem to be unknown.
  
  Then came Corinna in a long, loose gown,
  Her white neck hid with tresses hanging down,
  Resembling fair Semiramis going to bed,
  Or Lais of a thousand wooers sped.
  
  I snatched her gown, being thin the harm was small,
  Yet strived she to be covered therewithal,
  And, striving thus as one that would be chaste,
  Betrayed herself, and yielded at the last.
  
  Stark naked as she stood before mine eye,
  Not one wen in her body could I spy.
  
  What arms and shoulders did I touch and see?
  
  How apt her breasts were to be pressed by me?
  
  How smooth a belly under her waist saw I?
  
  How large a leg, and what a lusty thigh?
  
  To leave the rest, all liked me passing well;
  I clinged her naked body, down she fell.
  
  Judge you the rest.
  
  Being tired, she bade me kiss.
  
  Jove send me more such afternoons as this.

• Love and War Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Lovers all are soldiers, and Cupid has his campaigns:
  I tell you, Atticus, lovers all are soldiers.
  
  Youth is fit for war, and also fit for Venus.
  
  Imagine an aged soldier, an elderly lover!
  A general looks for spirit in his brave soldiery;
  a pretty girl wants spirit in her companions.
  
  Both stay up all night long, and each sleeps on the ground;
  one guards his mistress's doorway, one his general's.
  
  The soldier's lot requires far journeys; send his girl,
  the zealous lover will follow her anywhere.
  
  He'll cross the glowering mountains, the rivers swollen with storm;
  he'll tread a pathway through the heaped-up snows;
  and never whine of raging Eurus when he sets sail
  or wait for stars propitious for his voyage.
  
  Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night,
  and blizzards interspersed with driving rain?
  
  The soldier reconnoiters among the dangerous foe;
  the lover spies to learn his rival's plans.
  
  Soldiers besiege strong cities; lovers, a harsh girl's home;
  one storms town gates, the other storms house doors.
  
  It's clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe
  and slay an unarmed host by force of arms.
  
  (That's how the troops of Thracian Rhesus met their doom,
  and you, O captive steeds, forsook your master.
  
  )
  Well, lovers take advantage of husbands when they sleep,
  launching surprise attacks while the enemy snores.
  
  To slip through bands of guards and watchful sentinels
  is always the soldier's mission - and the lover's.
  
  Mars wavers; Venus flutters: the conquered rise again,
  and those you'd think could never fall, lie low.
  
  So those who like to say that love is indolent
  should stop: Love is the soul of enterprise.
  
  Sad Achilles burns for Briseis, his lost darling:
  Trojans, smash the Greeks' power while you may!
  From Andromache's embrace Hector went to war;
  his own wife set the helmet on his head;
  and High King Agamemnon, looking on Priam's child,
  was stunned (they say) by the Maenad's flowing hair.
  
  And Mars himself was trapped in The Artificer's bonds:
  no tale was more notorious in heaven.
  
  I too was once an idler, born for careless ease;
  my shady couch had made my spirit soft.
  
  But care for a lovely girl aroused me from my sloth
  and bid me to enlist in her campaign.
  
  So now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.
  
  If you want a life of action, fall in love.

• Love in the afternoon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  It was very hot.
  
  The day had gone just past its noon.
  
  I'd stretched out on a couch to take a nap.
  
  One of the window-shutters was open, one was closed.
  
  The light was like you'd see deep in the woods,
  or like the glow of dusk when Phoebus leaves the sky,
  or when night pales, and day has not yet dawned,
  - a perfect light for girls with too much modesty,
  where anxious Shame can hope to hide away.
  
  When, look! here comes Corinna in a loose ungirded gown,
  her parted hair framing her gleaming throat,
  like lovely Semiramis entering her boudoir,
  or fabled Lais, loved by many men.
  
  I tore her gown off - not that it mattered, being so sheer,
  and yet she fought to keep that sheer gown on;
  but since she fought with no great wish for victory,
  she lost, betraying herself to the enemy.
  
  And as she stood before me, her garment all thrown off,
  I saw a body perfect in every inch:
  What shoulders, what fine arms I looked on - and embraced!
  What lovely breasts, begging to be caressed!
  How smooth and flat a belly under a compact waist!
  And the side view - what a long and youthful thigh!
  But why go into details?
  
  Each point deserved its praise.
  
  I clasped her naked body close to mine.
  
  You can fill in the rest.
  
  We both lay there, worn out.
  
  May all my afternoons turn out this well.

• Magic Read Poem Log in to favourite

  YE elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,
  And ye that on the sands with printless foot
  Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
  When he comes back, you demi-puppets that
  By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
  Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
  Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
  To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
  Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
  The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
  And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
  Set roaring water; to the dread rattling thunder
  Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
  With hiw own bolt; the strong-bas'd promontory
  Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up
  The pine and cedar; graves at my command
  Have wak'd their sleepers, op'd, and let 'em forth
  By my so potent art.

• Metamorphoses: Book The Eighth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  NOW shone the morning star in bright array,
  To vanquish night, and usher in the day:
  The wind veers southward, and moist clouds arise,
  That blot with shades the blue meridian skies.
  
  Cephalus feels with joy the kindly gales,
  His new allies unfurl the swelling sails;
  Steady their course, they cleave the yielding main,
  And, with a wish, th' intended harbour gain.
  
  The Story of      Mean-while King Minos, on the Attick strand,
  Nisus and     Displays his martial skill, and wastes the land.
  
  Scylla       His army lies encampt upon the plains,
  Before Alcathoe's walls, where Nisus reigns;
  On whose grey head a lock of purple hue,
  The strength, and fortune of his kingdom, grew.
  
  Six moons were gone, and past, when still from
  far
  Victoria hover'd o'er the doubtful war.
  
  So long, to both inclin'd, th' impartial maid
  Between 'em both her equal wings display'd.
  
  High on the walls, by Phoebus vocal made,
  A turret of the palace rais'd its head;
  And where the God his tuneful harp resign'd.
  
  The sound within the stones still lay enshrin'd:
  Hither the daughter of the purple king
  Ascended oft, to hear its musick ring;
  And, striking with a pebble, wou'd release
  Th' enchanted notes, in times of happy peace.
  
  But now, from thence, the curious maid beheld
  Rough feats of arms, and combats of the field:
  And, since the siege was long, had learnt the name
  Of ev'ry chief, his character, and fame;
  Their arms, their horse, and quiver she descry'd,
  Nor cou'd the dress of war the warriour hide.
  
  Europa's son she knew above the rest,
  And more, than well became a virgin breast:
  In vain the crested morion veils his face,
  She thinks it adds a more peculiar grace:
  His ample shield, embost with burnish'd gold,
  Still makes the bearer lovelier to behold:
  When the tough jav'lin, with a whirl, he sends,
  His strength and skill the sighing maid commends;
  Or, when he strains to draw the circling bow,
  And his fine limbs a manly posture show,
  Compar'd with Phoebus, he performs so well,
  Let her be judge, and Minos shall excell.
  
  But when the helm put off, display'd to sight,
  And set his features in an open light;
  When, vaulting to his seat, his steed he prest,
  Caparison'd in gold, and richly drest;
  Himself in scarlet sumptuously array'd,
  New passions rise, and fire the frantick maid.
  
  O happy spear! she cries, that feels his touch;
  Nay, ev'n the reins he holds are blest too much.
  
  Oh! were it lawful, she cou'd wing her way
  Thro' the stern hostile troops without dismay;
  Or throw her body to the distant ground,
  And in the Cretans happy camp be found.
  
  Wou'd Minos but desire it! she'd expose
  Her native country to her country's foes;
  Unbar the gates, the town with flames infest,
  Or any thing that Minos shou'd request.
  
  And as she sate, and pleas'd her longing sight,
  Viewing the king's pavilion veil'd with white,
  Shou'd joy, or grief, she said, possess my breast,
  To see my country by a war opprest?
  
  I'm in suspense! For, tho' 'tis grief to know
  I love a man that is declar'd my foe;
  Yet, in my own despite, I must approve
  That lucky war, which brought the man I love.
  
  Yet, were I tender'd as a pledge of peace,
  The cruelties of war might quickly cease.
  
  Oh! with what joy I'd wear the chains he gave!
  A patient hostage, and a willing slave.
  
  Thou lovely object! if the nymph that bare
  Thy charming person, were but half so fair;
  Well might a God her virgin bloom desire,
  And with a rape indulge his amorous fire.
  
  Oh! had I wings to glide along the air,
  To his dear tent I'd fly, and settle there:
  There tell my quality, confess my flame,
  And grant him any dowry that he'd name.
  
  All, all I'd give; only my native land,
  My dearest country, shou'd excepted stand,
  For, perish love, and all expected joys,
  E're, with so base a thought, my soul complies.
  
  Yet, oft the vanquish'd some advantage find,
  When conquer'd by a noble, gen'rous mind.
  
  Brave Minos justly has the war begun,
  Fir'd with resentment for his murder'd son:
  The righteous Gods a righteous cause regard,
  And will, with victory, his arms reward:
  We must be conquer'd; and the captive's fate
  Will surely seize us, tho' it seize us late.
  
  Why then shou'd love be idle, and neglect
  What Mars, by arms and perils, will effect?
  
  Oh! Prince, I dye, with anxious fear opprest,
  Lest some rash hand shou'd wound my charmer's
  breast:
  For, if they saw, no barb'rous mind cou'd dare
  Against that lovely form to raise a spear.
  
  But I'm resolv'd, and fix'd in this decree,
  My father's country shall my dowry be.
  
  Thus I prevent the loss of life and blood,
  And, in effect, the action must be good.
  
  Vain resolution! for, at ev'ry gate
  The trusty centinels, successive, wait:
  The keys my father keeps; ah! there's my grief;
  'Tis he obstructs all hopes of my relief.
  
  Gods! that this hated light I'd never seen!
  Or, all my life, without a father been!
  But Gods we all may be; for those that dare,
  Are Gods, and Fortune's chiefest favours share.
  
  The ruling Pow'rs a lazy pray'r detest,
  The bold adventurer succeeds the best.
  
  What other maid, inspir'd with such a flame,
  But wou'd take courage, and abandon shame?
  
  But wou'd, tho' ruin shou'd ensue, remove
  Whate'er oppos'd, and clear the way to love?
  
  This, shall another's feeble passion dare?
  
  While I sit tame, and languish in despair:
  No; for tho' fire and sword before me lay,
  Impatient love thro' both shou'd force its way.
  
  Yet I have no such enemies to fear,
  My sole obstruction is my father's hair;
  His purple lock my sanguine hope destroys,
  And clouds the prospect of my rising joys.
  
  Whilst thus she spoke, amid the thick'ning air
  Night supervenes, the greatest nurse of care:
  And, as the Goddess spreads her sable wings,
  The virgin's fears decay, and courage springs.
  
  The hour was come, when Man's o'er-labour'd breast
  Surceas'd its care, by downy sleep possest:
  All things now hush'd, Scylla with silent tread
  Urg'd her approach to Nisus' royal bed:
  There, of the fatal lock (accursed theft!)
  She her unwitting father's head bereft.
  
  In safe possession of her impious prey,
  Out at a postern gate she takes her way.
  
  Embolden'd, by the merit of the deed
  She traverses the adverse camp with speed,
  'Till Minos' tent she reach'd: the righteous king
  She thus bespoke, who shiver'd at the thing.
  
  Behold th' effect of love's resistless sway!
  I, Nisus' royal seed, to thee betray
  My country, and my Gods.
  
  For this strange task,
  Minos, no other boon but thee I ask.
  
  This purple lock, a pledge of love, receive;
  No worthless present, since in it I give
  My father's head.
  
  - Mov'd at a crime so new,
  And with abhorrence fill'd, back Minos drew,
  Nor touch'd th' unhallow'd gift; but thus exclaim'd
  (With mein indignant, and with eyes inflam'd),
  Perdition seize thee, thou, thy kind's disgrace!
  May thy devoted carcass find no place
  In earth, or air, or sea, by all out-cast!
  Shall Minos, with so foul a monster, blast
  His Cretan world, where cradled Jove was nurst?
  
  Forbid it Heav'n!- away, thou most accurst!
  And now Alcathoe, its lord exchang'd,
  Was under Minos' domination rang'd.
  
  While the most equal king his care applies
  To curb the conquer'd, and new laws devise,
  The fleet, by his command, with hoisted sails,
  And ready oars, invites the murm'ring gales.
  
  At length the Cretan hero anchor weigh'd,
  Repaying, with neglect, th' abandon'd maid.
  
  Deaf to her cries, he furrows up the main:
  In vain she prays, sollicits him in vain.
  
  And now she furious grows in wild despair,
  She wrings her hands, and throws aloft her hair.
  
  Where run'st thou?
  
  (thus she vents her deep
  distress)
  Why shun'st thou her that crown'd thee with
  success?
  
  Her, whose fond love to thee cou'd sacrifice
  Her country, and her parent, sacred ties!
  Can nor my love, nor proffer'd presents find
  A passage to thy heart, and make thee kind?
  
  Can nothing move thy pity?
  
  O ingrate,
  Can'st thou behold my lost, forlorn estate,
  And not be soften'd?
  
  Can'st thou throw off one
  Who has no refuge left but thee alone?
  
  Where shall I seek for comfort?
  
  whither fly?
  
  My native country does in ashes lye:
  Or were't not so, my treason bars me there,
  And bids me wander.
  
  Shall I next repair
  To a wrong'd father, by my guilt undone?
  
  -
  Me all Mankind deservedly will shun.
  
  I, out of all the world, my self have thrown,
  To purchase an access to Crete alone;
  Which, since refus'd, ungen'rous man, give o'er
  To boast thy race; Europa never bore
  A thing so savage.
  
  Thee some tygress bred,
  On the bleak Syrt's inhospitable bed;
  Or where Charybdis pours its rapid tide
  Tempestuous.
  
  Thou art not to Jove ally'd;
  Nor did the king of Gods thy mother meet
  Beneath a bull's forg'd shape, and bear to Crete.
  
  That fable of thy glorious birth is feign'd;
  Some wild outrageous bull thy dam sustain'd.
  
  O father Nisus, now my death behold;
  Exult, o city, by my baseness sold:
  Minos, obdurate, has aveng'd ye all;
  But 'twere more just by those I wrong'd to fall:
  For why shou'dst thou, who only didst subdue
  By my offending, my offence pursue?
  
  Well art thou matcht to one whose am'rous flame
  Too fiercely rag'd, for human-kind to tame;
  One who, within a wooden heifer thrust,
  Courted a low'ring bull's mistaken lust;
  And, from whose monster-teeming womb, the Earth
  Receiv'd, what much it mourn'd, a bi-form birth.
  
  But what avails my plaints?
  
  the whistling wind,
  Which bears him far away, leaves them behind.
  
  Well weigh'd Pasiphae, when she prefer'd
  A bull to thee, more brutish than the herd.
  
  But ah! Time presses, and the labour'd oars
  To distance drive the fleet, and lose the less'ning
  shores.
  
  Think not, ungrateful man, the liquid way
  And threat'ning billows shall inforce my stay.
  
  I'll follow thee in spite: My arms I'll throw
  Around thy oars, or grasp thy crooked prow,
  And drag thro' drenching seas.
  
  Her eager tongue
  Had hardly clos'd the speech, when forth she sprung
  And prov'd the deep.
  
  Cupid with added force
  Recruits each nerve, and aids her wat'ry course.
  
  Soon she the ship attains, unwelcome guest;
  And, as with close embrace its sides she prest,
  A hawk from upper air came pouring down
  ('Twas Nisus cleft the sky with wings new grown).
  
  At Scylla's head his horny bill he aims;
  She, fearful of the blow, the ship disclaims,
  Quitting her hold: and yet she fell not far,
  But wond'ring, finds her self sustain'd in air.
  
  Chang'd to a lark, she mottled pinions shook,
  And, from the ravish'd lock, the name of Ciris
  took.
  
  The          Now Minos, landed on the Cretan shore,
  Labyrinth     Performs his vows to Jove's protecting pow'r;
  A hundred bullocks of the largest breed,
  With flowrets crown'd, before his altar bleed:
  While trophies of the vanquish'd, brought from far
  Adorn the palace with the spoils of war.
  
  Mean-while the monster of a human-beast,
  His family's reproach, and stain, increas'd.
  
  His double kind the rumour swiftly spread,
  And evidenc'd the mother's beastly deed.
  
  When Minos, willing to conceal the shame
  That sprung from the reports of tatling Fame,
  Resolves a dark inclosure to provide,
  And, far from sight, the two-form'd creature hide.
  
  Great Daedalus of Athens was the man
  That made the draught, and form'd the wondrous
  plan;
  Where rooms within themselves encircled lye,
  With various windings, to deceive the eye.
  
  As soft Maeander's wanton current plays,
  When thro' the Phrygian fields it loosely strays;
  Backward and forward rouls the dimpl'd tide,
  Seeming, at once, two different ways to glide:
  While circling streams their former banks survey,
  And waters past succeeding waters see:
  Now floating to the sea with downward course,
  Now pointing upward to its ancient source,
  Such was the work, so intricate the place,
  That scarce the workman all its turns cou'd trace;
  And Daedalus was puzzled how to find
  The secret ways of what himself design'd.
  
  These private walls the Minotaur include,
  Who twice was glutted with Athenian blood:
  But the third tribute more successful prov'd,
  Slew the foul monster, and the plague remov'd.
  
  When Theseus, aided by the virgin's art,
  Had trac'd the guiding thread thro' ev'ry part,
  He took the gentle maid, that set him free,
  And, bound for Dias, cut the briny sea.
  
  There, quickly cloy'd, ungrateful, and unkind,
  Left his fair consort in the isle behind,
  Whom Bacchus saw, and straining in his arms
  Her rifled bloom, and violated charms,
  Resolves, for this, the dear engaging dame
  Shou'd shine for ever in the rolls of Fame;
  And bids her crown among the stars be plac'd,
  With an eternal constellation grac'd.
  
  The golden circlet mounts; and, as it flies,
  Its diamonds twinkle in the distant skies;
  There, in their pristin form, the gemmy rays
  Between Alcides, and the dragon blaze.
  
  The Story of      In tedious exile now too long detain'd,
  Daedalus and    Daedalus languish'd for his native land:
  Icarus       The sea foreclos'd his flight; yet thus he said:
  Tho' Earth and water in subjection laid,
  O cruel Minos, thy dominion be,
  We'll go thro' air; for sure the air is free.
  
  Then to new arts his cunning thought applies,
  And to improve the work of Nature tries.
  
  A row of quils in gradual order plac'd,
  Rise by degrees in length from first to last;
  As on a cliff th' ascending thicket grows,
  Or, different reeds the rural pipe compose.
  
  Along the middle runs a twine of flax,
  The bottom stems are joyn'd by pliant wax.
  
  Thus, well compact, a hollow bending brings
  The fine composure into real wings.
  
  His boy, young Icarus, that near him stood,
  Unthinking of his fate, with smiles pursu'd
  The floating feathers, which the moving air
  Bore loosely from the ground, and wasted here and
  there.
  
  Or with the wax impertinently play'd,
  And with his childish tricks the great design
  delay'd.
  
  The final master-stroke at last impos'd,
  And now, the neat machine compleatly clos'd;
  Fitting his pinions on, a flight he tries,
  And hung self-ballanc'd in the beaten skies.
  
  Then thus instructs his child: My boy, take care
  To wing your course along the middle air;
  If low, the surges wet your flagging plumes;
  If high, the sun the melting wax consumes:
  Steer between both: nor to the northern skies,
  Nor south Orion turn your giddy eyes;
  But follow me: let me before you lay
  Rules for the flight, and mark the pathless way.
  
  Then teaching, with a fond concern, his son,
  He took the untry'd wings, and fix'd 'em on;
  But fix'd with trembling hands; and as he speaks,
  The tears roul gently down his aged cheeks.
  
  Then kiss'd, and in his arms embrac'd him fast,
  But knew not this embrace must be the last.
  
  And mounting upward, as he wings his flight,
  Back on his charge he turns his aking sight;
  As parent birds, when first their callow care
  Leave the high nest to tempt the liquid air.
  
  Then chears him on, and oft, with fatal art,
  Reminds the stripling to perform his part.
  
  These, as the angler at the silent brook,
  Or mountain-shepherd leaning on his crook,
  Or gaping plowman, from the vale descries,
  They stare, and view 'em with religious eyes,
  And strait conclude 'em Gods; since none, but they,
  Thro' their own azure skies cou'd find a way.
  
  Now Delos, Paros on the left are seen,
  And Samos, favour'd by Jove's haughty queen;
  Upon the right, the isle Lebynthos nam'd,
  And fair Calymne for its honey fam'd.
  
  When now the boy, whose childish thoughts aspire
  To loftier aims, and make him ramble high'r,
  Grown wild, and wanton, more embolden'd flies
  Far from his guide, and soars among the skies.
  
  The soft'ning wax, that felt a nearer sun,
  Dissolv'd apace, and soon began to run.
  
  The youth in vain his melting pinions shakes,
  His feathers gone, no longer air he takes:
  Oh! Father, father, as he strove to cry,
  Down to the sea he tumbled from on high,
  And found his Fate; yet still subsists by fame,
  Among those waters that retain his name.
  
  The father, now no more a father, cries,
  Ho Icarus! where are you?
  
  as he flies;
  Where shall I seek my boy?
  
  he cries again,
  And saw his feathers scatter'd on the main.
  
  Then curs'd his art; and fun'ral rites confer'd,
  Naming the country from the youth interr'd.
  
  A partridge, from a neighb'ring stump, beheld
  The sire his monumental marble build;
  Who, with peculiar call, and flutt'ring wing,
  Chirpt joyful, and malicious seem'd to sing:
  The only bird of all its kind, and late
  Transform'd in pity to a feather'd state:
  From whence, O Daedalus, thy guilt we date.
  
  His sister's son, when now twelve years were
  past,
  Was, with his uncle, as a scholar plac'd;
  The unsuspecting mother saw his parts,
  And genius fitted for the finest arts.
  
  This soon appear'd; for when the spiny bone
  In fishes' backs was by the stripling known,
  A rare invention thence he learnt to draw,
  Fil'd teeth in ir'n, and made the grating saw.
  
  He was the first, that from a knob of brass
  Made two strait arms with widening stretch to pass;
  That, while one stood upon the center's place,
  The other round it drew a circling space.
  
  Daedalus envy'd this, and from the top
  Of fair Minerva's temple let him drop;
  Feigning, that, as he lean'd upon the tow'r,
  Careless he stoop'd too much, and tumbled o'er.
  
  The Goddess, who th' ingenious still befriends,
  On this occasion her asssistance lends;
  His arms with feathers, as he fell, she veils,
  And in the air a new made bird he sails.
  
  The quickness of his genius, once so fleet,
  Still in his wings remains, and in his feet:
  Still, tho' transform'd, his ancient name he keeps,
  And with low flight the new-shorn stubble sweeps,
  Declines the lofty trees, and thinks it best
  To brood in hedge-rows o'er its humble nest;
  And, in remembrance of the former ill,
  Avoids the heights, and precipices still.
  
  At length, fatigu'd with long laborious flights,
  On fair Sicilia's plains the artist lights;
  Where Cocalus the king, that gave him aid,
  Was, for his kindness, with esteem repaid.
  
  Athens no more her doleful tribute sent,
  That hardship gallant Theseus did prevent;
  Their temples hung with garlands, they adore
  Each friendly God, but most Minerva's pow'r:
  To her, to Jove, to all, their altars smoak,
  They each with victims, and perfumes invoke.
  
  Now talking Fame, thro' every Grecian town,
  Had spread, immortal Theseus, thy renown.
  
  From him the neighb'ring nations in distress,
  In suppliant terms implore a kind redress.
  
  The Story of      From him the Caledonians sought relief;
  Meleager and    Though valiant Meleagros was their chief.
  
  Atalanta      The cause, a boar, who ravag'd far and near:
  Of Cynthia's wrath, th' avenging minister.
  
  For Oeneus with autumnal plenty bless'd,
  By gifts to Heav'n his gratitude express'd:
  Cull'd sheafs, to Ceres; to Lyaeus, wine;
  To Pan, and Pales, offer'd sheep and kine;
  And fat of olives, to Minerva's shrine.
  
  Beginning from the rural Gods, his hand
  Was lib'ral to the Pow'rs of high command:
  Each deity in ev'ry kind was bless'd,
  'Till at Diana's fane th' invidious honour ceas'd.
  
  Wrath touches ev'n the Gods; the Queen of Night,
  Fir'd with disdain, and jealous of her right,
  Unhonour'd though I am, at least, said she,
  Not unreveng'd that impious act shall be.
  
  Swift as the word, she sped the boar away,
  With charge on those devoted fields to prey.
  
  No larger bulls th' Aegyptian pastures feed,
  And none so large Sicilian meadows breed:
  His eye-balls glare with fire suffus'd with blood;
  His neck shoots up a thick-set thorny wood;
  His bristled back a trench impal'd appears,
  And stands erected, like a field of spears;
  Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound,
  And part he churns, and part befoams the ground,
  For tusks with Indian elephants he strove,
  And Jove's own thunder from his mouth he drove.
  
  He burns the leaves; the scorching blast invades
  The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades:
  Or suff'ring not their yellow beards to rear,
  He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the
  year:
  In vain the barns expect their promis'd load,
  Nor barns at home, nor recks are heap'd abroad:
  In vain the hinds the threshing-floor prepare,
  And exercise their flail in empty air.
  
  With olives ever-green the ground is strow'd,
  And grapes ungather'd shed their gen'rous blood.
  
  Amid the fold he rages, nor the sheep
  Their shepherds, nor the grooms their bulls can
  keep.
  
  From fields to walls the frighted rabble run,
  Nor think themselves secure within the town:
  'Till Meleagros, and his chosen crew,
  Contemn the danger, and the praise pursue.
  
  Fair Leda's twins (in time to stars decreed)
  One fought on foot, one curb'd the fiery steed;
  Then issu'd forth fam'd Jason after these,
  Who mann'd the foremost ship that sail'd the seas;
  Then Theseus join'd with bold Perithous came;
  A single concord in a double name:
  The Thestian sons, Idas who swiftly ran,
  And Ceneus, once a woman, now a man.
  
  Lynceus, with eagle's eyes, and lion's heart;
  Leucippus, with his never-erring dart;
  Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamon,
  Echion, Lelix, and Eurytion,
  Achilles' father, and great Phocus' son;
  Dryas the fierce, and Hippasus the strong;
  With twice old Iolas, and Nestor then but young.
  
  Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold;
  Mopsus the sage, who future things foretold;
  And t' other seer, yet by his wife unsold.
  
  A thousand others of immortal fame;
  Among the rest, fair Atalanta came,
  Grace of the woods: a diamond buckle bound
  Her vest behind, that else had flow'd upon the
  ground,
  And shew'd her buskin'd legs; her head was bare,
  But for her native ornament of hair;
  Which in a simple knot was ty'd above,
  Sweet negligence! unheeded bait of love!
  Her sounding quiver, on her shoulder ty'd,
  One hand a dart, and one a bow supply'd.
  
  Such was her face, as in a nymph display'd
  A fair fierce boy, or in a boy betray'd
  The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
  
  The Caledonian chief at once the dame
  Beheld, at once his heart receiv'd the flame,
  With Heav'ns averse.
  
  O happy youth, he cry'd;
  For whom thy fates reserve so fair a bride!
  He sigh'd, and had no leisure more to say;
  His honour call'd his eyes another way,
  And forc'd him to pursue the now-neglected prey.
  
  There stood a forest on a mountain's brow,
  Which over-look'd the shaded plains below.
  
  No sounding ax presum'd those trees to bite;
  Coeval with the world, a venerable sight.
  
  The heroes there arriv'd, some spread around
  The toils; some search the footsteps on the ground:
  Some from the chains the faithful dogs unbound.
  
  Of action eager, and intent in thought,
  The chiefs their honourable danger sought:
  A valley stood below; the common drain
  Of waters from above, and falling rain:
  The bottom was a moist, and marshy ground,
  Whose edges were with bending oziers crown'd:
  The knotty bulrush next in order stood,
  And all within of reeds a trembling wood.
  
  From hence the boar was rous'd, and sprung amain,
  Like lightning sudden, on the warrior train;
  Beats down the trees before him, shakes the ground.
  
  The forest echoes to the crackling sound;
  Shout the fierce youth, and clamours ring around.
  
  All stood with their protended spears prepar'd,
  With broad steel heads the brandish'd weapons
  glar'd.
  
  The beast impetuous with his tusks aside
  Deals glancing wounds; the fearful dogs divide:
  All spend their mouths aloof, but none abide.
  
  Echion threw the first, but miss'd his mark,
  And stuck his boar-spear on a maple's bark.
  
  Then Jason; and his javelin seem'd to take,
  But fail'd with over-force, and whiz'd above his
  back.
  
  Mopsus was next; but e'er he threw, address'd
  To Phoebus, thus: O patron, help thy priest:
  If I adore, and ever have ador'd
  Thy pow'r divine, thy present aid afford;
  That I may reach the beast.
  
  The God allow'd
  His pray'r, and smiling, gave him what he cou'd:
  He reach'd the savage, but no blood he drew:
  Dian unarm'd the javelin, as it flew.
  
  This chaf'd the boar, his nostrils flames expire,
  And his red eye-balls roul with living fire.
  
  Whirl'd from a sling, or from an engine thrown,
  Amid the foes, so flies a mighty stone,
  As flew the beast: the left wing put to flight,
  The chiefs o'er-born, he rushes on the right.
  
  Eupalamos and Pelagon he laid
  In dust, and next to death, but for their fellows'
  aid.
  
  Onesimus far'd worse, prepar'd to fly,
  The fatal fang drove deep within his thigh,
  And cut the nerves: the nerves no more sustain
  The bulk; the bulk unprop'd, falls headlong on the
  plain.
  
  Nestor had fail'd the fall of Troy to see,
  But leaning on his lance, he vaulted on a tree;
  Then gath'ring up his feet, look'd down with fear,
  And thought his monstrous foe was still too near.
  
  Against a stump his tusk the monster grinds,
  And in the sharpen'd edge new vigour finds;
  Then, trusting to his arms, young Othrys found,
  And ranch'd his hips with one continu'd wound.
  
  Now Leda's twins, the future stars, appear;
  White were their habits, white their horses were:
  Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw,
  Their trembling lances brandish'd at the foe:
  Nor had they miss'd; but he to thickets fled,
  Conceal'd from aiming spears, not pervious to the
  steed.
  
  But Telamon rush'd in, and happ'd to meet
  A rising root, that held his fastned feet;
  So down he fell, whom, sprawling on the ground,
  His brother from the wooden gyves unbound.
  
  Mean-time the virgin-huntress was not slow
  T' expel the shaft from her contracted bow:
  Beneath his ear the fastned arrow stood,
  And from the wound appear'd the trickling blood.
  
  She blush'd for joy: but Meleagros rais'd
  His voice with loud applause, and the fair archer
  prais'd.
  
  He was the first to see, and first to show
  His friends the marks of the successful blow.
  
  Nor shall thy valour want the praises due,
  He said; a virtuous envy seiz'd the crew.
  
  They shout; the shouting animates their hearts,
  And all at once employ their thronging darts:
  But out of order thrown, in air they joyn,
  And multitude makes frustrate the design.
  
  With both his hands the proud Ancaeus takes,
  And flourishes his double-biting ax:
  Then, forward to his fate, he took a stride
  Before the rest, and to his fellows cry'd,
  Give place, and mark the diff'rence, if you can,
  Between a woman warrior, and a man,
  The boar is doom'd; nor though Diana lend
  Her aid, Diana can her beast defend.
  
  Thus boasted he; then stretch'd, on tiptoe stood,
  Secure to make his empty promise good.
  
  But the more wary beast prevents the blow,
  And upward rips the groin of his audacious foe.
  
  Ancaeus falls; his bowels from the wound
  Rush out, and clotted blood distains the ground.
  
  Perithous, no small portion of the war,
  Press'd on, and shook his lance: to whom from far
  Thus Theseus cry'd; O stay, my better part,
  My more than mistress; of my heart, the heart.
  
  The strong may fight aloof; Ancaeus try'd
  His force too near, and by presuming dy'd:
  He said, and while he spake his javelin threw,
  Hissing in air th' unerring weapon flew;
  But on an arm of oak, that stood betwixt
  The marks-man and the mark, his lance he fixt.
  
  Once more bold Jason threw, but fail'd to wound
  The boar, and slew an undeserving hound,
  And thro' the dog the dart was nail'd to ground.
  
  Two spears from Meleager's hand were sent,
  With equal force, but various in th' event:
  The first was fix'd in earth, the second stood
  On the boar's bristled back, and deeply drank his
  blood.
  
  Now while the tortur'd savage turns around,
  And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound,
  The wound's great author close at hand provokes
  His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes;
  Wheels, as he wheels; and with his pointed dart
  Explores the nearest passage to his heart.
  
  Quick, and more quick he spins in giddy gires,
  Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires.
  
  This act with shouts heav'n-high the friendly band
  Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor's hand.
  
  Then all approach the slain with vast surprize,
  Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies,
  And scarce secure, reach out their spears afar,
  And blood their points, to prove their partnership
  of war.
  
  But he, the conqu'ring chief, his foot impress'd
  On the strong neck of that destructive beast;
  And gazing on the nymph with ardent eyes,
  Accept, said he, fair Nonacrine, my prize,
  And, though inferior, suffer me to join
  My labours, and my part of praise, with thine:
  At this presents her with the tusky head
  And chine, with rising bristles roughly spread.
  
  Glad she receiv'd the gift; and seem'd to take
  With double pleasure, for the giver's sake.
  
  The rest were seiz'd with sullen discontent,
  And a deaf murmur through the squadron went:
  All envy'd; but the Thestyan brethren show'd
  The least respect, and thus they vent their spleen
  aloud:
  Lay down those honour'd spoils, nor think to share,
  Weak woman as thou art, the prize of war:
  Ours is the title, thine a foreign claim,
  Since Meleagrus from our lineage came.
  
  Trust not thy beauty; but restore the prize,
  Which he, besotted on that face, and eyes,
  Would rend from us: at this, enflam'd with spite,
  From her they snatch the gift, from him the giver's
  right.
  
  But soon th' impatient prince his fauchion drew,
  And cry'd, Ye robbers of another's due,
  Now learn the diff'rence, at your proper cost,
  Betwixt true valour, and an empty boast.
  
  At this advanc'd, and sudden as the word,
  In proud Plexippus' bosom plung'd the sword:
  Toxeus amaz'd, and with amazement slow,
  Or to revenge, or ward the coming blow,
  Stood doubting; and while doubting thus he stood,
  Receiv'd the steel bath'd in his brother's blood.
  
  Pleas'd with the first, unknown the second news;
  Althaea to the temples pays their dues
  For her son's conquest; when at length appear
  Her grisly brethren stretch'd upon the bier:
  Pale at the sudden sight, she chang'd her cheer,
  And with her cheer her robes; but hearing tell
  The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell,
  'Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one
  Within her soul; at last 'twas rage alone;
  Which burning upwards in succession, dries
  The tears, that stood consid'ring in her eyes.
  
  There lay a log unlighted on the hearth,
  When she was lab'ring in the throws of birth
  For th' unborn chief; the fatal sisters came,
  And rais'd it up, and toss'd it on the flame:
  Then on the rock a scanty measure place
  Of vital flax, and turn'd the wheel apace;
  And turning sung, To this red brand and thee,
  O new born babe, we give an equal destiny;
  So vanish'd out of view.
  
  The frighted dame
  Sprung hasty from her bed, and quench'd the flame:
  The log, in secret lock'd, she kept with care,
  And that, while thus preserv'd, preserv'd her heir.
  
  This brand she now produc'd; and first she strows
  The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows;
  Thrice heav'd her hand, and heav'd, she thrice
  repress'd:
  The sister and the mother long contest,
  Two doubtful titles, in one tender breast:
  And now her eyes, and cheeks with fury glow,
  Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow:
  Now low'ring looks presage approaching storms,
  And now prevailing love her face reforms:
  Resolv'd, she doubts again; the tears she dry'd
  With burning rage, are by new tears supply'd;
  And as a ship, which winds and waves assail
  Now with the current drives, now with the gale,
  Both opposite, and neither long prevail:
  She feels a double force, by turns obeys
  Th' imperious tempest, and th' impetuous seas:
  So fares Althaea's mind, she first relents
  With pity, of that pity then repents:
  Sister, and mother long the scales divide,
  But the beam nodded on the sister's side.
  
  Sometimes she softly sigh'd, then roar'd aloud;
  But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood.
  
  The pious, impious wretch at length decreed,
  To please her brothers' ghost, her son should
  bleed:
  And when the fun'ral flames began to rise,
  Receive, she said, a sister's sacrifice;
  A mother's bowels burn: high in her hand,
  Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand;
  Then thrice before the kindled pile she bow'd,
  And the three Furies thrice invok'd aloud:
  Come, come, revenging sisters, come, and view
  A sister paying her dead brothers due:
  A crime I punish, and a crime commit;
  But blood for blood, and death for death is fit:
  Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid,
  And second fun'rals on the former laid.
  
  Let the whole houshold in one ruin fall,
  And may Diana's curse o'ertake us all.
  
  Shall Fate to happy Oenus still allow
  One son, while Thestius stands depriv'd of two?
  
  Better three lost, than one unpunish'd go.
  
  Take then, dear ghosts (while yet admitted new
  In Hell you wait my duty), take your due:
  A costly off'ring on your tomb is laid,
  When with my blood the price of yours is paid.
  
  Ah! whither am I hurry'd?
  
  Ah! forgive,
  Ye shades, and let your sister's issue live;
  A mother cannot give him death; tho' he
  Deserves it, he deserves it not from me.
  
  Then shall th' unpunish'd wretch insult the
  slain,
  Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign?
  
  While you, thin shades, the sport of winds, are
  tost
  O'er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast.
  
  I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past, 'tis done;
  Perish this impious, this detested son:
  Perish his sire, and perish I withal;
  And let the house's heir, and the hop'd kingdom
  fall.
  
  Where is the mother fled, her pious love,
  And where the pains with which ten months I strove!
  Ah! had'st thou dy'd, my son, in infant years,
  Thy little herse had been bedew'd with tears.
  
  Thou liv'st by me; to me thy breath resign;
  Mine is the merit, the demerit thine.
  
  Thy life by double title I require;
  Once giv'n at birth, and once preserv'd from fire:
  One murder pay, or add one murder more,
  And me to them who fell by thee restore.
  
  I would, but cannot: my son's image stands
  Before my sight; and now their angry hands
  My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact;
  This pleads compassion, and repents the fact.
  
  He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom:
  My brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome.
  
  But having paid their injur'd ghosts their due,
  My son requires my death, and mine shall his
  pursue.
  
  At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand,
  Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the
  brand.
  
  The brand, amid the flaming fewel thrown,
  Or drew, or seem'd to draw, a dying groan;
  The fires themselves but faintly lick'd their prey,
  Then loath'd their impious food, and would have
  shrunk away.
  
  Just then the heroe cast a doleful cry,
  And in those absent flames began to fry:
  The blind contagion rag'd within his veins;
  But he with manly patience bore his pains:
  He fear'd not Fate, but only griev'd to die
  Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry.
  
  Happy Ancaeus, thrice aloud he cry'd,
  With what becoming fate in arms he dy'd!
  Then call'd his brothers, sisters, sire around,
  And, her to whom his nuptial vows were bound,
  Perhaps his mother; a long sigh she drew,
  And his voice failing, took his last adieu.
  
  For as the flames augment, and as they stay
  At their full height, then languish to decay,
  They rise and sink by fits; at last they soar
  In one bright blaze, and then descend no more:
  Just so his inward heats, at height, impair,
  'Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul
  in air.
  
  Now lofty Calidon in ruins lies;
  All ages, all degrees unsluice their eyes,
  And Heav'n, and Earth resound with murmurs, groans,
  and cries.
  
  Matrons and maidens beat their breasts, and tear
  Their habits, and root up their scatter'd hair:
  The wretched father, father now no more,
  With sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the floor,
  Deforms his hoary locks with dust obscene,
  And curses age, and loaths a life prolong'd with
  pain.
  
  By steel her stubborn soul his mother freed,
  And punish'd on her self her impious deed.
  
  Had I a hundred tongues, a wit so large
  As could their hundred offices discharge;
  Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow'd
  In all the streams, inspiring all the God;
  Those tongues, that wit, those streams, that God in
  vain
  Would offer to describe his sisters' pain:
  They beat their breasts with many a bruizing blow,
  'Till they turn livid, and corrupt the snow.
  
  The corps they cherish, while the corps remains,
  And exercise, and rub with fruitless pains;
  And when to fun'ral flames 'tis born away,
  They kiss the bed on which the body lay:
  And when those fun'ral flames no longer burn
  (The dust compos'd within a pious urn),
  Ev'n in that urn their brother they confess,
  And hug it in their arms, and to their bosoms
  press.
  
  His tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the
  ground,
  Those living monuments his tomb surround:
  Ev'n to his name, inscrib'd, their tears they pay,
  'Till tears, and kisses wear his name away.
  
  But Cynthia now had all her fury spent,
  Not with less ruin than a race content:
  Excepting Gorge, perish'd all the seed,
  And her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed.
  
  Satiate at last, no longer she pursu'd
  The weeping sisters; but With Wings endu'd,
  And horny beaks, and sent to flit in air;
  Who yearly round the tomb in feather'd flocks
  repair.
  
  The        Theseus mean-while acquitting well his share
  Transformation   In the bold chace confed'rate like a war,
  of the Naiads   To Athens' lofty tow'rs his march ordain'd,
  By Pallas lov'd, and where Erectheus reign'd.
  
  But Achelous stop'd him on the way,
  By rains a deluge, and constrain'd his stay.
  
  O fam'd for glorious deeds, and great by blood,
  Rest here, says he, nor trust the rapid flood;
  It solid oaks has from its margin tore,
  And rocky fragments down its current bore,
  The murmur hoarse, and terrible the roar.
  
  Oft have I seen herds with their shelt'ring fold
  Forc'd from the banks, and in the torrent roul'd;
  Nor strength the bulky steer from ruin freed,
  Nor matchless swiftness sav'd the racing steed.
  
  In cataracts when the dissolving snow
  Falls from the hills, and floods the plains below;
  Toss'd by the eddies with a giddy round,
  Strong youths are in the sucking whirlpools
  drown'd.
  
  'Tis best with me in safety to abide,
  'Till usual bounds restrain the ebbing tide,
  And the low waters in their channel glide.
  
  Theseus perswaded, in compliance bow'd:
  So kind an offer, and advice so good,
  O Achelous, cannot be refus'd;
  I'll use them both, said he; and both he us'd.
  
  The grot he enter'd, pumice built the hall,
  And tophi made the rustick of the wall;
  The floor, soft moss, an humid carpet spread,
  And various shells the chequer'd roof inlaid.
  
  'Twas now the hour when the declining sun
  Two thirds had of his daily journey run;
  At the spread table Theseus took his place,
  Next his companions in the daring chace;
  Perithous here, there elder Lelex lay,
  His locks betraying age with sprinkled grey.
  
  Acharnia's river-God dispos'd the rest,
  Grac'd with the equal honour of the feast,
  Elate with joy, and proud of such a guest.
  
  The nymphs were waiters, and with naked feet
  In order serv'd the courses of the meat.
  
  The banquet done, delicious wine they brought,
  Of one transparent gem the cup was wrought.
  
  Then the great heroe of this gallant train,
  Surveying far the prospect of the main:
  What is that land, says he, the waves embrace?
  
  (And with his finger pointed at the place);
  Is it one parted isle which stands alone?
  
  How nam'd?
  
  and yet methinks it seems not one.
  
  To whom the watry God made this reply;
  'Tis not one isle, but five; distinct they lye;
  'Tis distance which deceives the cheated eye.
  
  But that Diana's act may seem less strange,
  These once proud Naiads were, before their change.
  
  'Twas on a day more solemn than the rest,
  Ten bullocks slain, a sacrificial feast:
  The rural Gods of all the region near
  They bid to dance, and taste the hallow'd cheer.
  
  Me they forgot: affronted with the slight,
  My rage, and stream swell'd to the greatest height;
  And with the torrent of my flooding store,
  Large woods from woods, and fields from fields I
  tore.
  
  The guilty nymphs, oh! then, remembring me,
  I, with their country, wash'd into the sea;
  And joining waters with the social main,
  Rent the gross land, and split the firm champagne.
  
  Since, the Echinades, remote from shore
  Are view'd as many isles, as nymphs before.
  
  Perimele        But yonder far, lo, yonder does appear
  turn'd into    An isle, a part to me for ever dear.
  
  an Island     From that (it sailors Perimele name)
  I doating, forc'd by rape a virgin's fame.
  
  Hippodamas's passion grew so strong,
  Gall'd with th' abuse, and fretted at the wrong,
  He cast his pregnant daughter from a rock;
  I spread my waves beneath, and broke the shock;
  And as her swimming weight my stream convey'd,
  I su'd for help divine, and thus I pray'd:
  O pow'rful thou, whose trident does command
  The realm of waters, which surround the land;
  We sacred rivers, wheresoe'er begun,
  End in thy lot, and to thy empire run.
  
  With favour hear, and help with present aid;
  Her whom I bear 'twas guilty I betray'd.
  
  Yet if her father had been just, or mild,
  He would have been less impious to his child;
  In her, have pity'd force in the abuse;
  In me, admitted love for my excuse.
  
  O let relief for her hard case be found,
  Her, whom paternal rage expell'd from ground,
  Her, whom paternal rage relentless drown'd.
  
  Grant her some place, or change her to a place,
  Which I may ever clasp with my embrace.
  
  His nodding head the sea's great ruler bent,
  And all his waters shook with his assent.
  
  The nymph still swam, tho' with the fright
  distrest,
  I felt her heart leap trembling in her breast;
  But hardning soon, whilst I her pulse explore,
  A crusting Earth cas'd her stiff body o'er;
  And as accretions of new-cleaving soil
  Inlarg'd the mass, the nymph became an isle.
  
  The Story of      Thus Achelous ends: his audience hear
  Baucis and     With admiration, and admiring, fear
  Philemon      The Pow'rs of Heav'n; except Ixion's Son,
  Who laugh'd at all the Gods, believ'd in none:
  He shook his impious head, and thus replies.
  
  These legends are no more than pious lies:
  You attribute too much to heav'nly sway,
  To think they give us forms, and take away.
  
  The rest of better minds, their sense declar'd
  Against this doctrine, and with horror heard.
  
  Then Lelex rose, an old experienc'd man,
  And thus with sober gravity began;
  Heav'n's pow'r is infinite: Earth, Air, and Sea,
  The manufacture mass, the making Pow'r obey:
  By proof to clear your doubt; in Phrygian ground
  Two neighb'ring trees, with walls encompass'd
  round,
  Stand on a mod'rate rise, with wonder shown,
  One a hard oak, a softer linden one:
  I saw the place, and them, by Pittheus sent
  To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government.
  
  Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt
  Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant:
  Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise
  Of mortal men conceal'd their deities;
  One laid aside his thunder, one his rod;
  And many toilsome steps together trod:
  For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd,
  Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd.
  
  At last an hospitable house they found,
  A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground,
  Was thatch'd with reeds, and straw, together bound.
  
  There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there
  Had liv'd long marry'd, and a happy pair:
  Now old in love, though little was their store,
  Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore,
  Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor.
  
  For master, or for servant here to call,
  Was all alike, where only two were all.
  
  Command was none, where equal love was paid,
  Or rather both commanded, both obey'd.
  
  From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before,
  Now stooping, enter'd through the little door:
  The man (their hearty welcome first express'd)
  A common settle drew for either guest,
  Inviting each his weary limbs to rest.
  
  But ere they sate, officious Baucis lays
  Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the seat to raise;
  Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes the load
  Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad
  The living coals; and, lest they should expire,
  With leaves, and bark she feeds her infant fire:
  It smoaks; and then with trembling breath she
  blows,
  'Till in a chearful blaze the flames arose.
  
  With brush-wood, and with chips she strengthens
  these,
  And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees.
  
  The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on
  (Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone),
  Next took the coleworts which her husband got
  From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot);
  She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the
  best
  She cull'd, and them with handy care she drest.
  
  High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung;
  Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong,
  And from the sooty rafter drew it down,
  Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one;
  Yet a large portion of a little store,
  Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more.
  
  This in the pot he plung'd without delay,
  To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away.
  
  The time beween, before the fire they sat,
  And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat.
  
  A beam there was, on which a beechen pail
  Hung by the handle, on a driven nail:
  This fill'd with water, gently warm'd, they set
  Before their guests; in this they bath'd their
  feet,
  And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat.
  
  This done, the host produc'd the genial bed,
  Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted,
  Which with no costly coverlet they spread,
  But coarse old garments; yet such robes as these
  They laid alone, at feasts, on holidays.
  
  The good old housewife, tucking up her gown,
  The table sets; th' invited Gods lie down.
  
  The trivet-table of a foot was lame,
  A blot which prudent Baucis overcame,
  Who thrusts beneath the limping leg a sherd,
  So was the mended board exactly rear'd:
  Then rubb'd it o'er with newly gather'd mint,
  A wholsom herb, that breath'd a grateful scent.
  
  Pallas began the feast, where first was seen
  The party-colour'd olive, black, and green:
  Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd,
  In lees of wine well pickled, and preserv'd.
  
  A garden-sallad was the third supply,
  Of endive, radishes, and succory:
  Then curds, and cream, the flow'r of country fare,
  And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busie care
  Turn'd by a gentle fire, and roasted rare.
  
  All these in earthen ware were serv'd to board;
  And next in place, an earthen pitcher stor'd,
  With liquor of the best the cottage could afford.
  
  This was the table's ornament and pride,
  With figures wrought: like pages at his side
  Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean,
  Varnish'd with wax without, and lin'd within.
  
  By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd,
  And to the table sent the smoaking lard;
  On which with eager appetite they dine,
  A sav'ry bit, that serv'd to relish wine:
  The wine itself was suiting to the rest,
  Still working in the must, and lately press'd.
  
  The second course succeeds like that before,
  Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store
  Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkled dates were set
  In canisters, t' enlarge the little treat:
  All these a milk-white honey-comb surround,
  Which in the midst the country-banquet crown'd:
  But the kind hosts their entertainment grace
  With hearty welcome, and an open face:
  In all they did, you might discern with ease,
  A willing mind, and a desire to please.
  
  Mean-time the beechen bowls went round, and
  still,
  Though often empty'd, were observ'd to fill;
  Fill'd without hands, and of their own accord
  Ran without feet, and danc'd about the board.
  
  Devotion seiz'd the pair, to see the feast
  With wine, and of no common grape, increas'd;
  And up they held their hands, and fell to pray'r,
  Excusing, as they could, their country fare.
  
  One goose they had ('twas all they could allow),
  A wakeful centry, and on duty now,
  Whom to the Gods for sacrifice they vow:
  Her with malicious zeal the couple view'd;
  She ran for life, and limping they pursu'd:
  Full well the fowl perceiv'd their bad intent,
  And would not make her master's compliment;
  But persecuted, to the Pow'rs she flies,
  And close between the legs of Jove she lies:
  He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard,
  And sav'd her life; then what he has declar'd,
  And own'd the God.
  
  The neighbourhood, said he,
  Shall justly perish for impiety:
  You stand alone exempted; but obey
  With speed, and follow where we lead the way:
  Leave these accurs'd; and to the mountain's height
  Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight.
  
  They haste, and what their tardy feet deny'd,
  The trusty staff (their better leg) supply'd.
  
  An arrow's flight they wanted to the top,
  And there secure, but spent with travel, stop;
  Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes;
  Lost in a lake the floated level lies:
  A watry desart covers all the plains,
  Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains.
  
  Wondring, with weeping eyes, while they deplore
  Their neighbours' fate, and country now no more,
  Their little shed, scarce large enough for two,
  Seems, from the ground increas'd, in height and
  bulk to grow.
  
  A stately temple shoots within the skies,
  The crotches of their cot in columns rise:
  The pavement polish'd marble they behold,
  The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and
  tiles of gold.
  
  Then thus the sire of Gods, with looks serene,
  Speak thy desire, thou only just of men;
  And thou, o woman, only worthy found
  To be with such a man in marriage bound.
  
  A-while they whisper; then, to Jove address'd,
  Philemon thus prefers their joint request:
  We crave to serve before your sacred shrine,
  And offer at your altars rites divine:
  And since not any action of our life
  Has been polluted with domestick strife;
  We beg one hour of death, that neither she
  With widow's tears may live to bury me,
  Nor weeping I, with wither'd arms may bear
  My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher.
  
  The Godheads sign their suit.
  
  They run their race
  In the same tenour all th' appointed space:
  Then, when their hour was come, while they relate
  These past adventures at the temple gate,
  Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen
  Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green:
  Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood,
  And saw his lengthen'd arms a sprouting wood:
  New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind,
  Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind:
  Then, ere the bark above their shoulders grew,
  They give, and take at once their last adieu.
  
  At once, Farewell, o faithful spouse, they said;
  At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips
  invade.
  
  Ev'n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows
  A spreading oak, that near a linden grows;
  The neighbourhood confirm the prodigy,
  Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie.
  
  I saw my self the garlands on their boughs,
  And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows;
  And off'ring fresher up, with pious pray'r,
  The good, said I, are God's peculiar care,
  And such as honour Heav'n, shall heav'nly honour
  share.
  
  The Changes of     He ceas'd in his relation to proceed,
  Proteus      Whilst all admir'd the author, and the deed;
  But Theseus most, inquisitive to know
  From Gods what wondrous alterations grow.
  
  Whom thus the Calydonian stream address'd,
  Rais'd high to speak, the couch his elbow press'd.
  
  Some, when transform'd, fix in the lasting change;
  Some with more right, thro' various figures range.
  
  Proteus, thus large thy privilege was found,
  Thou inmate of the seas, which Earth surround.
  
  Sometimes a bloming youth you grac'd the shore;
  Oft a fierce lion, or a furious boar:
  With glist'ning spires now seem'd an hissing snake,
  The bold would tremble in his hands to take:
  With horns assum'd a bull; sometimes you prov'd
  A tree by roots, a stone by weight unmov'd:
  Sometimes two wav'ring contraries became,
  Flow'd down in water, or aspir'd in flame.
  
  The Story of      In various shapes thus to deceive the eyes,
  Erisichthon    Without a settled stint of her disguise,
  Rash Erisichthon's daughter had the pow'r,
  And brought it to Autolicus in dow'r.
  
  Her atheist sire the slighted Gods defy'd,
  And ritual honours to their shrines deny'd.
  
  As fame reports, his hand an ax sustain'd,
  Which Ceres' consecrated grove prophan'd;
  Which durst the venerable gloom invade,
  And violate with light the awful shade.
  
  An ancient oak in the dark center stood,
  The covert's glory, and itself a wood:
  Garlands embrac'd its shaft, and from the boughs
  Hung tablets, monuments of prosp'rous vows.
  
  In the cool dusk its unpierc'd verdure spread,
  The Dryads oft their hallow'd dances led;
  And oft, when round their gaging arms they cast,
  Full fifteen ells it measu'rd in the waste:
  Its height all under standards did surpass,
  As they aspir'd above the humbler grass.
  
  These motives, which would gentler minds
  restrain,
  Could not make Triope's bold son abstain;
  He sternly charg'd his slaves with strict decree,
  To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree.
  
  But whilst they, lingring, his commands delay'd,
  He snatch'd an Ax, and thus blaspheming said:
  Was this no oak, nor Ceres' favourite care,
  But Ceres' self, this arm, unaw'd, shou'd dare
  Its leafy honours in the dust to spread,
  And level with the earth its airy head.
  
  He spoke, and as he poiz'd a slanting stroak,
  Sighs heav'd, and tremblings shook the frighted
  oak;
  Its leaves look'd sickly, pale its acorns grew,
  And its long branches sweat a chilly dew.
  
  But when his impious hand a wound bestow'd,
  Blood from the mangled bark in currents flow'd.
  
  When a devoted bull of mighty size,
  A sinning nation's grand atonement, dies;
  With such a plenty from the spouting veins,
  A crimson stream the turfy altars stains.
  
  The wonder all amaz'd; yet one more bold,
  The fact dissuading, strove his ax to hold.
  
  But the Thessalian, obstinately bent,
  Too proud to change, too harden'd to repent,
  On his kind monitor, his eyes, which burn'd
  With rage, and with his eyes his weapon turn'd;
  Take the reward, says he, of pious dread:
  Then with a blow lopp'd off his parted head.
  
  No longer check'd, the wretch his crime pursu'd,
  Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew'd;
  When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard,
  A Dryad I, by Ceres' love preferr'd,
  Within the circle of this clasping rind
  Coeval grew, and now in ruin join'd;
  But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue,
  And death is chear'd with this prophetick view.
  
  At last the oak with cords enforc'd to bow,
  Strain'd from the top, and sap'd with wounds below,
  The humbler wood, partaker of its fate,
  Crush'd with its fall, and shiver'd with its
  weight.
  
  The grove destroy'd, the sister Dryads moan,
  Griev'd at its loss, and frighted at their own.
  
  Strait, suppliants for revenge to Ceres go,
  In sable weeds, expressive of their woe.
  
  The beauteous Goddess with a graceful air
  Bow'd in consent, and nodded to their pray'r.
  
  The awful motion shook the fruitful ground,
  And wav'd the fields with golden harvests crown'd.
  
  Soon she contriv'd in her projecting mind
  A plague severe, and piteous in its kind
  (If plagues for crimes of such presumptuous height
  Could pity in the softest breast create).
  
  With pinching want, and hunger's keenest smart,
  To tear his vitals, and corrode his heart.
  
  But since her near approach by Fate's deny'd
  To famine, and broad climes their pow'rs divide,
  A nymph, the mountain's ranger, she address'd,
  And thus resolv'd, her high commands express'd.
  
  The Description    Where frozen Scythia's utmost bound is plac'd,
  of Famine     A desart lies, a melancholy waste:
  In yellow crops there Nature never smil'd,
  No fruitful tree to shade the barren wild.
  
  There sluggish cold its icy station makes,
  There paleness, frights, and aguish trembling
  shakes,
  Of pining famine this the fated seat,
  To whom my orders in these words repeat:
  Bid her this miscreant with her sharpest pains
  Chastise, and sheath herself into his veins;
  Be unsubdu'd by plenty's baffled store,
  Reject my empire, and defeat my pow'r.
  
  And lest the distance, and the tedious way,
  Should with the toil, and long fatigue dismay,
  Ascend my chariot, and convey'd on high,
  Guide the rein'd dragons thro' the parting sky.
  
  The nymph, accepting of the granted carr,
  Sprung to the seat, and posted thro' the air;
  Nor stop'd 'till she to a bleak mountain came
  Of wondrous height, and Caucasus its name.
  
  There in a stony field the fiend she found,
  Herbs gnawing, and roots scratching from the
  ground.
  
  Her elfelock hair in matted tresses grew,
  Sunk were her eyes, and pale her ghastly hue,
  Wan were her lips, and foul with clammy glew.
  
  Her throat was furr'd, her guts appear'd within
  With snaky crawlings thro' her parchment skin.
  
  Her jutting hips seem'd starting from their place,
  And for a belly was a belly's space,
  Her dugs hung dangling from her craggy spine,
  Loose to her breast, and fasten'd to her chine.
  
  Her joints protuberant by leanness grown,
  Consumption sunk the flesh, and rais'd the bone.
  
  Her knees large orbits bunch'd to monstrous size,
  And ancles to undue proportion rise.
  
  This plague the nymph, not daring to draw near,
  At distance hail'd, and greeted from afar.
  
  And tho' she told her charge without delay,
  Tho' her arrival late, and short her stay,
  She felt keen famine, or she seem'd to feel,
  Invade her blood, and on her vitals steal.
  
  She turn'd, from the infection to remove,
  And back to Thessaly the serpents drove.
  
  The fiend obey'd the Goddess' command
  (Tho' their effects in opposition stand),
  She cut her way, supported by the wind,
  And reach'd the mansion by the nymph assign'd.
  
  'Twas night, when entring Erisichthon's room,
  Dissolv'd in sleep, and thoughtless of his doom,
  She clasp'd his limbs, by impious labour tir'd,
  With battish wings, but her whole self inspir'd;
  Breath'd on his throat and chest a tainting blast,
  And in his veins infus'd an endless fast.
  
  The task dispatch'd, away the Fury flies
  From plenteous regions, and from rip'ning skies;
  To her old barren north she wings her speed,
  And cottages distress'd with pinching need.
  
  Still slumbers Erisichthon's senses drown,
  And sooth his fancy with their softest down.
  
  He dreams of viands delicate to eat,
  And revels on imaginary meat,
  Chaws with his working mouth, but chaws in vain,
  And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain;
  Deludes his throat with visionary fare,
  Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air.
  
  The morning came, the night, and slumbers past,
  But still the furious pangs of hunger last;
  The cank'rous rage still gnaws with griping pains,
  Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns.
  
  Strait he requires, impatient in demand,
  Provisions from the air, the seas, the land.
  
  But tho' the land, air, seas, provisions grant,
  Starves at full tables, and complains of want.
  
  What to a people might in dole be paid,
  Or victual cities for a long blockade,
  Could not one wolfish appetite asswage;
  For glutting nourishment increas'd its rage.
  
  As rivers pour'd from ev'ry distant shore,
  The sea insatiate drinks, and thirsts for more;
  Or as the fire, which all materials burns,
  And wasted forests into ashes turns,
  Grows more voracious, as the more it preys,
  Recruits dilate the flame, and spread the blaze:
  So impious Erisichthon's hunger raves,
  Receives refreshments, and refreshments craves.
  
  Food raises a desire for food, and meat
  Is but a new provocative to eat.
  
  He grows more empty, as the more supply'd,
  And endless cramming but extends the void.
  
  The          Now riches hoarded by paternal care
  Transformations  Were sunk, the glutton swallowing up the heir.
  
  of         Yet the devouring flame no stores abate,
  Erisichthon's   Nor less his hunger grew with his estate.
  
  Daughter      One daughter left, as left his keen desire,
  A daughter worthy of a better sire:
  Her too he sold, spent Nature to sustain;
  She scorn'd a lord with generous disdain,
  And flying, spread her hand upon the main.
  
  Then pray'd: Grant, thou, I bondage may escape,
  And with my liberty reward thy rape;
  Repay my virgin treasure with thy aid
  ('Twas Neptune who deflower'd the beauteous maid).
  
  The God was mov'd, at what the fair had su'd,
  When she so lately by her master view'd
  In her known figure, on a sudden took
  A fisher's habit, and a manly look.
  
  To whom her owner hasted to enquire;
  O thou, said he, whose baits hide treach'rous wire;
  Whose art can manage, and experienc'd skill
  The taper angle, and the bobbing quill,
  So may the sea be ruffled with no storm,
  But smooth with calms, as you the truth inform;
  So your deceit may no shy fishes feel,
  'Till struck, and fasten'd on the bearded steel.
  
  Did not you standing view upon the strand,
  A wand'ring maid?
  
  I'm sure I saw her stand;
  Her hair disorder'd, and her homely dress
  Betray'd her want, and witness'd her distress.
  
  Me heedless, she reply'd, whoe'er you are,
  Excuse, attentive to another care.
  
  I settled on the deep my steady eye;
  Fix'd on my float, and bent on my employ.
  
  And that you may not doubt what I impart,
  So may the ocean's God assist my art,
  If on the beach since I my sport pursu'd,
  Or man, or woman but my self I view'd.
  
  Back o'er the sands, deluded, he withdrew,
  Whilst she for her old form put off her new.
  
  Her sire her shifting pow'r to change perceiv'd;
  And various chapmen by her sale deceiv'd.
  
  A fowl with spangled plumes, a brinded steer,
  Sometimes a crested mare, or antler'd deer:
  Sold for a price, she parted, to maintain
  Her starving parent with dishonest gain.
  
  At last all means, as all provisions, fail'd;
  For the disease by remedies prevail'd;
  His muscles with a furious bite he tore,
  Gorg'd his own tatter'd flesh, and gulph'd his
  gore.
  
  Wounds were his feast, his life to life a prey,
  Supporting Nature by its own decay.
  
  But foreign stories why shou'd I relate?
  
  I too my self can to new forms translate,
  Tho' the variety's not unconfin'd,
  But fix'd, in number, and restrain'd in kind:
  For often I this present shape retain,
  Oft curl a snake the volumes of my train.
  
  Sometimes my strength into my horns transfer'd,
  A bull I march, the captain of the herd.
  
  But whilst I once those goring weapons wore,
  Vast wresting force one from my forehead tore.
  
  Lo, my maim'd brows the injury still own;
  He ceas'd; his words concluding with a groan.
  
  The End of the Eighth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Eleventh Read Poem Log in to favourite

  HERE, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain
  Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing
  plain,
  The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,
  In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad,
  Warbling in air perceiv'd his lovely lay,
  And from a rising ground beheld him play.
  
  When one, the wildest, with dishevel'd hair,
  That loosely stream'd, and ruffled in the air;
  Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy'd,
  See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry'd.
  
  Then at his face her missive javelin sent,
  Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went;
  But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round,
  Prevent a deep impression of the wound.
  
  Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone,
  Which, by the sound subdu'd as soon as thrown,
  Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense
  Implores his pardon for its late offence.
  
  The Death of      But now their frantick rage unbounded grows,
  Orpheus      Turns all to madness, and no measure knows:
  Yet this the charms of musick might subdue,
  But that, with all its charms, is conquer'd too;
  In louder strains their hideous yellings rise,
  And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro' the skies,
  Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound
  The moving lyre, and ev'ry gentle sound:
  Then 'twas the deafen'd stones flew on with speed,
  And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful poet bleed.
  
  The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew
  Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew,
  Now, by the female mob's more furious rage,
  Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady stage.
  
  Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail,
  Nor can his song against their wrath prevail:
  They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight,
  By day they chase the boding fowl of night.
  
  So crowded amphitheatres survey
  The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey.
  
  Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine
  Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine,
  For sacred rites of mild religion made,
  Are flung promiscuous at the poet's head.
  
  Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these
  Hurl prickly branches sliver'd from the trees.
  
  And, lest their passion shou'd be unsupply'd,
  The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy'd
  Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke,
  The fallow'd field with slow advances broke;
  Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil,
  Procuring food with long laborious toil.
  
  These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near,
  Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear.
  
  Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found,
  Carelesly left upon the broken ground.
  
  With these the furious lunaticks engage,
  And first the lab'ring oxen feel their rage;
  Then to the poet they return with speed,
  Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed:
  In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain
  He tries, before, his never-failing strain.
  
  And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound
  Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou'd wound,
  Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight!
  To see the fleeting soul now take its flight.
  
  Thee the soft warblers of the feather'd kind
  Bewail'd; for thee thy savage audience pin'd;
  Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led,
  Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead;
  And drooping trees their leafy glories shed.
  
  Naids and Dryads with dishevel'd hair
  Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear;
  Nor cou'd the river-Gods conceal their moan,
  But with new floods of tears augment their own.
  
  His mangled limbs lay scatter'd all around,
  His head, and harp a better fortune found;
  In Hebrus' streams they gently roul'd along,
  And sooth'd the waters with a mournful song.
  
  Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire,
  A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre;
  The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn,
  And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return.
  
  Now with the current to the sea they glide,
  Born by the billows of the briny tide;
  And driv'n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar,
  They strand, and lodge upon Methymna's shore.
  
  But here, when landed on the foreign soil,
  A venom'd snake, the product of the isle
  Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru'd
  With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood.
  
  Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives,
  And from the fact the greedy monster drives:
  Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone,
  Still grinning ghastly, tho' transform'd to stone.
  
  His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore,
  And knows the places it had seen before:
  Among the shadows of the pious train
  He finds Eurydice, and loves again;
  With pleasure views the beauteous phantom's charms,
  And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms.
  
  There side by side they unmolested walk,
  Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk;
  Aft or before the bard securely goes,
  And, without danger, can review his spouse.
  
  The Thracian      Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong,
  Women       Of Orpheus murder'd, on the madding throng,
  transform'd to   Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand
  Trees       Fix'd by the roots along the conscious land.
  
  Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran
  To wreak their malice on the guiltless man,
  Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound,
  Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground.
  
  And, as the fowler with his subtle gins,
  His feather'd captives by the feet entwines,
  That flutt'ring pant, and struggle to get loose,
  Yet only closer draw the fatal noose;
  So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain
  To quit the place, they but encreas'd their pain.
  
  They flounce and toil, yet find themselves
  controul'd;
  The root, tho' pliant, toughly keeps its hold.
  
  In vain their toes and feet they look to find,
  For ev'n their shapely legs are cloath'd with rind.
  
  One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke,
  And finds the flesh transform'd to solid oak;
  Another, with surprize, and grief distrest,
  Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast.
  
  A rugged bark their softer neck invades,
  Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades;
  At once they seem, and are, a real grove,
  With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above.
  
  The Fable of      Nor this suffic'd; the God's disgust remains,
  Midas       And he resolves to quit their hated plains;
  The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care,
  And, with a better choir, he fixes there;
  Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll'd,
  Then undistinguish'd for its sands of gold.
  
  The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng,
  Come to salute their God, and jovial danc'd along.
  
  Silenus only miss'd; for while he reel'd,
  Feeble with age, and wine, about the field,
  The hoary drunkard had forgot his way,
  And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey;
  Who to king Midas drag the captive God,
  While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod.
  
  Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore,
  And knew the rites of Bacchus long before.
  
  He, when he saw his venerable guest,
  In honour of the God ordain'd a feast.
  
  Ten days in course, with each continu'd night,
  Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight:
  Then on th' eleventh, when with brighter ray
  Phosphor had chac'd the fading stars away,
  The king thro' Lydia's fields young Bacchus sought,
  And to the God his foster-father brought.
  
  Pleas'd with the welcome sight, he bids him soon
  But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon.
  
  A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow'd
  On him whose choice so little judgment show'd.
  
  Give me, says he (nor thought he ask'd too much),
  That with my body whatsoe'er I touch,
  Chang'd from the nature which it held of old,
  May be converted into yellow gold.
  
  He had his wish; but yet the God repin'd,
  To think the fool no better wish could find.
  
  But the brave king departed from the place,
  With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face:
  Nor could contain, but, as he took his way,
  Impatient longs to make the first essay.
  
  Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,
  The twig strait glitter'd with a golden hue:
  He takes a stone, the stone was turn'd to gold;
  A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold
  Acknowledg'd soon the great transforming pow'r,
  In weight and substance like a mass of ore.
  
  He pluck'd the corn, and strait his grasp appears
  Fill'd with a bending tuft of golden ears.
  
  An apple next he takes, and seems to hold
  The bright Hesperian vegetable gold.
  
  His hand he careless on a pillar lays.
  
  With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze:
  And while he washes, as the servants pour,
  His touch converts the stream to Danae's show'r.
  
  To see these miracles so finely wrought,
  Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought.
  
  The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board,
  Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord;
  Whose pow'rful hands the bread no sooner hold,
  But its whole substance is transform'd to gold:
  Up to his mouth he lifts the sav'ry meat,
  Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat:
  His patron's noble juice of purple hue,
  Touch'd by his lips, a gilded cordial grew;
  Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold,
  It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold.
  
  The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize,
  Starving in all his various plenty lies:
  Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow'r,
  For which he ask'd so earnestly before;
  Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst;
  And justly tortur'd with an equal thirst.
  
  At last his shining arms to Heav'n he rears,
  And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray'rs.
  
  O father Bacchus, I have sinn'd, he cry'd,
  And foolishly thy gracious gift apply'd;
  Thy pity now, repenting, I implore;
  Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more.
  
  The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest,
  Touch'd the kind deity's good-natur'd breast;
  The gentle God annull'd his first decree,
  And from the cruel compact set him free.
  
  But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm,
  And to dilute the relicks of the charm,
  He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land
  Nigh where the tow'rs of Lydian Sardis stand;
  Then trace the river to the fountain head,
  And meet it rising from its rocky bed;
  There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain,
  To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain.
  
  The king instructed to the fount retires,
  But with the golden charm the stream inspires:
  For while this quality the man forsakes,
  An equal pow'r the limpid water takes;
  Informs with veins of gold the neighb'ring land,
  And glides along a bed of golden sand.
  
  Now loathing wealth, th' occasion of his woes,
  Far in the woods he sought a calm repose;
  In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort,
  And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court.
  
  Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind!
  But his condition alter'd not his mind.
  
  For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow,
  And from his cliffs surveys the seas below,
  In his descent, by Sardis bounded here,
  By the small confines of Hypaepa there,
  Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play'd,
  Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer'd shade.
  
  The nymphs are pleas'd, the boasting sylvan plays,
  And speaks with slight of great Apollo's lays.
  
  Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still
  Accepts the tryal with unequal skill.
  
  The venerable judge was seated high
  On his own hill, that seem'd to touch the sky.
  
  Above the whisp'ring trees his head he rears,
  From their encumbring boughs to free his ears;
  A wreath of oak alone his temples bound,
  The pendant acorns loosely dangled round.
  
  In me your judge, says he, there's no delay:
  Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play.
  
  Pan tun'd the pipe, and with his rural song
  Pleas'd the low taste of all the vulgar throng;
  Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please,
  Midas was there, and Midas judg'd with these.
  
  The mountain sire with grave deportment now
  To Phoebus turns his venerable brow:
  And, as he turns, with him the listning wood
  In the same posture of attention stood.
  
  The God his own Parnassian laurel crown'd,
  And in a wreath his golden tresses bound,
  Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground.
  
  High on the left his iv'ry lute he rais'd,
  The lute, emboss'd with glitt'ring jewels, blaz'd
  In his right hand he nicely held the quill,
  His easy posture spoke a master's skill.
  
  The strings he touch'd with more than human art,
  Which pleas'd the judge's ear, and sooth'd his
  heart;
  Who soon judiciously the palm decreed,
  And to the lute postpon'd the squeaking reed.
  
  All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard,
  Midas alone dissatisfy'd appear'd;
  To him unjustly giv'n the judgment seems,
  For Pan's barbarick notes he most esteems.
  
  The lyrick God, who thought his untun'd ear
  Deserv'd but ill a human form to wear,
  Of that deprives him, and supplies the place
  With some more fit, and of an ampler space:
  Fix'd on his noddle an unseemly pair,
  Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair;
  Without a total change from what he was,
  Still in the man preserves the simple ass.
  
  He, to conceal the scandal of the deed,
  A purple turbant folds about his head;
  Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears
  The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears.
  
  One trusty barber-slave, that us'd to dress
  His master's hair, when lengthen'd to excess,
  The mighty secret knew, but knew alone,
  And, tho' impatient, durst not make it known.
  
  Restless, at last, a private place he found,
  Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground;
  In a low whisper he reveal'd the case,
  And cover'd in the earth, and silent left the
  place.
  
  In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop
  From the confided furrow sprouted up;
  Which, high advancing with the ripening year,
  Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care:
  For then the rustling blades, and whisp'ring wind,
  To tell th' important secret, both combin'd.
  
  The Building of    Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies,
  Troy        Darts thro' the air, and cleaves the liquid skies;
  Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains
  Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns;
  Where, built between the two projecting strands,
  To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands.
  
  Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ,
  To found the lofty tow'rs of future Troy.
  
  The work, from schemes magnificent begun,
  At vast expence was slowly carry'd on:
  Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God
  Who rules the swelling surges with his nod,
  Assuming each a mortal shape, combine
  At a set price to finish his design.
  
  The work was built; the king their price denies,
  And his injustice backs with perjuries.
  
  This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the main,
  A mighty deluge, o'er the Phrygian plain:
  'Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep
  From ev'ry vale the copious harvest sweep;
  The briny billows overflow the soil,
  Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman's toil.
  
  Nor this appeas'd the God's revengeful mind,
  For still a greater plague remains behind;
  A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands,
  And the king's daughter for his prey demands.
  
  To him that sav'd the damsel, was decreed
  A set of horses of the Sun's fine breed:
  But when Alcides from the rock unty'd
  The trembling fair, the ransom was deny'd.
  
  He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack'd,
  And the twice-perjur'd city bravely sack'd.
  
  Telamon aided, and in justice shar'd
  Part of the plunder as his due reward:
  The princess, rescu'd late, with all her charms,
  Hesione, was yielded to his arms;
  For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more
  Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before:
  Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one,
  But he the Goddess had enjoy'd alone.
  
  The Story of      For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said,
  Thetis and     Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed,
  Peleus       And take some spritely lover to your bed.
  
  A son you'll have, the terror of the field,
  To whom in fame, and pow'r his sire shall yield.
  
  Jove, who ador'd the nymph with boundless love,
  Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove.
  
  He knew the Fates, nor car'd to raise up one,
  Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own,
  On happy Peleus he bestow'd her charms,
  And bless'd his grandson in the Goddess' arms:
  A silent creek Thessalia's coast can show;
  Two arms project, and shape it like a bow;
  'Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide
  Does scarce the yellow-gravell'd bottom hide;
  For the quick eye may thro' the liquid wave
  A firm unweedy level beach perceive.
  
  A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows,
  Whose boughs, tho' thick, a beauteous grot
  disclose;
  The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes,
  Rather by art than Nature seems to rise.
  
  A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore
  To this her lov'd retreat, her fav'rite shore.
  
  Here Peleus seiz'd her, slumbring while she lay,
  And urg'd his suit with all that love could say:
  But when he found her obstinately coy,
  Resolv'd to force her, and command the joy;
  The nymph, o'erpowr'd, to art for succour flies
  And various shapes the eager youth surprize:
  A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain,
  His hands the fleeting substance still detain:
  A branchy tree high in the air she grew;
  About its bark his nimble arms he threw:
  A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes;
  The frighten'd lover quits his hold, and flies:
  The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores,
  Then a libation on the ocean pours;
  While the fat entrails crackle in the fire,
  And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire;
  'Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed,
  Thus to the poor desponding lover said:
  No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ,
  For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy.
  
  You must once more th' unwary nymph surprize,
  As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies;
  Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands,
  And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands.
  
  Still hold her under ev'ry different shape,
  'Till tir'd she tries no longer to escape.
  
  Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood,
  And broken accents flutter'd, where he stood.
  
  Bright Sol had almost now his journey done,
  And down the steepy western convex run;
  When the fair Nereid left the briny wave,
  And, as she us'd, retreated to her cave.
  
  He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose,
  And into various shapes her body throws:
  She went to move her arms, and found 'em ty'd;
  Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry'd,
  And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side.
  
  About her waiste his longing arms he flung,
  From which embrace the great Achilles sprung.
  
  The        Peleus unmix'd felicity enjoy'd
  Transformation   (Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride),
  of Daedalion    'Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue,
  And his own brother by curst chance he slew:
  Then driv'n from Thessaly, his native clime,
  Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime;
  Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill'd the throne,
  And like his sire, the morning planet, shone;
  But now, unlike himself, bedew'd with tears,
  Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears.
  
  First to the town with travel spent, and care,
  Peleus, and his small company repair:
  His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed,
  On the rich pasture of a neighb'ring mead.
  
  The prince before the royal presence brought,
  Shew'd by the suppliant olive what he sought;
  Then tells his name, and race, and country right,
  But hides th' unhappy reason of his flight.
  
  He begs the king some little town to give,
  Where they may safe his faithful vassals live.
  
  Ceyx reply'd: To all my bounty flows,
  A hospitable realm your suit has chose.
  
  Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame,
  And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim.
  
  All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare;
  My kingdom (would 'twere worth the sharing) share.
  
  Tears stop'd his speech: astonish'd Peleus pleads
  To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds.
  
  The prince reply'd: There's none of ye but deems
  This hawk was ever such as now it seems;
  Know 'twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam'd,
  For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam'd;
  Like me to that bright luminary born,
  Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn.
  
  His fierceness still remains, and love of blood,
  Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood.
  
  My make was softer, peace my greatest care;
  But this my brother wholly bent on war;
  Late nations fear'd, and routed armies fled
  That force, which now the tim'rous pigeons dread.
  
  A daughter he possess'd, divinely fair,
  And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year;
  Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove
  To win the maid, and teach her how to love.
  
  Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day
  From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way;
  Together they the virgin saw: desire
  At once warm'd both their breasts with am'rous
  fire.
  
  Phoebus resolv'd to wait 'till close of day;
  But Mercury's hot love brook'd no delay;
  With his entrancing rod the maid he charms,
  And unresisted revels in her arms.
  
  'Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam's dress,
  To the late rifled beauty got access.
  
  Her time compleat nine circling moons had run;
  To either God she bore a lovely son:
  To Mercury Autolycus she brought,
  Who turn'd to thefts and tricks his subtle thought;
  Possess'd he was of all his father's slight,
  At will made white look black, and black look
  white.
  
  Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire,
  The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the lyre,
  And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire.
  
  In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth,
  The love of Gods, and royal father's worth,
  And Jove among your ancestors rehearse!
  Could blessings such as these e'er prove a curse?
  
  To her they did, who with audacious pride,
  Vain of her own, Diana's charms decry'd.
  
  Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill;
  My face you like not, you shall try my skill.
  
  She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung,
  And sent a shaft that pierc'd her guilty tongue:
  The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries;
  In the red stream her soul reluctant flies.
  
  With sorrow wild I ran to her relief,
  And try'd to moderate my brother's grief.
  
  He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat,
  Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat.
  
  When on the fun'ral pile he saw her laid,
  Thrice he to rush into the flames assay'd,
  Thrice with officious care by us was stay'd.
  
  Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain,
  Like a stung heifer that resents the pain,
  And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain.
  
  O'er the most rugged ways so fast he ran,
  He seem'd a bird already, not a man:
  He left us breathless all behind; and now
  In quest of death had gain'd Parnassus' brow:
  But when from thence headlong himself he threw,
  He fell not, but with airy pinions flew.
  
  Phoebus in pity chang'd him to a fowl,
  Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul,
  Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul.
  
  A hawk become, the feather'd race's foe,
  He tries to case his own by other's woe.
  
  A Wolf turn'd     While they astonish'd heard the king relate
  into Marble    These wonders of his hapless brother's fate;
  The prince's herdsman at the court arrives,
  And fresh surprize to all the audience gives.
  
  O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear,
  He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear.
  
  The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell,
  Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal.
  
  Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav'n had gain'd,
  And half his way was past, and half remain'd,
  I to the level shore my cattle drove,
  And let them freely in the meadows rove.
  
  Some stretch'd at length admire the watry plain,
  Some crop'd the herb, some wanton swam the main.
  
  A temple stands of antique make hard by,
  Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye;
  Unpolish'd rafters bear its lowly height,
  Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight.
  
  Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore;
  I learnt it from the man who thither bore
  His net, to dry it on the sunny shore.
  
  Adjoyns a lake, inclos'd with willows round,
  Where swelling waves have overflow'd the mound,
  And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground.
  
  From thence a russling noise increasing flies,
  Strikes the still shore; and frights us with
  surprize,
  Strait a huge wolf rush'd from the marshy wood,
  His jaws besmear'd with mingled foam, and blood,
  Tho' equally by hunger urg'd, and rage,
  His appetite he minds not to asswage;
  Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares,
  But the whole herd with mad disorder tears.
  
  Some of our men who strove to drive him thence,
  Torn by his teeth, have dy'd in their defence.
  
  The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore,
  Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore.
  
  Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought;
  While yet some few remain alive, we ought
  To seize our arms, and with confederate force
  Try if we so can stop his bloody course.
  
  But Peleus car'd not for his ruin'd herd;
  His crime he call'd to mind, and thence inferr'd,
  That Psamathe's revenge this havock made,
  In sacrifice to murder'd Phocus' shade.
  
  The king commands his servants to their arms;
  Resolv'd to go; but the loud noise alarms
  His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew,
  And her half-plaited hair behind her threw:
  About his neck she hung with loving fears,
  And now with words, and now with pleading tears,
  Intreated that he'd send his men alone,
  And stay himself, to save two lives in one.
  
  Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget;
  Too much the offer leaves me in your debt.
  
  No arms against the monster I shall bear,
  But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray'r.
  
  The citadel's high turrets pierce the sky,
  Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry;
  This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken
  The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men;
  Th' inexorable ravager they view,
  With blood discolour'd, still the rest pursue:
  There Peleus pray'd submissive tow'rds the sea,
  And deprecates the ire of injur'd Psamathe.
  
  But deaf to all his pray'rs the nymph remain'd,
  'Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain'd.
  
  Pleas'd with the luxury, the furious beast,
  Unstop'd, continues still his bloody feast:
  While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew,
  Chang'd by the nymph, a marble block he grew.
  
  No longer dreadful now the wolf appears,
  Bury'd in stone, and vanish'd like their fears.
  
  Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex'd;
  To the Magnesian shore he wanders next.
  
  Acastus there, who rul'd the peaceful clime,
  Grants his request, and expiates his crime.
  
  The Story of      These prodigies affect the pious prince,
  Ceyx and      But more perplex'd with those that happen'd since,
  Alcyone      He purposes to seek the Clarian God,
  Avoiding Delphi, his more fam'd abode,
  Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road.
  
  Yet could he not from her he lov'd so well,
  The fatal voyage, he resolv'd, conceal;
  But when she saw her lord prepar'd to part,
  A deadly cold ran shiv'ring to her heart;
  Her faded cheeks are chang'd to boxen hue,
  And in her eyes the tears are ever new.
  
  She thrice essay'd to speak; her accents hung,
  And falt'ring dy'd unfinish'd on her tongue,
  And vanish'd into sighs: with long delay
  Her voice return'd, and found the wonted way.
  
  Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown
  Thy once belov'd Alcyone has done?
  
  Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone!
  Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife,
  And unconcern'd forsake the sweets of life?
  
  What can thy mind to this long journey move?
  
  Or need'st thou absence to renew thy love?
  
  Yet, if thou go'st by land, tho' grief possess
  My soul ev'n then, my fears will be the less.
  
  But ah! be warn'd to shun the watry way,
  The face is frightful of the stormy sea:
  For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks,
  And empty tombs erected on the banks.
  
  Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind,
  Because my sire in caves constrains the wind,
  Can with a breath their clam'rous rage appease,
  They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas:
  Not so; for once indulg'd, they sweep the main;
  Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain;
  But bent on mischief bear the waves before,
  And not content with seas, insult the shore,
  When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage,
  And rooted forests fly before their rage:
  At once the clashing clouds to battel move,
  And lightnings run across the fields above:
  I know them well, and mark'd their rude comport,
  While yet a child within my father's court:
  In times of tempest they command alone,
  And he but sits precarious on the throne:
  The more I know, the more my fears augment;
  And fears are oft prophetick of th' event.
  
  But if not fears, or reasons will prevail,
  If Fate has fix'd thee obstinate to sail,
  Go not without thy wife, but let me bear
  My part of danger with an equal share,
  And present, what I suffer only fear:
  Then o'er the bounding billows shall we fly,
  Secure to live together, or to die.
  
  These reasons mov'd her warlike husband's heart,
  But still he held his purpose to depart:
  For as he lov'd her equal to his life,
  He would not to the seas expose his wife;
  Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain,
  But sought by arguments to sooth her pain:
  Nor these avail'd; at length he lights on one,
  With which so difficult a cause he won:
  My love, so short an absence cease to fear,
  For by my father's holy flame I swear,
  Before two moons their orb with light adorn,
  If Heav'n allow me life, I will return.
  
  This promise of so short a stay prevails;
  He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails,
  And gives the word to launch; she trembling views
  This pomp of death, and parting tears renews:
  Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel,
  Sigh'd with a sad presage, and swooning fell:
  While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew,
  Rais'd on their banks, their oars in order drew
  To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew.
  
  The queen recover'd, rears her humid eyes,
  And first her husband on the poop espies,
  Shaking his hand at distance on the main;
  She took the sign, and shook her hand again.
  
  Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view
  With sharpen'd sight, 'till she no longer knew
  The much-lov'd face; that comfort lost supplies
  With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes;
  The galley born from view by rising gales,
  She follow'd with her sight the flying sails:
  When ev'n the flying sails were seen no more,
  Forsaken of all sight she left the shore.
  
  Then on her bridal bed her body throws,
  And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close:
  Her husband's pillow, and the widow'd part
  Which once he press'd, renew'd the former smart.
  
  And now a breeze from shoar began to blow,
  The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row;
  Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails
  Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales:
  By this the vessel half her course had run,
  Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close
  Of day a stiffer gale at east arose:
  The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far,
  Like heralds, first denounce the watry war.
  
  This seen, the master soon began to cry,
  Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet
  fly,
  And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound,
  And in the speaker's mouth the speech is drown'd.
  
  Yet of their own accord, as danger taught
  Each in his way, officiously they wrought;
  Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides,
  Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides,
  And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves
  Th' intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves.
  
  In this confusion while their work they ply,
  The winds augment the winter of the sky,
  And wage intestine wars; the suff'ring seas
  Are toss'd, and mingled, as their tyrants please.
  
  The master would command, but in despair
  Of safety, stands amaz'd with stupid care,
  Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows,
  Th' ungovern'd tempest to such fury grows:
  Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill;
  With such a concourse comes the flood of ill;
  The cries of men are mix'd with rattling shrowds;
  Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds:
  At once from east to west, from pole to pole,
  The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders
  roul.
  
  Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies,
  And in the fires above the water fries:
  When yellow sands are sifted from below,
  The glittering billows give a golden show:
  And when the fouler bottom spews the black
  The Stygian dye the tainted waters take:
  Then frothy white appear the flatted seas,
  And change their colour, changing their disease,
  Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds,
  And now sublime, she rides upon the winds;
  As from a lofty summit looks from high,
  And from the clouds beholds the nether sky;
  Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight,
  And at a distance see superior light;
  The lashing billows make a loud report,
  And beat her sides, as batt'ring rams a fort:
  Or as a lion bounding in his way,
  With force augmented, bears against his prey,
  Sidelong to seize; or unapal'd with fear,
  Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear:
  So seas impell'd by winds, with added pow'r
  Assault the sides, and o'er the hatches tow'r.
  
  The planks (their pitchy cov'ring wash'd away)
  Now yield; and now a yawning breach display:
  The roaring waters with a hostile tide
  Rush through the ruins of her gaping side.
  
  Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends,
  And ocean swell'd with waters upwards tends;
  One rising, falling one, the Heav'ns and sea
  Meet at their confines, in the middle way:
  The sails are drunk with show'rs, and drop with
  rain,
  Sweet waters mingle with the briny main.
  
  No star appears to lend his friendly light;
  Darkness, and tempest make a double night;
  But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns,
  And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns.
  
  Now all the waves their scatter'd force unite,
  And as a soldier foremost in the fight,
  Makes way for others, and an host alone
  Still presses on, and urging gains the town;
  So while th' invading billows come a-breast,
  The hero tenth advanc'd before the rest,
  Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway,
  And from the walls descends upon the prey;
  Part following enter, part remain without,
  With envy hear their fellows' conqu'ring shout,
  And mount on others' backs, in hopes to share
  The city, thus become the seat of war.
  
  An universal cry resounds aloud,
  The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd;
  Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near;
  As many waves, as many deaths appear.
  
  One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief;
  One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief,
  But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate:
  One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate,
  And calls those happy whom their fun'rals wait.
  
  This wretch with pray'rs and vows the Gods
  implores,
  And ev'n the skies he cannot see, adores.
  
  That other on his friends his thoughts bestows,
  His careful father, and his faithful spouse.
  
  The covetous worldling in his anxious mind,
  Thinks only on the wealth he left behind.
  
  All Ceyx his Alcyone employs,
  For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys:
  His wife he wishes, and would still be near,
  Not her with him, but wishes him with her:
  Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar,
  Which Fate has destin'd him to see no more;
  He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night
  He knew not whither to direct his sight.
  
  So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky,
  That the black night receives a deeper dye.
  
  The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore
  Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore.
  
  One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow,
  Proud of her conquest gain'd, insults the waves
  below;
  Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore
  Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore,
  And toss'd on seas; press'd with the pond'rous
  blow,
  Down sinks the ship within th' abyss below:
  Down with the vessel sink into the main
  The many, never more to rise again.
  
  Some few on scatter'd planks, with fruitless care,
  Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair.
  
  Ev'n he who late a scepter did command,
  Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand;
  And while he struggles on the stormy main,
  Invokes his father, and his wife's, in vain.
  
  But yet his consort is his greatest care,
  Alcyone he names amidst his pray'r;
  Names as a charm against the waves and wind;
  Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind.
  
  Tir'd with his toil, all hopes of safety past,
  From pray'rs to wishes he descends at last;
  That his dead body, wafted to the sands,
  Might have its burial from her friendly hands,
  As oft as he can catch a gulp of air,
  And peep above the seas, he names the fair;
  And ev'n when plung'd beneath, on her he raves,
  Murm'ring Alcyone below the waves:
  At last a falling billow stops his breath,
  Breaks o'er his head, and whelms him underneath.
  
  That night, his heav'nly form obscur'd with tears,
  And since he was forbid to leave the skies,
  He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes.
  
  Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown)
  Computes how many nights he had been gone.
  
  Observes the waining moon with hourly view,
  Numbers her age, and wishes for a new;
  Against the promis'd time provides with care,
  And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear:
  And for her self employs another loom,
  New-dress'd to meet her lord returning home,
  Flatt'ring her heart with joys, that never were to
  come:
  She fum'd the temples with an od'rous flame,
  And oft before the sacred altars came,
  To pray for him, who was an empty name.
  
  All Pow'rs implor'd, but far above the rest
  To Juno she her pious vows address'd,
  Her much-lov'd lord from perils to protect,
  And safe o'er seas his voyage to direct:
  Then pray'd, that she might still possess his
  heart,
  And no pretending rival share a part;
  This last petition heard of all her pray'r,
  The rest, dispers'd by winds, were lost in air.
  
  But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed,
  Tir'd with her vain devotions for the dead,
  Resolv'd the tainted hand should be repell'd,
  Which incense offer'd, and her altar held:
  Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid,
  By whom thy queen's commands are well convey'd,
  Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God
  Who rules the night by visions with a nod,
  Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form
  Resembling him, who perish'd in the storm;
  This form before Alcyone present,
  To make her certain of the sad event.
  
  Indu'd with robes of various hue she flies,
  And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies):
  Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep
  Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.
  
  The House of      Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode,
  Sleep       Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God;
  Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,
  Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;
  But lazy vapours round the region fly,
  Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky:
  No crowing cock does there his wings display,
  Nor with his horny bill provoke the day;
  Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
  Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace;
  Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh,
  Nor trees with tempests rock'd, nor human cry;
  But safe repose without an air of breath
  Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.
  
  An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow
  Arising upwards from the rock below,
  The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,
  And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
  
  Around its entry nodding poppies grow,
  And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
  Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
  And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:
  No door there was th' unguarded house to keep,
  On creaking hinges turn'd, to break his sleep.
  
  But in the gloomy court was rais'd a bed,
  Stuff'd with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted:
  Black was the cov'ring too, where lay the God,
  And slept supine, his limbs display'd abroad:
  About his head fantastick visions fly,
  Which various images of things supply,
  And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more,
  Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the
  shore.
  
  The virgin ent'ring bright, indulg'd the day
  To the brown cave, and brush'd the dreams away:
  The God disturb'd with this new glare of light,
  Cast sudden on his face, unseal'd his sight,
  And rais'd his tardy head, which sunk again,
  And sinking, on his bosom knock'd his chin;
  At length shook off himself, and ask'd the dame,
  (And asking yawn'd) for what intent she came.
  
  To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest,
  Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow'rs the best!
  O peace of mind, repairer of decay,
  Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day,
  Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies
  away!
  Adorn a dream, expressing human form,
  The shape of him who suffer'd in the storm,
  And send it flitting to the Trachin court,
  The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report:
  Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand,
  Who begs a vain relief at Juno's hand.
  
  She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep,
  Unable to support the fumes of sleep;
  But fled, returning by the way she went,
  And swerv'd along her bow with swift ascent.
  
  The God, uneasy 'till he slept again,
  Resolv'd at once to rid himself of pain;
  And, tho' against his custom, call'd aloud,
  Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd:
  Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express'd
  The shape of man, and imitated best;
  The walk, the words, the gesture could supply,
  The habit mimick, and the mein bely;
  Plays well, but all his action is confin'd,
  Extending not beyond our human kind.
  
  Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes,
  And dreadful images, and monster shapes:
  This demon, Icelos, in Heav'n's high hall
  The Gods have nam'd; but men Phobetor call.
  
  A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul
  On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul;
  Earth, fruits, and flow'rs he represents in dreams,
  And solid rocks unmov'd, and running streams.
  
  These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes
  display,
  The rest before th' ignoble commons play.
  
  Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch'd;
  Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch'd,
  Down from his propping elbow drops his head,
  Dissolv'd in sleep, and shrinks within his bed.
  
  Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar'd,
  So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard.
  
  To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade,
  Thro' air his momentary journey made:
  Then lays aside the steerage of his wings,
  Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king's;
  And pale, as death, despoil'd of his array,
  Into the queen's apartment takes his way,
  And stands before the bed at dawn of day:
  Unmov'd his eyes, and wet his beard appears;
  And shedding vain, but seeming real tears;
  The briny waters dropping from his hairs.
  
  Then staring on her with a ghastly look,
  And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke.
  
  Know'st thou not me?
  
  Not yet, unhappy wife?
  
  Or are my features perish'd with my life?
  
  Look once again, and for thy husband lost,
  Lo all that's left of him, thy husband's ghost!
  Thy vows for my return were all in vain,
  The stormy south o'ertook us in the main,
  And never shalt thou see thy living lord again.
  
  Bear witness, Heav'n, I call'd on thee in death,
  And while I call'd, a billow stop'd my breath.
  
  Think not, that flying fame reports my fate;
  I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate.
  
  Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor'd
  Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford;
  But rise, prepar'd in black, to mourn thy perish'd
  lord.
  
  Thus said the player-God; and adding art
  Of voice and gesture, so perform'd his part,
  She thought (so like her love the shade appears)
  That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears;
  She groan'd, her inward soul with grief opprest,
  She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast;
  Then stretch'd her arms t' embrace his body bare;
  Her clasping arms inclose but empty air:
  At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay;
  One is our fate, and common is our way!
  So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke,
  That starting sudden up, the slumber broke:
  Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view
  Her vanish'd lord, and find the vision true:
  For now the maids, who waited her commands,
  Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands.
  
  Tir'd with the search, not finding what she seeks,
  With cruel blows she pounds her blubber'd cheeks;
  Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare,
  And cut the golden caul that bound her hair.
  
  Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries
  She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies.
  
  No more Alcyone; she suffer'd death
  With her lov'd lord, when Ceyx lost his breath:
  No flatt'ry, no false comfort, give me none,
  My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone:
  I saw, I saw him manifest in view,
  His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew:
  His lustre lost, and ev'ry living grace,
  Yet I retain'd the features of his face;
  Tho' with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping
  hair,
  None but my Ceyx could appear so fair:
  I would have strain'd him with a strict embrace,
  But thro' my arms he slipt, and vanish'd from the
  place:
  There, ev'n just there he stood; and as she spoke,
  Where last the spectre was she cast her look:
  Fain would she hope, and gaz'd upon the ground,
  If any printed footsteps might be found.
  
  Then sigh'd, and said: This I too well foreknew,
  And my prophetick fears presag'd too true:
  'Twas what I begg'd, when with a bleeding heart
  I took my leave, and suffer'd thee to part;
  Or I to go along, or thou to stay,
  Never, ah never to divide our way!
  Happier for me, that all our hours assign'd
  Together we had liv'd; ev'n not in death disjoin'd!
  So had my Ceyx still been living here,
  Or with my Ceyx I had perish'd there:
  Now I die absent, in the vast profound;
  And me, without my self, the seas have drown'd.
  
  The storms were not so cruel: should I strive
  To lengthen life, and such a grief survive;
  But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee
  In death forsake, but keep thee company.
  
  If not one common sepulchre contains
  Our bodies, or one urn our last remains,
  Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,
  Their names remember'd in one common line.
  
  No farther voice her mighty grief affords,
  For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words,
  And stop'd her tongue; but what her tongue deny'd,
  Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints
  supply'd.
  
  'Twas morning; to the port she takes her way,
  And stands upon the margin of the sea:
  That place, that very spot of ground she sought,
  Or thither by her destiny was brought,
  Where last he stood: and while she sadly said,
  'Twas here he left me, lingring here delay'd
  His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh'd.
  
  Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions
  trace,
  And call to mind, admonish'd by the place,
  Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes,
  And somewhat floating from afar descries:
  It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight,
  But at a distance who could judge aright?
  
  It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew,
  That what before she but surmis'd, was true:
  A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown,
  Yet mov'd, howe'er, she made the cause her own.
  
  Took the bad omen of a shipwreck'd man,
  As for a stranger wept, and thus began.
  
  Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life,
  Unhappy thou, but more thy widow'd wife;
  At this she paus'd: for now the flowing tide
  Had brought the body nearer to the side:
  The more she looks, the more her fears increase,
  At nearer sight; and she's her self the less:
  Now driv'n ashore, and at her feet it lies,
  She knows too much in knowing whom she sees:
  Her husband's corps; at this she loudly shrieks,
  'Tis he, 'tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks,
  Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands,
  About his neck she cast her trembling hands.
  
  And is it thus, o dearer than my life,
  Thus, thus return'st thou to thy longing wife!
  She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode,
  (Rais'd there to break th' incursions of the
  flood).
  
  Headlong from hence to plunge her self she
  springs,
  But shoots along, supported on her wings;
  A bird new-made, about the banks she plies,
  Not far from shore, and short excursions tries;
  Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise,
  Content to skim the surface of the seas:
  Her bill tho' slender, sends a creaking noise,
  And imitates a lamentable voice.
  
  Now lighting where the bloodless body lies,
  She with a fun'ral note renews her cries:
  At all her stretch, her little wings she spread,
  And with her feather'd arms embrac'd the dead:
  Then flick'ring to his palid lips, she strove
  To print a kiss, the last essay of love.
  
  Whether the vital touch reviv'd the dead,
  Or that the moving waters rais'd his head
  To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone;
  For sure a present miracle was shown.
  
  The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate,
  But both obnoxious to their former fate.
  
  Their conjugal affection still is ty'd,
  And still the mournful race is multiply'd:
  They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress'd,
  Sev'n days sits brooding on her floating nest:
  A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind,
  Calms ev'ry storm, and hushes ev'ry wind;
  Prepares his empire for his daughter's ease,
  And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas.
  
  Aesacus        These some old man sees wanton in the air,
  transform'd    And praises the unhappy constant pair.
  
  into a       Then to his friend the long-neck'd corm'rant shows,
  Cormorant     The former tale reviving others' woes:
  That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood
  With slender legs, was once of royal blood;
  His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed,
  The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede
  (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy),
  And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy:
  Himself was Hector's brother, and (had Fate
  But giv'n this hopeful youth a longer date)
  Perhaps had rival'd warlike Hector's worth,
  Tho' on the mother's side of meaner birth;
  Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid,
  Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida's shade.
  
  He fled the noisy town, and pompous court,
  Lov'd the lone hills, and simple rural sport.
  
  And seldom to the city would resort.
  
  Yet he no rustick clownishness profest,
  Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast:
  The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo'd,
  Oft thro' the thicket, or the mead pursu'd:
  Her haply on her father's bank he spy'd,
  While fearless she her silver tresses dry'd;
  Away she fled: not stags with half such speed,
  Before the prowling wolf, scud o'er the mead;
  Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake,
  Pursu'd by hawks, so swift regain the lake.
  
  As fast he follow'd in the hot career;
  Desire the lover wing'd, the virgin fear.
  
  A snake unseen now pierc'd her heedless foot;
  Quick thro' the veins the venom'd juices shoot:
  She fell, and 'scap'd by death his fierce pursuit;
  Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac'd,
  And cry'd, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste:
  O had my love been less, or less thy fear!
  The victory, thus bought, is far too dear.
  
  Accursed snake! yet I more curs'd than he!
  He gave the wound; the cause was given by me.
  
  Yet none shall say, that unreveng'd you dy'd.
  
  He spoke; then climb'd a cliff's o'er-hanging side,
  And, resolute, leap'd on the foaming tide.
  
  Tethys receiv'd him gently on the wave;
  The death he sought deny'd, and feathers gave.
  
  Debarr'd the surest remedy of grief,
  And forc'd to live, he curst th' unask'd relief.
  
  Then on his airy pinions upward flies,
  And at a second fall successless tries;
  The downy plume a quick descent denies.
  
  Enrag'd, he often dives beneath the wave,
  And there in vain expects to find a grave.
  
  His ceaseless sorrow for th' unhappy maid,
  Meager'd his look, and on his spirits prey'd.
  
  Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name
  From frequent diving and emerging came.
  
  The End of the Eleventh Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Fifth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  WHILE Perseus entertain'd with this report
  His father Cepheus, and the list'ning court,
  Within the palace walls was heard aloud
  The roaring noise of some unruly crowd;
  Not like the songs which chearful friends prepare
  For nuptial days, but sounds that threaten'd war;
  And all the pleasures of this happy feast,
  To tumult turn'd, in wild disorder ceas'd:
  So, when the sea is calm, we often find
  A storm rais'd sudden by some furious wind.
  
  The Story of      Chief in the riot Phineus first appear'd,
  Perseus      The rash ringleader of this boist'rous herd,
  continu'd     And brandishing his brazen-pointed lance,
  Behold, he said, an injur'd man advance,
  Stung with resentment for his ravish'd wife,
  Nor shall thy wings, o Perseus, save thy life;
  Nor Jove himself; tho' we've been often told
  Who got thee in the form of tempting gold.
  
  His lance was aim'd, when Cepheus ran, and said,
  Hold, brother, hold; what brutal rage has made
  Your frantick mind so black a crime conceive?
  
  Are these the thanks that you to Perseus give?
  
  This the reward that to his worth you pay,
  Whose timely valour sav'd Andromeda?
  
  Nor was it he, if you would reason right,
  That forc'd her from you, but the jealous spight
  Of envious Nereids, and Jove's high decree;
  And that devouring monster of the sea,
  That ready with his jaws wide gaping stood
  To eat my child, the fairest of my blood.
  
  You lost her then, when she seem'd past relief,
  And wish'd perhaps her death, to ease your grief
  With my afflictions: not content to view
  Andromeda in chains, unhelp'd by you,
  Her spouse, and uncle; will you grieve that he
  Expos'd his life the dying maid to free?
  
  And shall you claim his merit?
  
  Had you thought
  Her charms so great, you shou'd have bravely sought
  That blessing on the rocks, where fix'd she lay:
  But now let Perseus bear his prize away,
  By service gain'd, by promis'd faith possess'd;
  To him I owe it, that my age is bless'd
  Still with a child: Nor think that I prefer
  Perseus to thee, but to the loss of her.
  
  Phineus on him, and Perseus, roul'd about
  His eyes in silent rage, and seem'd to doubt
  Which to destroy; 'till, resolute at length,
  He threw his spear with the redoubled strength
  His fury gave him, and at Perseus struck;
  But missing Perseus, in his seat it stuck.
  
  Who, springing nimbly up, return'd the dart,
  And almost plung'd it in his rival's heart;
  But he for safety to the altar ran,
  Unfit protection for so vile a man;
  Yet was the stroke not vain, as Rhaetus found,
  Who in his brow receiv'd a mortal wound;
  Headlong he tumbled, when his skull was broke,
  From which his friends the fatal weapon took,
  While he lay trembling, and his gushing blood
  In crimson streams around the table flow'd.
  
  But this provok'd th' unruly rabble worse,
  They flung their darts, and some in loud discourse
  To death young Perseus, and the monarch doom;
  But Cepheus left before the guilty room,
  With grief appealing to the Gods above,
  Who laws of hospitality approve,
  Who faith protect, and succour injur'd right,
  That he was guiltless of this barb'rous fight.
  
  Pallas her brother Perseus close attends,
  And with her ample shield from harm defends,
  Raising a sprightly courage in his heart:
  But Indian Athis took the weaker part,
  Born in the chrystal grottoes of the sea,
  Limnate's son, a fenny nymph, and she
  Daughter of Ganges; graceful was his mein,
  His person lovely, and his age sixteen.
  
  His habit made his native beauty more;
  A purple mantle fring'd with gold he wore;
  His neck well-turn'd with golden chains was grac'd,
  His hair with myrrh perfum'd, was nicely dress'd.
  
  Tho' with just aim he cou'd the javelin throw,
  Yet with more skill he drew the bending bow;
  And now was drawing it with artful hand,
  When Perseus snatching up a flaming brand,
  Whirl'd sudden at his face the burning wood,
  Crush'd his eyes in, and quench'd the fire with
  blood;
  Thro' the soft skin the splinter'd bones appear,
  And spoil'd the face that lately was so fair.
  
  When Lycabas his Athis thus beheld,
  How was his heart with friendly horror fill'd!
  A youth so noble, to his soul so dear,
  To see his shapeless look, his dying groans to
  hear!
  He snatch'd the bow the boy was us'd to bend,
  And cry'd, With me, false traytor, dare contend;
  Boast not a conquest o'er a child, but try
  Thy strength with me, who all thy pow'rs defy;
  Nor think so mean an act a victory.
  
  While yet he spoke he flung the whizzing dart,
  Which pierc'd the plaited robe, but miss'd his
  heart:
  Perseus defy'd, upon him fiercely press'd
  With sword, unsheath'd, and plung'd it in his
  breast;
  His eyes o'erwhelm'd with night, he stumbling
  falls,
  And with his latest breath on Athis calls;
  Pleas'd that so near the lovely youth he lies,
  He sinks his head upon his friend, and dies.
  
  Next eager Phorbas, old Methion's son,
  Came rushing forward with Amphimedon;
  When the smooth pavement, slippery made with gore,
  Trip'd up their feet, and flung 'em on the floor;
  The sword of Perseus, who by chance was nigh,
  Prevents their rise, and where they fall, they lye:
  Full in his ribs Amphimedon he smote,
  And then stuck fiery Phorbas in the throat.
  
  Eurythus lifting up his ax, the blow
  Was thus prevented by his nimble foe;
  A golden cup he seizes, high embost,
  And at his head the massy goblet tost:
  It hits, and from his forehead bruis'd rebounds,
  And blood, and brains he vomits from his wounds;
  With his slain fellows on the floor he lies,
  And death for ever shuts his swimming eyes.
  
  Then Polydaemon fell, a Goddess-born;
  Phlegias, and Elycen with locks unshorn
  Next follow'd; next, the stroke of death he gave
  To Clytus, Abanis, and Lycetus brave;
  While o'er unnumber'd heaps of ghastly dead,
  The Argive heroe's feet triumphant tread.
  
  But Phineus stands aloof, and dreads to feel
  His rival's force, and flies his pointed steel:
  Yet threw a dart from far; by chance it lights
  On Idas, who for neither party fights;
  But wounded, sternly thus to Phineus said,
  Since of a neuter thou a foe hast made,
  This I return thee, drawing from his side
  The dart; which, as he strove to fling, he dy'd.
  
  Odites fell by Clymenus's sword,
  The Cephen court had not a greater lord.
  
  Hypseus his blade does in Protenor sheath,
  But brave Lyncides soon reveng'd his death.
  
  Here too was old Emathion, one that fear'd
  The Gods, and in the cause of Heav'n appear'd,
  Who only wishing the success of right,
  And, by his age, exempted from the fight,
  Both sides alike condemns: This impious war
  Cease, cease, he cries; these bloody broils
  forbear.
  
  This scarce the sage with high concern had said,
  When Chromis at a blow struck off his head,
  Which dropping, on the royal altar roul'd,
  Still staring on the crowd with aspect bold;
  And still it seem'd their horrid strife to blame,
  In life and death, his pious zeal the same;
  While clinging to the horns, the trunk expires,
  The sever'd head consumes amidst the fires.
  
  Then Phineus, who from far his javelin threw,
  Broteas and Ammon, twins and brothers, slew;
  For knotted gauntlets matchless in the field;
  But gauntlets must to swords and javelins yield.
  
  Ampycus next, with hallow'd fillets bound,
  As Ceres' priest, and with a mitre crown'd,
  His spear transfix'd, and struck him to the ground.
  
  O Iapetides, with pain I tell
  How you, sweet lyrist, in the riot fell;
  What worse than brutal rage his breast could fill,
  Who did thy blood, o bard celestial! spill?
  
  Kindly you press'd amid the princely throng,
  To crown the feast, and give the nuptial song:
  Discord abhorr'd the musick of thy lyre,
  Whose notes did gentle peace so well inspire;
  Thee, when fierce Pettalus far off espy'd,
  Defenceless with thy harp, he scoffing cry'd,
  Go; to the ghosts thy soothing lessons play;
  We loath thy lyre, and scorn thy peaceful lay:
  And, as again he fiercely bid him go,
  He pierc'd his temples with a mortal blow.
  
  His harp he held, tho' sinking on the ground,
  Whose strings in death his trembling fingers found
  By chance, and tun'd by chance a dying sound.
  
  With grief Lycormas saw him fall, from far,
  And, wresting from the door a massy bar,
  Full in his poll lays on a load of knocks,
  Which stun him, and he falls like a devoted ox.
  
  Another bar Pelates would have snach'd,
  But Corynthus his motions slily watch'd;
  He darts his weapon from a private stand,
  And rivets to the post his veiny hand:
  When strait a missive spear transfix'd his side,
  By Abas thrown, and as he hung, he dy'd.
  
  Melaneus on the prince's side was slain;
  And Dorylas, who own'd a fertile plain,
  Of Nasamonia's fields the wealthy lord,
  Whose crowded barns, could scarce contain their
  board.
  
  A whizzing spear obliquely gave a blow,
  Stuck in his groin, and pierc'd the nerves below;
  His foe behld his eyes convulsive roul,
  His ebbing veins, and his departing soul;
  Then taunting said, Of all thy spacious plain,
  This spot thy only property remains.
  
  He left him thus; but had no sooner left,
  Than Perseus in revenge his nostrils cleft;
  From his friend's breast the murd'ring dart he
  drew,
  And the same weapon at the murderer threw;
  His head in halves the darted javelin cut,
  And on each side the brain came issuing out.
  
  Fortune his friend, in deaths around he deals,
  And this his lance, and that his faulchion feels:
  Now Clytius dies; and by a diff'rent wound,
  The twin, his brother Clanis, bites the ground.
  
  In his rent jaw the bearded weapon sticks,
  And the steel'd dart does Clytius' thigh transfix.
  
  With these Mendesian Celadon he slew:
  And Astreus next, whose mother was a Jew,
  His sire uncertain: then by Perseus fell
  Aethion, who cou'd things to come foretell;
  But now he knows not whence the javelin flies
  That wounds his breast, nor by whose arm he dies.
  
  The squire to Phineus next his valour try'd,
  And fierce Agyrtes stain'd with paricide.
  
  As these are slain, fresh numbers still appear,
  And wage with Perseus an unequal war;
  To rob him of his right, the maid he won,
  By honour, promise, and desert his own.
  
  With him, the father of the beauteous bride,
  The mother, and the frighted virgin side;
  With shrieks, and doleful cries they rend the air:
  Their shrieks confounded with the din of war,
  With dashing arms, and groanings of the slain,
  They grieve unpitied, and unheard complain.
  
  The floor with ruddy streams Bellona stains,
  And Phineus a new war with double rage maintains.
  
  Perseus begirt, from all around they pour
  Their lances on him, a tempestuous show'r,
  Aim'd all at him; a cloud of darts, and spears,
  Or blind his eyes, or whistle round his ears.
  
  Their numbers to resist, against the wall
  He guards his back secure, and dares them all.
  
  Here from the left Molpeus renews the fight,
  And bold Ethemon presses on the right:
  As when a hungry tyger near him hears
  Two lowing herds, a-while he both forbears;
  Nor can his hopes of this, or that renounce,
  So strong he lusts to prey on both at once;
  Thus Perseus now with that, or this is loth
  To war distinct:, but fain would fall on both.
  
  And first Chaonian Molpeus felt his blow,
  And fled, and never after fac'd his foe;
  Then fierce Ethemon, as he turn'd his back,
  Hurried with fury, aiming at his neck,
  His brandish'd sword against the marble struck
  With all his might; the brittle weapon broke,
  And in his throat the point rebounding stuck.
  
  Too slight the wound for life to issue thence,
  And yet too great for battel, or defence;
  His arms extended in this piteous state,
  For mercy he wou'd sue, but sues too late;
  Perseus has in his bosom plung'd the sword,
  And, ere he speaks, the wound prevents the word.
  
  The crowds encreasing, and his friends
  distress'd,
  Himself by warring multitudes oppress'd:
  Since thus unequally you fight, 'tis time,
  He cry'd, to punish your presumptuous crime;
  Beware, my friends; his friends were soon prepar'd,
  Their sight averting, high the head he rear'd,
  And Gorgon on his foes severely star'd.
  
  Vain shift! says Thescelus, with aspect bold,
  Thee, and thy bugbear monster, I behold
  With scorn; he lifts his arm, but ere he threw
  The dart, the heroe to a statue grew.
  
  In the same posture still the marble stands,
  And holds the warrior's weapons in its hands.
  
  Amphyx, whom yet this wonder can't alarm,
  Heaves at Lyncides' breast his impious arm;
  But, while thus daringly he presses on,
  His weapon and his arm are turn'd to stone.
  
  Next Nileus, he who vainly said he ow'd
  His origin to Nile's prolifick flood;
  Who on his shield seven silver rivers bore,
  His birth to witness by the arms he wore;
  Full of his sev'n-fold father, thus express'd
  His boast to Perseus, and his pride confess'd:
  See whence we sprung; let this thy comfort be
  In thy sure death, that thou didst die by me.
  
  While yet he spoke, the dying accents hung
  In sounds imperfect on his marble tongue;
  Tho' chang'd to stone, his lips he seem'd to
  stretch,
  And thro' th' insensate rock wou'd force a speech.
  
  This Eryx saw, but seeing wou'd not own;
  The mischief by your selves, he cries, is done,
  'Tis your cold courage turns your hearts to stone.
  
  Come, follow me; fall on the stripling boy,
  Kill him, and you his magick arms destroy.
  
  Then rushing on, his arm to strike he rear'd,
  And marbled o'er his varied frame appear'd.
  
  These for affronting Pallas were chastis'd,
  And justly met the death they had despis'd.
  
  But brave Aconteus, Perseus' friend, by chance
  Look'd back, and met the Gorgon's fatal glance:
  A statue now become, he ghastly stares,
  And still the foe to mortal combat dares.
  
  Astyages the living likeness knew,
  On the dead stone with vengeful fury flew;
  But impotent his rage, the jarring blade
  No print upon the solid marble made:
  Again, as with redoubled might he struck,
  Himself astonish'd in the quarry stuck.
  
  The vulgar deaths 'twere tedious to rehearse,
  And fates below the dignity of verse;
  Their safety in their flight two hundred found,
  Two hundred, by Medusa's head were ston'd.
  
  Fierce Phineus now repents the wrongful fight,
  And views his varied friends, a dreadful sight;
  He knows their faces, for their help he sues,
  And thinks, not hearing him, that they refuse:
  By name he begs their succour, one by one,
  Then doubts their life, and feels the friendly
  stone.
  
  Struck with remorse, and conscious of his pride,
  Convict of sin, he turn'd his eyes aside;
  With suppliant mein to Perseus thus he prays,
  Hence with the head, as far as winds and seas
  Can bear thee; hence, o quit the Cephen shore,
  And never curse us with Medusa more,
  That horrid head, which stiffens into stone
  Those impious men who, daring death, look on.
  
  I warr'd not with thee out of hate or strife,
  My honest cause was to defend my wife,
  First pledg'd to me; what crime cou'd I suppose,
  To arm my friends, and vindicate my spouse?
  
  But vain, too late I see, was our design;
  Mine was the title, but the merit thine.
  
  Contending made me guilty, I confess;
  But penitence shou'd make that guilt the less:
  'Twas thine to conquer by Minerva's pow'r;
  Favour'd of Heav'n, thy mercy I implore;
  For life I sue; the rest to thee I yield;
  In pity, from my sight remove the shield.
  
  He suing said; nor durst revert his eyes
  On the grim head: and Perseus thus replies:
  Coward, what is in me to grant, I will,
  Nor blood, unworthy of my valour spill:
  Fear not to perish by my vengeful sword,
  From that secure; 'tis all the Fates afford.
  
  Where I now see thee, thou shalt still be seen,
  A lasting monument to please our queen;
  There still shall thy betroth'd behold her spouse,
  And find his image in her father's house.
  
  This said; where Phineus turn'd to shun the shield
  Full in his face the staring head he held;
  As here and there he strove to turn aside,
  The wonder wrought, the man was petrify'd:
  All marble was his frame, his humid eyes
  Drop'd tears, which hung upon the stone like ice.
  
  In suppliant posture, with uplifted hands,
  And fearful look, the guilty statue stands.
  
  Hence Perseus to his native city hies,
  Victorious, and rewarded with his prize.
  
  Conquest, o'er Praetus the usurper, won,
  He re-instates his grandsire in the throne.
  
  Praetus, his brother dispossess'd by might,
  His realm enjoy'd, and still detain'd his right:
  But Perseus pull'd the haughty tyrant down,
  And to the rightful king restor'd the throne.
  
  Weak was th' usurper, as his cause was wrong;
  Where Gorgon's head appears, what arms are strong?
  
  When Perseus to his host the monster held,
  They soon were statues, and their king expell'd.
  
  Thence, to Seriphus with the head he sails,
  Whose prince his story treats as idle tales:
  Lord of a little isle, he scorns to seem
  Too credulous, but laughs at that, and him.
  
  Yet did he not so much suspect the truth,
  As out of pride, or envy, hate the youth.
  
  The Argive prince, at his contempt enrag'd,
  To force his faith by fatal proof engag'd.
  
  Friends, shut your eyes, he cries; his shield he
  takes,
  And to the king expos'd Medusa's snakes.
  
  The monarch felt the pow'r he wou'd not own,
  And stood convict of folly in the stone.
  
  Minerva's       Thus far Minerva was content to rove
  Interview with   With Perseus, offspring of her father Jove:
  the Muses     Now, hid in clouds, Seriphus she forsook;
  And to the Theban tow'rs her journey took.
  
  Cythnos and Gyaros lying to the right,
  She pass'd unheeded in her eager flight;
  And chusing first on Helicon to rest,
  The virgin Muses in these words address'd:
  Me, the strange tidings of a new-found spring,
  Ye learned sisters, to this mountain bring.
  
  If all be true that Fame's wide rumours tell,
  'Twas Pegasus discover'd first your well;
  Whose piercing hoof gave the soft earth a blow,
  Which broke the surface where these waters flow.
  
  I saw that horse by miracle obtain
  Life, from the blood of dire Medusa slain;
  And now, this equal prodigy to view,
  From distant isles to fam'd Boeotia flew.
  
  The Muse Urania said, Whatever cause
  So great a Goddess to this mansion draws;
  Our shades are happy with so bright a guest,
  You, Queen, are welcome, and we Muses blest.
  
  What Fame has publish'd of our spring is true,
  Thanks for our spring to Pegasus are due.
  
  Then, with becoming courtesy, she led
  The curious stranger to their fountain's head;
  Who long survey'd, with wonder, and delight,
  Their sacred water, charming to the sight;
  Their ancient groves, dark grottos, shady bow'rs,
  And smiling plains adorn'd with various flow'rs.
  
  O happy Muses! she with rapture cry'd,
  Who, safe from cares, on this fair hill reside;
  Blest in your seat, and free your selves to please
  With joys of study, and with glorious ease.
  
  The Fate of      Then one replies: O Goddess, fit to guide
  Pyreneus      Our humble works, and in our choir preside,
  Who sure wou'd wisely to these fields repair,
  To taste our pleasures, and our labours share,
  Were not your virtue, and superior mind
  To higher arts, and nobler deeds inclin'd;
  Justly you praise our works, and pleasing seat,
  Which all might envy in this soft retreat,
  Were we secur'd from dangers, and from harms;
  But maids are frighten'd with the least alarms,
  And none are safe in this licentious time;
  Still fierce Pyreneus, and his daring crime,
  With lasting horror strikes my feeble sight,
  Nor is my mind recover'd from the fright.
  
  With Thracian arms this bold usurper gain'd
  Daulis, and Phocis, where he proudly reign'd:
  It happen'd once, as thro' his lands we went,
  For the bright temple of Parnassus bent,
  He met us there, and in his artful mind
  Hiding the faithless action he design'd,
  Confer'd on us (whom, oh! too well he knew)
  All honours that to Goddesses are due.
  
  Stop, stop, ye Muses, 'tis your friend who calls,
  The tyrant said; behold the rain that falls
  On ev'ry side, and that ill-boding sky,
  Whose lowring face portends more storms are nigh.
  
  Pray make my house your own, and void of fear,
  While this bad weather lasts, take shelter here.
  
  Gods have made meaner places their resort,
  And, for a cottage, left their shining court.
  
  Oblig'd to stop, by the united force
  Of pouring rains, and complaisant discourse,
  His courteous invitation we obey,
  And in his hall resolve a-while to stay.
  
  Soon it clear'd up; the clouds began to fly,
  The driving north refin'd the show'ry sky;
  Then to pursue our journey we began:
  But the false traitor to his portal ran,
  Stopt our escape, the door securely barr'd,
  And to our honour, violence prepar'd.
  
  But we, transform'd to birds, avoid his snare,
  On pinions rising in the yielding air.
  
  But he, by lust and indignation fir'd,
  Up to his highest tow'r with speed retir'd,
  And cries, In vain you from my arms withdrew,
  The way you go your lover will pursue.
  
  Then, in a flying posture wildly plac'd,
  And daring from that height himself to cast,
  The wretch fell headlong, and the ground bestrew'd
  With broken bones, and stains of guilty blood.
  
  The Story of      The Muse yet spoke; when they began to hear
  the Pierides    A noise of wings that flutter'd in the air;
  And strait a voice, from some high-spreading bough,
  Seem'd to salute the company below.
  
  The Goddess wonder'd, and inquir'd from whence
  That tongue was heard, that spoke so plainly sense
  (It seem'd to her a human voice to be,
  But prov'd a bird's; for in a shady tree
  Nine magpies perch'd lament their alter'd state,
  And, what they hear, are skilful to repeat).
  
  The sister to the wondring Goddess said,
  These, foil'd by us, by us were thus repaid.
  
  These did Evippe of Paeonia bring
  With nine hard labour-pangs to Pella's king.
  
  The foolish virgins of their number proud,
  And puff'd with praises of the senseless crowd,
  Thro' all Achaia, and th' Aemonian plains
  Defy'd us thus, to match their artless strains;
  No more, ye Thespian girls, your notes repeat,
  Nor with false harmony the vulgar cheat;
  In voice or skill, if you with us will vye,
  As many we, in voice or skill will try.
  
  Surrender you to us, if we excell,
  Fam'd Aganippe, and Medusa's well.
  
  The conquest yours, your prize from us shall be
  The Aemathian plains to snowy Paeone;
  The nymphs our judges.
  
  To dispute the field,
  We thought a shame; but greater shame to yield.
  
  On seats of living stone the sisters sit,
  And by the rivers swear to judge aright.
  
  The Song of      Then rises one of the presumptuous throng,
  the Pierides    Steps rudely forth, and first begins the song;
  With vain address describes the giants' wars,
  And to the Gods their fabled acts prefers.
  
  She sings, from Earth's dark womb how Typhon rose,
  And struck with mortal fear his heav'nly foes.
  
  How the Gods fled to Egypt's slimy soil,
  And hid their heads beneath the banks of Nile:
  How Typhon, from the conquer'd skies, pursu'd
  Their routed godheads to the sev'n-mouth'd flood;
  Forc'd every God, his fury to escape,
  Some beastly form to take, or earthly shape.
  
  Jove (so she sung) was chang'd into a ram,
  From whence the horns of Libyan Ammon came.
  
  Bacchus a goat, Apollo was a crow,
  Phaebe a cat; die wife of Jove a cow,
  Whose hue was whiter than the falling snow.
  
  Mercury to a nasty Ibis turn'd,
  The change obscene, afraid of Typhon, mourn'd;
  While Venus from a fish protection craves,
  And once more plunges in her native waves.
  
  She sung, and to her harp her voice apply'd;
  Then us again to match her they defy'd.
  
  But our poor song, perhaps, for you to hear,
  Nor leisure serves, nor is it worth your ear.
  
  That causeless doubt remove, O Muse rehearse,
  The Goddess cry'd, your ever-grateful verse.
  
  Beneath a chequer'd shade she takes her seat,
  And bids the sister her whole song repeat.
  
  The sister thus: Calliope we chose
  For the performance.
  
  The sweet virgin rose,
  With ivy crown'd she tunes her golden strings,
  And to her harp this composition sings.
  
  The Song of      First Ceres taught the lab'ring hind to plow
  the Muses     The pregnant Earth, and quickning seed to sow.
  
  She first for Man did wholsome food provide,
  And with just laws the wicked world supply'd:
  All good from her deriv'd, to her belong
  The grateful tributes of the Muse's song.
  
  Her more than worthy of our verse we deem,
  Oh! were our verse more worthy of the theme.
  
  Jove on the giant fair Trinacria hurl'd,
  And with one bolt reveng'd his starry world.
  
  Beneath her burning hills Tiphaeus lies,
  And, strugling always, strives in vain to rise.
  
  Down does Pelorus his right hand suppress
  Tow'rd Latium, on the left Pachyne weighs.
  
  His legs are under Lilybaeum spread,
  And Aetna presses hard his horrid head.
  
  On his broad back he there extended lies,
  And vomits clouds of ashes to the skies.
  
  Oft lab'ring with his load, at last he tires,
  And spews out in revenge a flood of fires.
  
  Mountains he struggles to o'erwhelm, and towns;
  Earth's inmost bowels quake, and Nature groans.
  
  His terrors reach the direful king of Hell;
  He fears his throws will to the day reveal
  The realms of night, and fright his trembling
  ghosts.
  
  This to prevent, he quits the Stygian coasts,
  In his black carr, by sooty horses drawn,
  Fair Sicily he seeks, and dreads the dawn.
  
  Around her plains he casts his eager eyes,
  And ev'ry mountain to the bottom tries.
  
  But when, in all the careful search, he saw
  No cause of fear, no ill-suspected flaw;
  Secure from harm, and wand'ring on at will,
  Venus beheld him from her flow'ry hill:
  When strait the dame her little Cupid prest
  With secret rapture to her snowy breast,
  And in these words the flutt'ring boy addrest.
  
  O thou, my arms, my glory, and my pow'r,
  My son, whom men, and deathless Gods adore;
  Bend thy sure bow, whose arrows never miss'd,
  No longer let Hell's king thy sway resist;
  Take him, while stragling from his dark abodes
  He coasts the kingdoms of superior Gods.
  
  If sovereign Jove, if Gods who rule the waves,
  And Neptune, who rules them, have been thy slaves;
  Shall Hell be free?
  
  The tyrant strike, my son,
  Enlarge thy mother's empire, and thy own.
  
  Let not our Heav'n be made the mock of Hell,
  But Pluto to confess thy pow'r compel.
  
  Our rule is slighted in our native skies,
  See Pallas, see Diana too defies
  Thy darts, which Ceres' daughter wou'd despise.
  
  She too our empire treats with aukward scorn;
  Such insolence no longer's to be born.
  
  Revenge our slighted reign, and with thy dart
  Transfix the virgin's to the uncle's heart.
  
  She said; and from his quiver strait he drew
  A dart that surely wou'd the business do.
  
  She guides his hand, she makes her touch the test,
  And of a thousand arrows chose the best:
  No feather better pois'd, a sharper head
  None had, and sooner none, and surer sped.
  
  He bends his bow, he draws it to his ear,
  Thro' Pluto's heart it drives, and fixes there.
  
  The Rape of      Near Enna's walls a spacious lake is spread,
  Proserpine     Fam'd for the sweetly-singing swans it bred;
  Pergusa is its name: and never more
  Were heard, or sweeter on Cayster's shore.
  
  Woods crown the lake; and Phoebus ne'er invades
  The tufted fences, or offends the shades:
  Fresh fragrant breezes fan the verdant bow'rs,
  And the moist ground smiles with enamel'd flow'rs
  The chearful birds their airy carols sing,
  And the whole year is one eternal spring.
  
  Here, while young Proserpine, among the maids,
  Diverts herself in these delicious shades;
  While like a child with busy speed and care
  She gathers lillies here, and vi'lets there;
  While first to fill her little lap she strives,
  Hell's grizly monarch at the shade arrives;
  Sees her thus sporting on the flow'ry green,
  And loves the blooming maid, as soon as seen.
  
  His urgent flame impatient of delay,
  Swift as his thought he seiz'd the beauteous prey,
  And bore her in his sooty carr away.
  
  The frighted Goddess to her mother cries,
  But all in vain, for now far off she flies;
  Far she behind her leaves her virgin train;
  To them too cries, and cries to them in vain,
  And, while with passion she repeats her call,
  The vi'lets from her lap, and lillies fall:
  She misses 'em, poor heart! and makes new moan;
  Her lillies, ah! are lost, her vi'lets gone.
  
  O'er hills, the ravisher, and vallies speeds,
  By name encouraging his foamy steeds;
  He rattles o'er their necks the rusty reins,
  And ruffles with the stroke their shaggy manes.
  
  O'er lakes he whirls his flying wheels, and comes
  To the Palici breathing sulph'rous fumes.
  
  And thence to where the Bacchiads of renown
  Between unequal havens built their town;
  Where Arethusa, round th' imprison'd sea,
  Extends her crooked coast to Cyane;
  The nymph who gave the neighb'ring lake a name,
  Of all Sicilian nymphs the first in fame,
  She from the waves advanc'd her beauteous head,
  The Goddess knew, and thus to Pluto said:
  Farther thou shalt not with the virgin run;
  Ceres unwilling, canst thou be her son?
  
  The maid shou'd be by sweet perswasion won.
  
  Force suits not with the softness of the fair;
  For, if great things with small I may compare,
  Me Anapis once lov'd; a milder course
  He took, and won me by his words, not force.
  
  Then, stretching out her arms, she stopt his way;
  But he, impatient of the shortest stay,
  Throws to his dreadful steeds the slacken'd rein,
  And strikes his iron sceptre thro' the main;
  The depths profound thro' yielding waves he
  cleaves,
  And to Hell's center a free passage leaves;
  Down sinks his chariot, and his realms of night
  The God soon reaches with a rapid flight.
  
  Cyane dissolves    But still does Cyane the rape bemoan,
  to a Fountain   And with the Goddess' wrongs laments her own;
  For the stoln maid, and for her injur'd spring,
  Time to her trouble no relief can bring.
  
  In her sad heart a heavy load she bears,
  'Till the dumb sorrow turns her all to tears.
  
  Her mingling waters with that fountain pass,
  Of which she late immortal Goddess was;
  Her varied members to a fluid melt,
  A pliant softness in her bones is felt;
  Her wavy locks first drop away in dew,
  And liquid next her slender fingers grew.
  
  The body's change soon seizes its extreme,
  Her legs dissolve, and feet flow off in stream.
  
  Her arms, her back, her shoulders, and her side,
  Her swelling breasts in little currents glide,
  A silver liquor only now remains
  Within the channel of her purple veins;
  Nothing to fill love's grasp; her husband chaste
  Bathes in that bosom he before embrac'd.
  
  A Boy         Thus, while thro' all the Earth, and all the
  transform'd to       main,
  an Eft       Her daughter mournful Ceres sought in vain;
  Aurora, when with dewy looks she rose,
  Nor burnish'd Vesper found her in repose,
  At Aetna's flaming mouth two pitchy pines
  To light her in her search at length she tines.
  
  Restless, with these, thro' frosty night she goes,
  Nor fears the cutting winds, nor heeds the snows;
  And, when the morning-star the day renews,
  From east to west her absent child pursues.
  
  Thirsty at last by long fatigue she grows,
  But meets no spring, no riv'let near her flows.
  
  Then looking round, a lowly cottage spies,
  Smoaking among the trees, and thither hies.
  
  The Goddess knocking at the little door,
  'Twas open'd by a woman old and poor,
  Who, when she begg'd for water, gave her ale
  Brew'd long, but well preserv'd from being stale.
  
  The Goddess drank; a chuffy lad was by,
  Who saw the liquor with a grutching eye,
  And grinning cries, She's greedy more than dry.
  
  Ceres, offended at his foul grimace,
  Flung what she had not drunk into his face,
  The sprinklings speckle where they hit the skin,
  And a long tail does from his body spin;
  His arms are turn'd to legs, and lest his size
  Shou'd make him mischievous, and he might rise
  Against mankind, diminutives his frame,
  Less than a lizzard, but in shape the same.
  
  Amaz'd the dame the wondrous sight beheld,
  And weeps, and fain wou'd touch her quondam child.
  
  Yet her approach th' affrighted vermin shuns,
  And fast into the greatest crevice runs.
  
  A name they gave him, which the spots exprest,
  That rose like stars, and varied all his breast.
  
  What lands, what seas the Goddess wander'd o'er,
  Were long to tell; for there remain'd no more.
  
  Searching all round, her fruitless toil she mourns,
  And with regret to Sicily returns.
  
  At length, where Cyane now flows, she came,
  Who cou'd have told her, were she still the same
  As when she saw her daughter sink to Hell;
  But what she knows she wants a tongue to tell.
  
  Yet this plain signal manifestly gave,
  The virgin's girdle floating on a wave,
  As late she dropt it from her slender waste,
  When with her uncle thro' the deep she past.
  
  Ceres the token by her grief confest,
  And tore her golden hair, and beat her breast.
  
  She knows not on what land her curse shou'd fall,
  But, as ingrate, alike upbraids them all,
  Unworthy of her gifts; Trinacria most,
  Where the last steps she found of what she lost.
  
  The plough for this the vengeful Goddess broke,
  And with one death the ox, and owner struck,
  In vain the fallow fields the peasant tills,
  The seed, corrupted ere 'tis sown, she kills.
  
  The fruitful soil, that once such harvests bore,
  Now mocks the farmer's care, and teems no more.
  
  And the rich grain which fills the furrow'd glade,
  Rots in the seed, or shrivels in the blade;
  Or too much sun burns up, or too much rain
  Drowns, or black blights destroy the blasted plain;
  Or greedy birds the new-sown seed devour,
  Or darnel, thistles, and a crop impure
  Of knotted grass along the acres stand,
  And spread their thriving roots thro' all the land.
  
  Then from the waves soft Arethusa rears
  Her head, and back she flings her dropping hairs.
  
  O mother of the maid, whom thou so far
  Hast sought, of whom thou canst no tidings hear;
  O thou, she cry'd, who art to life a friend,
  Cease here thy search, and let thy labour end.
  
  Thy faithful Sicily's a guiltless clime,
  And shou'd not suffer for another's crime;
  She neither knew, nor cou'd prevent the deed;
  Nor think that for my country thus I plead;
  My country's Pisa, I'm an alien here,
  Yet these abodes to Elis I prefer,
  No clime to me so sweet, no place so dear.
  
  These springs I Arethusa now possess,
  And this my seat, o gracious Goddess, bless:
  This island why I love, and why I crost
  Such spacious seas to reach Ortygia's coast,
  To you I shall impart, when, void of care,
  Your heart's at ease, and you're more fit to hear;
  When on your brow no pressing sorrow sits,
  For gay content alone such tales admits.
  
  When thro' Earth's caverns I a-while have roul'd
  My waves, I rise, and here again behold
  The long-lost stars; and, as I late did glide
  Near Styx, Proserpina there I espy'd.
  
  Fear still with grief might in her face be seen;
  She still her rape laments; yet, made a queen,
  Beneath those gloomy shades her sceptre sways,
  And ev'n th' infernal king her will obeys.
  
  This heard, the Goddess like a statue stood,
  Stupid with grief; and in that musing mood
  Continu'd long; new cares a-while supprest
  The reigning of her immortal breast.
  
  At last to Jove her daughter's sire she flies,
  And with her chariot cuts the chrystal skies;
  She comes in clouds, and with dishevel'd hair,
  Standing before his throne, prefers her pray'r.
  
  King of the Gods, defend my blood and thine,
  And use it not the worse for being mine.
  
  If I no more am gracious in thy sight,
  Be just, o Jove, and do thy daughter right.
  
  In vain I sought her the wide world around,
  And, when I most despair'd to find her, found.
  
  But how can I the fatal finding boast,
  By which I know she is for ever lost?
  
  Without her father's aid, what other Pow'r
  Can to my arms the ravish'd maid restore?
  
  Let him restore her, I'll the crime forgive;
  My child, tho' ravish'd, I'd with joy receive.
  
  Pity, your daughter with a thief shou'd wed,
  Tho' mine, you think, deserves no better bed.
  
  Jove thus replies: It equally belongs
  To both, to guard our common pledge from wrongs.
  
  But if to things we proper names apply,
  This hardly can be call'd an injury.
  
  The theft is love; nor need we blush to own
  The thief, if I can judge, to be our son.
  
  Had you of his desert no other proof,
  To be Jove's brother is methinks enough.
  
  Nor was my throne by worth superior got,
  Heav'n fell to me, as Hell to him, by lot:
  If you are still resolv'd her loss to mourn,
  And nothing less will serve than her return;
  Upon these terms she may again be yours
  (Th' irrevocable terms of fate, not ours),
  Of Stygian food if she did never taste,
  Hell's bounds may then, and only then, be past.
  
  The          The Goddess now, resolving to succeed,
  Transformation   Down to the gloomy shades descends with speed;
  of Ascalaphus   But adverse fate had otherwise decreed.
  
  into an Owl    For, long before, her giddy thoughtless child
  Had broke her fast, and all her projects spoil'd.
  
  As in the garden's shady walk she stray'd,
  A fair pomegranate charm'd the simple maid,
  Hung in her way, and tempting her to taste,
  She pluck'd the fruit, and took a short repast.
  
  Seven times, a seed at once, she eat the food;
  The fact Ascalaphus had only view'd;
  Whom Acheron begot in Stygian shades
  On Orphne, fam'd among Avernal maids;
  He saw what past, and by discov'ring all,
  Detain'd the ravish'd nymph in cruel thrall.
  
  But now a queen, she with resentment heard,
  And chang'd the vile informer to a bird.
  
  In Phlegeton's black stream her hand she dips,
  Sprinkles his head, and wets his babling lips.
  
  Soon on his face, bedropt with magick dew,
  A change appear'd, and gawdy feathers grew.
  
  A crooked beak the place of nose supplies,
  Rounder his head, and larger are his eyes.
  
  His arms and body waste, but are supply'd
  With yellow pinions flagging on each side.
  
  His nails grow crooked, and are turn'd to claws,
  And lazily along his heavy wings he draws.
  
  Ill-omen'd in his form, the unlucky fowl,
  Abhorr'd by men, and call'd a scrieching owl.
  
  The Daughters     Justly this punishment was due to him,
  of Achelous    And less had been too little for his crime;
  transform'd to   But, o ye nymphs that from the flood descend,
  Sirens       What fault of yours the Gods cou'd so offend,
  With wings and claws your beauteous forms to spoil,
  Yet save your maiden face, and winning smile?
  
  Were you not with her in Pergusa's bow'rs,
  When Proserpine went forth to gather flow'rs?
  
  Since Pluto in his carr the Goddess caught,
  Have you not for her in each climate sought?
  
  And when on land you long had search'd in vain,
  You wish'd for wings to cross the pathless main;
  That Earth and Sea might witness to your care:
  The Gods were easy, and return'd your pray'r;
  With golden wing o'er foamy waves you fled,
  And to the sun your plumy glories spread.
  
  But, lest the soft enchantment of your songs,
  And the sweet musick of your flat'ring tongues
  Shou'd quite be lost (as courteous fates ordain),
  Your voice and virgin beauty still remain.
  
  Jove some amends for Ceres lost to make,
  Yet willing Pluto shou'd the joy partake,
  Gives 'em of Proserpine an equal share,
  Who, claim'd by both, with both divides the year.
  
  The Goddess now in either empire sways,
  Six moons in Hell, and six with Ceres stays.
  
  Her peevish temper's chang'd; that sullen mind,
  Which made ev'n Hell uneasy, now is kind,
  Her voice refines, her mein more sweet appears,
  Her forehead free from frowns, her eyes from tears,
  As when, with golden light, the conqu'ring day
  Thro' dusky exhalations clears a way.
  
  Ceres her daughter's rape no longer mourn'd,
  But back to Arethusa's spring return'd;
  And sitting on the margin, bid her tell
  From whence she came, and why a sacred well.
  
  The Story of      Still were the purling waters, and the maid
  Arethusa      From the smooth surface rais'd her beauteous head,
  Wipes off the drops that from her tresses ran,
  And thus to tell Alpheus' loves began.
  
  In Elis first I breath'd the living air,
  The chase was all my pleasure, all my care.
  
  None lov'd like me the forest to explore,
  To pitch the toils, and drive the bristled boar.
  
  Of fair, tho' masculine, I had the name,
  But gladly wou'd to that have quitted claim:
  It less my pride than indignation rais'd,
  To hear the beauty I neglected, prais'd;
  Such compliments I loath'd, such charms as these
  I scorn'd, and thought it infamy to please.
  
  Once, I remember, in the summer's heat,
  Tir'd with the chase, I sought a cool retreat;
  And, walking on, a silent current found,
  Which gently glided o'er the grav'ly ground.
  
  The chrystal water was so smooth, so clear,
  My eye distinguish'd ev'ry pebble there.
  
  So soft its motion, that I scarce perceiv'd
  The running stream, or what I saw believ'd.
  
  The hoary willow, and the poplar, made
  Along the shelving bank a grateful shade.
  
  In the cool rivulet my feet I dipt,
  Then waded to the knee, and then I stript;
  My robe I careless on an osier threw,
  That near the place commodiously grew;
  Nor long upon the border naked stood,
  But plung'd with speed into the silver flood.
  
  My arms a thousand ways I mov'd, and try'd
  To quicken, if I cou'd, the lazy tide;
  Where, while I play'd my swimming gambols o'er,
  I heard a murm'ring voice, and frighted sprung to
  shore.
  
  Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou fly?
  
  From the brook's bottom did Alpheus cry;
  Again, I heard him, in a hollow tone,
  Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou run?
  
  Naked I flew, nor cou'd I stay to hide
  My limbs, my robe was on the other side;
  Alpheus follow'd fast, th' inflaming sight
  Quicken'd his speed, and made his labour light;
  He sees me ready for his eager arms,
  And with a greedy glance devours my charms.
  
  As trembling doves from pressing danger fly,
  When the fierce hawk comes sousing from the sky;
  And, as fierce hawks the trembling doves pursue,
  From him I fled, and after me he flew.
  
  First by Orchomenus I took my flight,
  And soon had Psophis and Cyllene in sight;
  Behind me then high Maenalus I lost,
  And craggy Erimanthus scal'd with frost;
  Elis was next; thus far the ground I trod
  With nimble feet, before the distanc'd God.
  
  But here I lagg'd, unable to sustain
  The labour longer, and my flight maintain;
  While he more strong, more patient of the toil,
  And fir'd with hopes of beauty's speedy spoil,
  Gain'd my lost ground, and by redoubled pace,
  Now left between us but a narrow space.
  
  Unweary'd I 'till now o'er hills, and plains,
  O'er rocks, and rivers ran, and felt no pains:
  The sun behind me, and the God I kept,
  But, when I fastest shou'd have run, I stept.
  
  Before my feet his shadow now appear'd;
  As what I saw, or rather what I fear'd.
  
  Yet there I could not be deceiv'd by fear,
  Who felt his breath pant on my braided hair,
  And heard his sounding tread, and knew him to be
  near.
  
  Tir'd, and despairing, O celestial maid,
  I'm caught, I cry'd, without thy heav'nly aid.
  
  Help me, Diana, help a nymph forlorn,
  Devoted to the woods, who long has worn
  Thy livery, and long thy quiver born.
  
  The Goddess heard; my pious pray'r prevail'd;
  In muffling clouds my virgin head was veil'd,
  The am'rous God, deluded of his hopes,
  Searches the gloom, and thro' the darkness gropes;
  Twice, where Diana did her servant hide
  He came, and twice, O Arethusa! cry'd.
  
  How shaken was my soul, how sunk my heart!
  The terror seiz'd on ev'ry trembling part.
  
  Thus when the wolf about the mountain prowls
  For prey, the lambkin hears his horrid howls:
  The tim'rous hare, the pack approaching nigh,
  Thus hearkens to the hounds, and trembles at the
  cry;
  Nor dares she stir, for fear her scented breath
  Direct the dogs, and guide the threaten'd death.
  
  Alpheus in the cloud no traces found
  To mark my way, yet stays to guard the ground,
  The God so near, a chilly sweat possest
  My fainting limbs, at ev'ry pore exprest;
  My strength distill'd in drops, my hair in dew,
  My form was chang'd, and all my substance new.
  
  Each motion was a stream, and my whole frame
  Turn'd to a fount, which still preserves my name.
  
  Resolv'd I shou'd not his embrace escape,
  Again the God resumes his fluid shape;
  To mix his streams with mine he fondly tries,
  But still Diana his attempt denies.
  
  She cleaves the ground; thro' caverns dark I run
  A diff'rent current, while he keeps his own.
  
  To dear Ortygia she conducts my way,
  And here I first review the welcome day.
  
  Here Arethusa stopt; then Ceres takes
  Her golden carr, and yokes her fiery snakes;
  With a just rein, along mid-heaven she flies
  O'er Earth, and seas, and cuts the yielding skies.
  
  She halts at Athens, dropping like a star,
  And to Triptolemus resigns her carr.
  
  Parent of seed, she gave him fruitful grain,
  And bad him teach to till and plough the plain;
  The seed to sow, as well in fallow fields,
  As where the soil manur'd a richer harvest yields.
  
  The          The youth o'er Europe and o'er Asia drives,
  Transformation   'Till at the court of Lyncus he arrives.
  
  of Lyncus     The tyrant Scythia's barb'rous empire sway'd;
  And, when he saw Triptolemus, he said,
  How cam'st thou, stranger, to our court, and why?
  
  Thy country, and thy name?
  
  The youth did thus
  reply:
  Triptolemus my name; my country's known
  O'er all the world, Minerva's fav'rite town,
  Athens, the first of cities in renown.
  
  By land I neither walk'd, nor sail'd by sea,
  But hither thro' the Aether made my way.
  
  By me, the Goddess who the fields befriends,
  These gifts, the greatest of all blessings, sends.
  
  The grain she gives if in your soil you sow,
  Thence wholsom food in golden crops shall grow.
  
  Soon as the secret to the king was known,
  He grudg'd the glory of the service done,
  And wickedly resolv'd to make it all his own.
  
  To hide his purpose, he invites his guest,
  The friend of Ceres, to a royal feast,
  And when sweet sleep his heavy eyes had seiz'd,
  The tyrant with his steel attempts his breast.
  
  Him strait a lynx's shape the Goddess gives,
  And home the youth her sacred dragons drives.
  
  The Pierides      The chosen Muse here ends her sacred lays;
  transform'd to   The nymphs unanimous decree the bays,
  Magpies      And give the Heliconian Goddesses the praise.
  
  Then, far from vain that we shou'd thus prevail,
  But much provok'd to hear the vanquish'd rail,
  Calliope resumes: Too long we've born
  Your daring taunts, and your affronting scorn;
  Your challenge justly merited a curse,
  And this unmanner'd railing makes it worse.
  
  Since you refuse us calmly to enjoy
  Our patience, next our passions we'll employ;
  The dictates of a mind enrag'd pursue,
  And, what our just resentment bids us, do.
  
  The railers laugh, our threats and wrath despise,
  And clap their hands, and make a scolding noise:
  But in the fact they're seiz'd; beneath their nails
  Feathers they feel, and on their faces scales;
  Their horny beaks at once each other scare,
  Their arms are plum'd, and on their backs they bear
  Py'd wings, and flutter in the fleeting air.
  
  Chatt'ring, the scandal of the woods they fly,
  And there continue still their clam'rous cry:
  The same their eloquence, as maids, or birds,
  Now only noise, and nothing then but words.
  
  The End of the Fifth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The First Read Poem Log in to favourite

  OF bodies chang'd to various forms, I sing:
  Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring,
  Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat;
  'Till I my long laborious work compleat:
  And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes,
  Deduc'd from Nature's birth, to Caesar's times.
  
  The Creation of    Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball,
  the World      And Heav'n's high canopy, that covers all,
  One was the face of Nature; if a face:
  Rather a rude and indigested mass:
  A lifeless lump, unfashion'd, and unfram'd,
  Of jarring seeds; and justly Chaos nam'd.
  
  No sun was lighted up, the world to view;
  No moon did yet her blunted horns renew:
  Nor yet was Earth suspended in the sky,
  Nor pois'd, did on her own foundations lye:
  Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown;
  But earth, and air, and water, were in one.
  
  Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable,
  And water's dark abyss unnavigable.
  
  No certain form on any was imprest;
  All were confus'd, and each disturb'd the rest.
  
  For hot and cold were in one body fixt;
  And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixt.
  
  But God, or Nature, while they thus contend,
  To these intestine discords put an end:
  Then earth from air, and seas from earth were
  driv'n,
  And grosser air sunk from aetherial Heav'n.
  
  Thus disembroil'd, they take their proper place;
  The next of kin, contiguously embrace;
  And foes are sunder'd, by a larger space.
  
  The force of fire ascended first on high,
  And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky:
  Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire;
  Whose atoms from unactive earth retire.
  
  Earth sinks beneath, and draws a num'rous throng
  Of pondrous, thick, unwieldy seeds along.
  
  About her coasts, unruly waters roar;
  And rising, on a ridge, insult the shore.
  
  Thus when the God, whatever God was he,
  Had form'd the whole, and made the parts agree,
  That no unequal portions might be found,
  He moulded Earth into a spacious round:
  Then with a breath, he gave the winds to blow;
  And bad the congregated waters flow.
  
  He adds the running springs, and standing lakes;
  And bounding banks for winding rivers makes.
  
  Some part, in Earth are swallow'd up, the most
  In ample oceans, disembogu'd, are lost.
  
  He shades the woods, the vallies he restrains
  With rocky mountains, and extends the plains.
  
  And as five zones th' aetherial regions bind,
  Five, correspondent, are to Earth assign'd:
  The sun with rays, directly darting down,
  Fires all beneath, and fries the middle zone:
  The two beneath the distant poles, complain
  Of endless winter, and perpetual rain.
  
  Betwixt th' extreams, two happier climates hold
  The temper that partakes of hot, and cold.
  
  The fields of liquid air, inclosing all,
  Surround the compass of this earthly ball:
  The lighter parts lye next the fires above;
  The grosser near the watry surface move:
  Thick clouds are spread, and storms engender there,
  And thunder's voice, which wretched mortals fear,
  And winds that on their wings cold winter bear.
  
  Nor were those blustring brethren left at large,
  On seas, and shores, their fury to discharge:
  Bound as they are, and circumscrib'd in place,
  They rend the world, resistless, where they pass;
  And mighty marks of mischief leave behind;
  Such is the rage of their tempestuous kind.
  
  First Eurus to the rising morn is sent
  (The regions of the balmy continent);
  And Eastern realms, where early Persians run,
  To greet the blest appearance of the sun.
  
  Westward, the wanton Zephyr wings his flight;
  Pleas'd with the remnants of departing light:
  Fierce Boreas, with his off-spring, issues forth
  T' invade the frozen waggon of the North.
  
  While frowning Auster seeks the Southern sphere;
  And rots, with endless rain, th' unwholsom year.
  
  High o'er the clouds, and empty realms of wind,
  The God a clearer space for Heav'n design'd;
  Where fields of light, and liquid aether flow;
  Purg'd from the pondrous dregs of Earth below.
  
  Scarce had the Pow'r distinguish'd these, when
  streight
  The stars, no longer overlaid with weight,
  Exert their heads, from underneath the mass;
  And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass,
  And with diffusive light adorn their heav'nly
  place.
  
  Then, every void of Nature to supply,
  With forms of Gods he fills the vacant sky:
  New herds of beasts he sends, the plains to share:
  New colonies of birds, to people air:
  And to their oozy beds, the finny fish repair.
  
  A creature of a more exalted kind
  Was wanting yet, and then was Man design'd:
  Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast,
  For empire form'd, and fit to rule the rest:
  Whether with particles of heav'nly fire
  The God of Nature did his soul inspire,
  Or Earth, but new divided from the sky,
  And, pliant, still retain'd th' aetherial energy:
  Which wise Prometheus temper'd into paste,
  And, mixt with living streams, the godlike image
  cast.
  
  Thus, while the mute creation downward bend
  Their sight, and to their earthly mother tend,
  Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes
  Beholds his own hereditary skies.
  
  From such rude principles our form began;
  And earth was metamorphos'd into Man.
  
  The          The golden age was first; when Man yet new,
  Golden Age     No rule but uncorrupted reason knew:
  And, with a native bent, did good pursue.
  
  Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear,
  His words were simple, and his soul sincere;
  Needless was written law, where none opprest:
  The law of Man was written in his breast:
  No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd,
  No court erected yet, nor cause was heard:
  But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.
  
  The mountain-trees in distant prospect please,
  E're yet the pine descended to the seas:
  E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore:
  And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more,
  Confin'd their wishes to their native shore.
  
  No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound,
  Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound:
  Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime,
  The soft creation slept away their time.
  
  The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough,
  And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow:
  Content with food, which Nature freely bred,
  On wildings and on strawberries they fed;
  Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,
  And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast.
  
  The flow'rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign'd:
  And Western winds immortal spring maintain'd.
  
  In following years, the bearded corn ensu'd
  From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd.
  
  From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke;
  And honey sweating through the pores of oak.
  
  The          But when good Saturn, banish'd from above,
  Silver Age     Was driv'n to Hell, the world was under Jove.
  
  Succeeding times a silver age behold,
  Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold.
  
  Then summer, autumn, winter did appear:
  And spring was but a season of the year.
  
  The sun his annual course obliquely made,
  Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad.
  
  Then air with sultry heats began to glow;
  The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow;
  And shivering mortals, into houses driv'n,
  Sought shelter from th' inclemency of Heav'n.
  
  Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds;
  With twining oziers fenc'd; and moss their beds.
  
  Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,
  And oxen labour'd first beneath the yoke.
  
  The          To this came next in course, the brazen age:
  Brazen Age     A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage,
  Not impious yet…
  The                          Hard steel succeeded then:
  Iron Age      And stubborn as the metal, were the men.
  
  Truth, modesty, and shame, the world forsook:
  Fraud, avarice, and force, their places took.
  
  Then sails were spread, to every wind that blew.
  
  Raw were the sailors, and the depths were new:
  Trees, rudely hollow'd, did the waves sustain;
  E're ships in triumph plough'd the watry plain.
  
  Then land-marks limited to each his right:
  For all before was common as the light.
  
  Nor was the ground alone requir'd to bear
  Her annual income to the crooked share,
  But greedy mortals, rummaging her store,
  Digg'd from her entrails first the precious oar;
  Which next to Hell, the prudent Gods had laid;
  And that alluring ill, to sight display'd.
  
  Thus cursed steel, and more accursed gold,
  Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold:
  And double death did wretched Man invade,
  By steel assaulted, and by gold betray'd,
  Now (brandish'd weapons glittering in their hands)
  Mankind is broken loose from moral bands;
  No rights of hospitality remain:
  The guest, by him who harbour'd him, is slain,
  The son-in-law pursues the father's life;
  The wife her husband murders, he the wife.
  
  The step-dame poyson for the son prepares;
  The son inquires into his father's years.
  
  Faith flies, and piety in exile mourns;
  And justice, here opprest, to Heav'n returns.
  
  The          Nor were the Gods themselves more safe above;
  Giants' War    Against beleaguer'd Heav'n the giants move.
  
  Hills pil'd on hills, on mountains mountains lie,
  To make their mad approaches to the skie.
  
  'Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time
  T' avenge with thunder their audacious crime:
  Red light'ning plaid along the firmament,
  And their demolish'd works to pieces rent.
  
  Sing'd with the flames, and with the bolts
  transfixt,
  With native Earth, their blood the monsters mixt;
  The blood, indu'd with animating heat,
  Did in th' impregnant Earth new sons beget:
  They, like the seed from which they sprung,
  accurst,
  Against the Gods immortal hatred nurst,
  An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood;
  Expressing their original from blood.
  
  Which when the king of Gods beheld from high
  (Withal revolving in his memory,
  What he himself had found on Earth of late,
  Lycaon's guilt, and his inhumane treat),
  He sigh'd; nor longer with his pity strove;
  But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove:
  Then call'd a general council of the Gods;
  Who summon'd, issue from their blest abodes,
  And fill th' assembly with a shining train.
  
  A way there is, in Heav'n's expanded plain,
  Which, when the skies are clear, is seen below,
  And mortals, by the name of Milky, know.
  
  The ground-work is of stars; through which the road
  Lyes open to the Thunderer's abode:
  The Gods of greater nations dwell around,
  And, on the right and left, the palace bound;
  The commons where they can: the nobler sort
  With winding-doors wide open, front the court.
  
  This place, as far as Earth with Heav'n may vie,
  I dare to call the Louvre of the skie.
  
  When all were plac'd, in seats distinctly known,
  And he, their father, had assum'd the throne,
  Upon his iv'ry sceptre first he leant,
  Then shook his head, that shook the firmament:
  Air, Earth, and seas, obey'd th' almighty nod;
  And, with a gen'ral fear, confess'd the God.
  
  At length, with indignation, thus he broke
  His awful silence, and the Pow'rs bespoke.
  
  I was not more concern'd in that debate
  Of empire, when our universal state
  Was put to hazard, and the giant race
  Our captive skies were ready to imbrace:
  For tho' the foe was fierce, the seeds of all
  Rebellion, sprung from one original;
  Now, wheresoever ambient waters glide,
  All are corrupt, and all must be destroy'd.
  
  Let me this holy protestation make,
  By Hell, and Hell's inviolable lake,
  I try'd whatever in the godhead lay:
  But gangren'd members must be lopt away,
  Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay.
  
  There dwells below, a race of demi-gods,
  Of nymphs in waters, and of fawns in woods:
  Who, tho' not worthy yet, in Heav'n to live,
  Let 'em, at least, enjoy that Earth we give.
  
  Can these be thought securely lodg'd below,
  When I my self, who no superior know,
  I, who have Heav'n and Earth at my command,
  Have been attempted by Lycaon's hand?
  
  At this a murmur through the synod went,
  And with one voice they vote his punishment.
  
  Thus, when conspiring traytors dar'd to doom
  The fall of Caesar, and in him of Rome,
  The nations trembled with a pious fear;
  All anxious for their earthly Thunderer:
  Nor was their care, o Caesar, less esteem'd
  By thee, than that of Heav'n for Jove was deem'd:
  Who with his hand, and voice, did first restrain
  Their murmurs, then resum'd his speech again.
  
  The Gods to silence were compos'd, and sate
  With reverence, due to his superior state.
  
  Cancel your pious cares; already he
  Has paid his debt to justice, and to me.
  
  Yet what his crimes, and what my judgments were,
  Remains for me thus briefly to declare.
  
  The clamours of this vile degenerate age,
  The cries of orphans, and th' oppressor's rage,
  Had reach'd the stars: I will descend, said I,
  In hope to prove this loud complaint a lye.
  
  Disguis'd in humane shape, I travell'd round
  The world, and more than what I heard, I found.
  
  O'er Maenalus I took my steepy way,
  By caverns infamous for beasts of prey:
  Then cross'd Cyllene, and the piny shade
  More infamous, by curst Lycaon made:
  Dark night had cover'd Heaven, and Earth, before
  I enter'd his unhospitable door.
  
  Just at my entrance, I display'd the sign
  That somewhat was approaching of divine.
  
  The prostrate people pray; the tyrant grins;
  And, adding prophanation to his sins,
  I'll try, said he, and if a God appear,
  To prove his deity shall cost him dear.
  
  'Twas late; the graceless wretch my death prepares,
  When I shou'd soundly sleep, opprest with cares:
  This dire experiment he chose, to prove
  If I were mortal, or undoubted Jove:
  But first he had resolv'd to taste my pow'r;
  Not long before, but in a luckless hour,
  Some legates, sent from the Molossian state,
  Were on a peaceful errand come to treat:
  Of these he murders one, he boils the flesh;
  And lays the mangled morsels in a dish:
  Some part he roasts; then serves it up, so drest,
  And bids me welcome to this humane feast.
  
  Mov'd with disdain, the table I o'er-turn'd;
  And with avenging flames, the palace burn'd.
  
  The tyrant in a fright, for shelter gains
  The neighb'ring fields, and scours along the
  plains.
  
  Howling he fled, and fain he wou'd have spoke;
  But humane voice his brutal tongue forsook.
  
  About his lips the gather'd foam he churns,
  And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he
  burns,
  But on the bleating flock his fury turns.
  
  His mantle, now his hide, with rugged hairs
  Cleaves to his back; a famish'd face he bears;
  His arms descend, his shoulders sink away
  To multiply his legs for chase of prey.
  
  He grows a wolf, his hoariness remains,
  And the same rage in other members reigns.
  
  His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space:
  His jaws retain the grin, and violence of his face
  This was a single ruin, but not one
  Deserves so just a punishment alone.
  
  Mankind's a monster, and th' ungodly times
  Confed'rate into guilt, are sworn to crimes.
  
  All are alike involv'd in ill, and all
  Must by the same relentless fury fall.
  
  Thus ended he; the greater Gods assent;
  By clamours urging his severe intent;
  The less fill up the cry for punishment.
  
  Yet still with pity they remember Man;
  And mourn as much as heav'nly spirits can.
  
  They ask, when those were lost of humane birth,
  What he wou'd do with all this waste of Earth:
  If his dispeopl'd world he would resign
  To beasts, a mute, and more ignoble line;
  Neglected altars must no longer smoke,
  If none were left to worship, and invoke.
  
  To whom the Father of the Gods reply'd,
  Lay that unnecessary fear aside:
  Mine be the care, new people to provide.
  
  I will from wondrous principles ordain
  A race unlike the first, and try my skill again.
  
  Already had he toss'd the flaming brand;
  And roll'd the thunder in his spacious hand;
  Preparing to discharge on seas and land:
  But stopt, for fear, thus violently driv'n,
  The sparks should catch his axle-tree of Heav'n.
  
  Remembring in the fates, a time when fire
  Shou'd to the battlements of Heaven aspire,
  And all his blazing worlds above shou'd burn;
  And all th' inferior globe to cinders turn.
  
  His dire artill'ry thus dismist, he bent
  His thoughts to some securer punishment:
  Concludes to pour a watry deluge down;
  And what he durst not burn, resolves to drown.
  
  The northern breath, that freezes floods, he
  binds;
  With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds:
  The south he loos'd, who night and horror brings;
  And foggs are shaken from his flaggy wings.
  
  From his divided beard two streams he pours,
  His head, and rheumy eyes distill in show'rs,
  With rain his robe, and heavy mantle flow:
  And lazy mists are lowring on his brow;
  Still as he swept along, with his clench'd fist
  He squeez'd the clouds, th' imprison'd clouds
  resist:
  The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound;
  And show'rs inlarg'd, come pouring on the ground.
  
  Then, clad in colours of a various dye,
  Junonian Iris breeds a new supply
  To feed the clouds: impetuous rain descends;
  The bearded corn beneath the burden bends:
  Defrauded clowns deplore their perish'd grain;
  And the long labours of the year are vain.
  
  Nor from his patrimonial Heaven alone
  Is Jove content to pour his vengeance down;
  Aid from his brother of the seas he craves,
  To help him with auxiliary waves.
  
  The watry tyrant calls his brooks and floods,
  Who rowl from mossie caves (their moist abodes);
  And with perpetual urns his palace fill:
  To whom in brief, he thus imparts his will.
  
  Small exhortation needs; your pow'rs employ:
  And this bad world, so Jove requires, destroy.
  
  Let loose the reins to all your watry store:
  Bear down the damms, and open ev'ry door.
  
  The floods, by Nature enemies to land,
  And proudly swelling with their new command,
  Remove the living stones, that stopt their way,
  And gushing from their source, augment the sea.
  
  Then, with his mace, their monarch struck the
  ground;
  With inward trembling Earth receiv'd the wound;
  And rising streams a ready passage found.
  
  Th' expanded waters gather on the plain:
  They float the fields, and over-top the grain;
  Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway,
  Bear flocks, and folds, and lab'ring hinds away.
  
  Nor safe their dwellings were, for, sap'd by
  floods,
  Their houses fell upon their houshold Gods.
  
  The solid piles, too strongly built to fall,
  High o'er their heads, behold a watry wall:
  Now seas and Earth were in confusion lost;
  A world of waters, and without a coast.
  
  One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is born:
  And ploughs above, where late he sow'd his corn.
  
  Others o'er chimney-tops and turrets row,
  And drop their anchors on the meads below:
  Or downward driv'n, they bruise the tender vine,
  Or tost aloft, are knock'd against a pine.
  
  And where of late the kids had cropt the grass,
  The monsters of the deep now take their place.
  
  Insulting Nereids on the cities ride,
  And wond'ring dolphins o'er the palace glide.
  
  On leaves, and masts of mighty oaks they brouze;
  And their broad fins entangle in the boughs.
  
  The frighted wolf now swims amongst the sheep;
  The yellow lion wanders in the deep:
  His rapid force no longer helps the boar:
  The stag swims faster, than he ran before.
  
  The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain,
  Despair of land, and drop into the main.
  
  Now hills, and vales no more distinction know;
  And levell'd Nature lies oppress'd below.
  
  The most of mortals perish in the flood:
  The small remainder dies for want of food.
  
  A mountain of stupendous height there stands
  Betwixt th' Athenian and Boeotian lands,
  The bound of fruitful fields, while fields they
  were,
  But then a field of waters did appear:
  Parnassus is its name; whose forky rise
  Mounts thro' the clouds, and mates the lofty skies.
  
  High on the summit of this dubious cliff,
  Deucalion wafting, moor'd his little skiff.
  
  He with his wife were only left behind
  Of perish'd Man; they two were human kind.
  
  The mountain nymphs, and Themis they adore,
  And from her oracles relief implore.
  
  The most upright of mortal men was he;
  The most sincere, and holy woman, she.
  
  When Jupiter, surveying Earth from high,
  Beheld it in a lake of water lie,
  That where so many millions lately liv'd,
  But two, the best of either sex, surviv'd;
  He loos'd the northern wind; fierce Boreas flies
  To puff away the clouds, and purge the skies:
  Serenely, while he blows, the vapours driv'n,
  Discover Heav'n to Earth, and Earth to Heav'n.
  
  The billows fall, while Neptune lays his mace
  On the rough sea, and smooths its furrow'd face.
  
  Already Triton, at his call, appears
  Above the waves; a Tyrian robe he wears;
  And in his hand a crooked trumpet bears.
  
  The soveraign bids him peaceful sounds inspire,
  And give the waves the signal to retire.
  
  His writhen shell he takes; whose narrow vent
  Grows by degrees into a large extent,
  Then gives it breath; the blast with doubling
  sound,
  Runs the wide circuit of the world around:
  The sun first heard it, in his early east,
  And met the rattling ecchos in the west.
  
  The waters, listning to the trumpet's roar,
  Obey the summons, and forsake the shore.
  
  A thin circumference of land appears;
  And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears,
  And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds;
  The streams, but just contain'd within their
  bounds,
  By slow degrees into their channels crawl;
  And Earth increases, as the waters fall.
  
  In longer time the tops of trees appear,
  Which mud on their dishonour'd branches bear.
  
  At length the world was all restor'd to view;
  But desolate, and of a sickly hue:
  Nature beheld her self, and stood aghast,
  A dismal desart, and a silent waste.
  
  Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look
  Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke:
  Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind
  The best, and only creature left behind,
  By kindred, love, and now by dangers joyn'd;
  Of multitudes, who breath'd the common air,
  We two remain; a species in a pair:
  The rest the seas have swallow'd; nor have we
  Ev'n of this wretched life a certainty.
  
  The clouds are still above; and, while I speak,
  A second deluge o'er our heads may break.
  
  Shou'd I be snatcht from hence, and thou remain,
  Without relief, or partner of thy pain,
  How cou'dst thou such a wretched life sustain?
  
  Shou'd I be left, and thou be lost, the sea
  That bury'd her I lov'd, shou'd bury me.
  
  Oh cou'd our father his old arts inspire,
  And make me heir of his informing fire,
  That so I might abolisht Man retrieve,
  And perisht people in new souls might live.
  
  But Heav'n is pleas'd, nor ought we to complain,
  That we, th' examples of mankind, remain.
  
  He said; the careful couple joyn their tears:
  And then invoke the Gods, with pious prayers.
  
  Thus, in devotion having eas'd their grief,
  From sacred oracles they seek relief;
  And to Cephysus' brook their way pursue:
  The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew;
  With living waters, in the fountain bred,
  They sprinkle first their garments, and their head,
  Then took the way, which to the temple led.
  
  The roofs were all defil'd with moss, and mire,
  The desart altars void of solemn fire.
  
  Before the gradual, prostrate they ador'd;
  The pavement kiss'd; and thus the saint implor'd.
  
  O righteous Themis, if the Pow'rs above
  By pray'rs are bent to pity, and to love;
  If humane miseries can move their mind;
  If yet they can forgive, and yet be kind;
  Tell how we may restore, by second birth,
  Mankind, and people desolated Earth.
  
  Then thus the gracious Goddess, nodding, said;
  Depart, and with your vestments veil your head:
  And stooping lowly down, with losen'd zones,
  Throw each behind your backs, your mighty mother's
  bones.
  
  Amaz'd the pair, and mute with wonder stand,
  'Till Pyrrha first refus'd the dire command.
  
  Forbid it Heav'n, said she, that I shou'd tear
  Those holy reliques from the sepulcher.
  
  They ponder'd the mysterious words again,
  For some new sense; and long they sought in vain:
  At length Deucalion clear'd his cloudy brow,
  And said, the dark Aenigma will allow
  A meaning, which, if well I understand,
  From sacrilege will free the God's command:
  This Earth our mighty mother is, the stones
  In her capacious body, are her bones:
  These we must cast behind.
  
  With hope, and fear,
  The woman did the new solution hear:
  The man diffides in his own augury,
  And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try.
  
  Descending from the mount, they first unbind
  Their vests, and veil'd, they cast the stones
  behind:
  The stones (a miracle to mortal view,
  But long tradition makes it pass for true)
  Did first the rigour of their kind expel,
  And suppled into softness, as they fell;
  Then swell'd, and swelling, by degrees grew warm;
  And took the rudiments of human form.
  
  Imperfect shapes: in marble such are seen,
  When the rude chizzel does the man begin;
  While yet the roughness of the stone remains,
  Without the rising muscles, and the veins.
  
  The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,
  Were turn'd to moisture, for the body's use:
  Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment;
  The rest, too solid to receive a bent,
  Converts to bones; and what was once a vein,
  Its former name and Nature did retain.
  
  By help of pow'r divine, in little space,
  What the man threw, assum'd a manly face;
  And what the wife, renew'd the female race.
  
  Hence we derive our nature; born to bear
  Laborious life; and harden'd into care.
  
  The rest of animals, from teeming Earth
  Produc'd, in various forms receiv'd their birth.
  
  The native moisture, in its close retreat,
  Digested by the sun's aetherial heat,
  As in a kindly womb, began to breed:
  Then swell'd, and quicken'd by the vital seed.
  
  And some in less, and some in longer space,
  Were ripen'd into form, and took a sev'ral face.
  
  Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled,
  And seeks, with ebbing tides, his ancient bed,
  The fat manure with heav'nly fire is warm'd;
  And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are form'd;
  These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find;
  Some rude, and yet unfinish'd in their kind:
  Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth:
  One half alive; and one of lifeless earth.
  
  For heat, and moisture, when in bodies join'd,
  The temper that results from either kind
  Conception makes; and fighting 'till they mix,
  Their mingled atoms in each other fix.
  
  Thus Nature's hand the genial bed prepares
  With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars.
  
  From hence the surface of the ground, with mud
  And slime besmear'd (the faeces of the flood),
  Receiv'd the rays of Heav'n: and sucking in
  The seeds of heat, new creatures did begin:
  Some were of sev'ral sorts produc'd before,
  But of new monsters, Earth created more.
  
  Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light
  Thee, Python too, the wondring world to fright,
  And the new nations, with so dire a sight:
  So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space
  Did his vast body, and long train embrace.
  
  Whom Phoebus basking on a bank espy'd;
  E're now the God his arrows had not try'd
  But on the trembling deer, or mountain goat;
  At this new quarry he prepares to shoot.
  
  Though ev'ry shaft took place, he spent the store
  Of his full quiver; and 'twas long before
  Th' expiring serpent wallow'd in his gore.
  
  Then, to preserve the fame of such a deed,
  For Python slain, he Pythian games decred.
  
  Where noble youths for mastership shou'd strive,
  To quoit, to run, and steeds, and chariots drive.
  
  The prize was fame: in witness of renown
  An oaken garland did the victor crown.
  
  The laurel was not yet for triumphs born;
  But every green alike by Phoebus worn,
  Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks
  adorn.
  
  The          The first and fairest of his loves, was she
  Transformation   Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree
  of Daphne into   Of angry Cupid forc'd him to desire:
  a Lawrel      Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.
  
  Swell'd with the pride, that new success attends,
  He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends,
  And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy,
  Are arms like these for children to employ?
  
  Know, such atchievements are my proper claim;
  Due to my vigour, and unerring aim:
  Resistless are my shafts, and Python late
  In such a feather'd death, has found his fate.
  
  Take up the torch (and lay my weapons by),
  With that the feeble souls of lovers fry.
  
  To whom the son of Venus thus reply'd,
  Phoebus, thy shafts are sure on all beside,
  But mine of Phoebus, mine the fame shall be
  Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.
  
  He said, and soaring, swiftly wing'd his flight:
  Nor stopt but on Parnassus' airy height.
  
  Two diff'rent shafts he from his quiver draws;
  One to repel desire, and one to cause.
  
  One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold:
  To bribe the love, and make the lover bold:
  One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allay
  Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.
  
  The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest:
  But with the sharp transfixt Apollo's breast.
  
  Th' enamour'd deity pursues the chace;
  The scornful damsel shuns his loath'd embrace:
  In hunting beasts of prey, her youth employs;
  And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys.
  
  With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare;
  And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.
  
  By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains,
  And still her vow'd virginity maintains.
  
  Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride
  She shuns, and hates the joys, she never try'd.
  
  On wilds, and woods, she fixes her desire:
  Nor knows what youth, and kindly love, inspire.
  
  Her father chides her oft: Thou ow'st, says he,
  A husband to thy self, a son to me.
  
  She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed:
  She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head.
  
  Then casting round his neck her tender arms,
  Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms:
  Give me, my Lord, she said, to live, and die,
  A spotless maid, without the marriage tye.
  
  'Tis but a small request; I beg no more
  Than what Diana's father gave before.
  
  The good old sire was soften'd to consent;
  But said her wish wou'd prove her punishment:
  For so much youth, and so much beauty join'd,
  Oppos'd the state, which her desires design'd.
  
  The God of light, aspiring to her bed,
  Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed;
  And is, by his own oracles, mis-led.
  
  And as in empty fields the stubble burns,
  Or nightly travellers, when day returns,
  Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,
  That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;
  So burns the God, consuming in desire,
  And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire:
  Her well-turn'd neck he view'd (her neck was bare)
  And on her shoulders her dishevel'd hair;
  Oh were it comb'd, said he, with what a grace
  Wou'd every waving curl become her face!
  He view'd her eyes, like heav'nly lamps that shone,
  He view'd her lips, too sweet to view alone,
  Her taper fingers, and her panting breast;
  He praises all he sees, and for the rest
  Believes the beauties yet unseen are best:
  Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away,
  Nor did for these alluring speeches stay:
  Stay Nymph, he cry'd, I follow, not a foe.
  
  Thus from the lyon trips the trembling doe;
  Thus from the wolf the frighten'd lamb removes,
  And, from pursuing faulcons, fearful doves;
  Thou shunn'st a God, and shunn'st a God, that
  loves.
  
  Ah, lest some thorn shou'd pierce thy tender foot,
  Or thou shou'dst fall in flying my pursuit!
  To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline;
  Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine.
  
  Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;
  Nor basely born, nor shepherd's swain am I.
  
  Perhaps thou know'st not my superior state;
  And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate.
  
  Me Claros, Delphi, Tenedos obey;
  These hands the Patareian scepter sway.
  
  The King of Gods begot me: what shall be,
  Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see.
  
  Mine is th' invention of the charming lyre;
  Sweet notes, and heav'nly numbers, I inspire.
  
  Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;
  But ah! more deadly his, who pierc'd my heart.
  
  Med'cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow
  In fields, and forrests, all their pow'rs I know;
  And am the great physician call'd, below.
  
  Alas that fields and forrests can afford.
  
  No remedies to heal their love-sick lord!
  To cure the pains of love, no plant avails:
  And his own physick, the physician falls.
  
  She heard not half; so furiously she flies;
  And on her ear th' imperfect accent dies,
  Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind
  Increasing, spread her flowing hair behind;
  And left her legs and thighs expos'd to view:
  Which made the God more eager to pursue.
  
  The God was young, and was too hotly bent
  To lose his time in empty compliment:
  But led by love, and fir'd with such a sight,
  Impetuously pursu'd his near delight.
  
  As when th' impatient greyhound slipt from far,
  Bounds o'er the glebe to course the fearful hare,
  She in her speed does all her safety lay;
  And he with double speed pursues the prey;
  O'er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks
  His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix:
  She scapes, and for the neighb'ring covert strives,
  And gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives:
  If little things with great we may compare,
  Such was the God, and such the flying fair,
  She urg'd by fear, her feet did swiftly move,
  But he more swiftly, who was urg'd by love.
  
  He gathers ground upon her in the chace:
  Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace;
  And just is fast'ning on the wish'd embrace.
  
  The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,
  Spent with the labour of so long a flight;
  And now despairing, cast a mournful look
  Upon the streams of her paternal brook;
  Oh help, she cry'd, in this extreamest need!
  If water Gods are deities indeed:
  Gape Earth, and this unhappy wretch intomb;
  Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.
  
  Scarce had she finish'd, when her feet she found
  Benumb'd with cold, and fasten'd to the ground:
  A filmy rind about her body grows;
  Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:
  The nymph is all into a lawrel gone;
  The smoothness of her skin remains alone.
  
  Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round
  Her bole, his arms, some little warmth he found.
  
  The tree still panted in th' unfinish'd part:
  Not wholly vegetive, and heav'd her heart.
  
  He fixt his lips upon the trembling rind;
  It swerv'd aside, and his embrace declin'd.
  
  To whom the God, Because thou canst not be
  My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree:
  Be thou the prize of honour, and renown;
  The deathless poet, and the poem, crown.
  
  Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,
  And, after poets, be by victors worn.
  
  Thou shalt returning Caesar's triumph grace;
  When pomps shall in a long procession pass.
  
  Wreath'd on the posts before his palace wait;
  And be the sacred guardian of the gate.
  
  Secure from thunder, and unharm'd by Jove,
  Unfading as th' immortal Pow'rs above:
  And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn,
  So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.
  
  The grateful tree was pleas'd with what he said;
  And shook the shady honours of her head.
  
  The          An ancient forest in Thessalia grows;
  Transformation   Which Tempe's pleasing valley does inclose:
  of Io into a    Through this the rapid Peneus take his course;
  Heyfer       From Pindus rolling with impetuous force;
  Mists from the river's mighty fall arise:
  And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies:
  Perpetual fogs are hanging o'er the wood;
  And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood.
  
  Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode
  (A mansion proper for a mourning God).
  
  Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees
  To rivers, his dependant deities.
  
  On this occasion hither they resort;
  To pay their homage, and to make their court.
  
  All doubtful, whether to congratulate
  His daughter's honour, or lament her fate.
  
  Sperchaeus, crown'd with poplar, first appears;
  Then old Apidanus came crown'd with years:
  Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame;
  And Aeas last with lagging waters came.
  
  Then, of his kindred brooks, a num'rous throng
  Condole his loss; and bring their urns along.
  
  Not one was wanting of the wat'ry train,
  That fill'd his flood, or mingled with the main:
  But Inachus, who in his cave, alone,
  Wept not another's losses, but his own,
  For his dear Io, whether stray'd, or dead,
  To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.
  
  He sought her through the world; but sought in
  vain;
  And no where finding, rather fear'd her slain.
  
  Her, just returning from her father's brook,
  Jove had beheld, with a desiring look:
  And, Oh fair daughter of the flood, he said,
  Worthy alone of Jove's imperial bed,
  Happy whoever shall those charms possess;
  The king of Gods (nor is thy lover less)
  Invites thee to yon cooler shades; to shun
  The scorching rays of the meridian sun.
  
  Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove
  Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove.
  
  No puny Pow'r, but he whose high command
  Is unconfin'd, who rules the seas and land;
  And tempers thunder in his awful hand,
  Oh fly not: for she fled from his embrace
  O'er Lerna's pastures: he pursu'd the chace
  Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain;
  At length the God, who never asks in vain,
  Involv'd with vapours, imitating night,
  Both Air, and Earth; and then suppress'd her
  flight,
  And mingling force with love, enjoy'd the full
  delight.
  
  Mean-time the jealous Juno, from on high,
  Survey'd the fruitful fields of Arcady;
  And wonder'd that the mist shou'd over-run
  The face of day-light, and obscure the sun.
  
  No nat'ral cause she found, from brooks, or bogs,
  Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs;
  Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter,
  Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there:
  Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said,
  Am much mistaken, or am much betray'd.
  
  With fury she precipitates her flight:
  Dispels the shadows of dissembled night;
  And to the day restores his native light.
  
  Th' Almighty Leacher, careful to prevent
  The consequence, foreseeing her descent,
  Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now
  In Io's place appears a lovely cow.
  
  So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make,
  Ev'n Juno did unwilling pleasure take
  To see so fair a rival of her love;
  And what she was, and whence, enquir'd of Jove:
  Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree?
  
  The God, half caught, was forc'd upon a lye:
  And said she sprung from Earth.
  
  She took the word,
  And begg'd the beauteous heyfer of her lord.
  
  What should he do?
  
  'twas equal shame to Jove
  Or to relinquish, or betray his love:
  Yet to refuse so slight a gift, wou'd be
  But more t' increase his consort's jealousie:
  Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail'd;
  And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail'd:
  But some faint hope remain'd, his jealous queen
  Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen.
  
  The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest,
  Yet harbour'd anxious thoughts within her breast;
  As she who knew the falshood of her Jove;
  And justly fear'd some new relapse of love.
  
  Which to prevent, and to secure her care,
  To trusty Argus she commits the fair.
  
  The head of Argus (as with stars the skies)
  Was compass'd round, and wore an hundred eyes.
  
  But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;
  The rest on duty still their station keep;
  Nor cou'd the total constellation sleep.
  
  Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind,
  His charge was still before him, tho' behind.
  
  In fields he suffer'd her to feed by Day,
  But when the setting sun to night gave way,
  The captive cow he summon'd with a call;
  And drove her back, and ty'd her to the stall.
  
  On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed,
  Heav'n was her canopy, bare earth her bed:
  So hardly lodg'd, and to digest her food,
  She drank from troubled streams, defil'd with mud.
  
  Her woeful story fain she wou'd have told,
  With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.
  
  Her head to her ungentle keeper bow'd,
  She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low'd:
  Affrighted with the noise, she look'd around,
  And seem'd t' inquire the author of the sound.
  
  Once on the banks where often she had play'd
  (Her father's banks), she came, and there survey'd
  Her alter'd visage, and her branching head;
  And starting, from her self she wou'd have fled.
  
  Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes,
  Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.
  
  Ev'n Inachus himself was ignorant;
  And in his daughter, did his daughter want.
  
  She follow'd where her fellows went, as she
  Were still a partner of the company:
  They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands,
  And her neck offers to their stroaking hands.
  
  Her father gave her grass; the grass she took;
  And lick'd his palms, and cast a piteous look;
  And in the language of her eyes, she spoke.
  
  She wou'd have told her name, and ask'd relief,
  But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief.
  
  Which, with her foot she makes him understand;
  And prints the name of Io in the sand.
  
  Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry'd;
  She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply'd:
  About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw;
  And wept, and then these tender words ensue.
  
  And art thou she, whom I have sought around
  The world, and have at length so sadly found?
  
  So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words
  Thou answer'st not, no voice thy tongue affords:
  But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast;
  And speech deny'd, by lowing is express'd.
  
  Unknowing, I prepar'd thy bridal bed;
  With empty hopes of happy issue fed.
  
  But now the husband of a herd must be
  Thy mate, and bell'wing sons thy progeny.
  
  Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief:
  But now my God-head but extends my grief:
  Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,
  And makes me curse my immortality!
  More had he said, but fearful of her stay,
  The starry guardian drove his charge away,
  To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height
  He sate himself, and kept her still in sight.
  
  The Eyes of      Now Jove no longer cou'd her suff'rings bear;
  Argus       But call'd in haste his airy messenger,
  transform'd    The son of Maia, with severe decree
  into a       To kill the keeper, and to set her free.
  
  Peacock's     With all his harness soon the God was sped,
  Train       His flying hat was fastned on his head,
  Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand
  He holds the vertue of the snaky wand.
  
  The liquid air his moving pinions wound,
  And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground.
  
  Before he came in sight, the crafty God
  His wings dismiss'd, but still retain'd his rod:
  That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took,
  But made it seem to sight a sherpherd's hook.
  
  With this, he did a herd of goats controul;
  Which by the way he met, and slily stole.
  
  Clad like a country swain, he pip'd, and sung;
  And playing, drove his jolly troop along.
  
  With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds;
  But wonders much at those new vocal reeds.
  
  And whosoe'er thou art, my friend, said he,
  Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me:
  This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee.
  
  The God, who was with ease induc'd to climb,
  Began discourse to pass away the time;
  And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies;
  And watch'd his hour, to close the keeper's eyes.
  
  With much ado, he partly kept awake;
  Not suff'ring all his eyes repose to take:
  And ask'd the stranger, who did reeds invent,
  And whence began so rare an instrument?
  
  The          Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was
  Transformation   Whose heav'nly form her fellows did surpass.
  
  of Syrinx     The pride and joy of fair Arcadia's plains,
  into Reeds     Belov'd by deities, ador'd by swains:
  Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu'd,
  As oft she did the lustful Gods delude:
  The rural, and the woodland Pow'rs disdain'd;
  With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain'd:
  Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe's self she seems,
  So tall, so streight, such well-proportion'd limbs:
  The nicest eye did no distinction know,
  But that the goddess bore a golden bow:
  Distinguish'd thus, the sight she cheated too.
  
  Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires
  The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires.
  
  A crown of pine upon his head he wore;
  And thus began her pity to implore.
  
  But e'er he thus began, she took her flight
  So swift, she was already out of sight.
  
  Nor stay'd to hear the courtship of the God;
  But bent her course to Ladon's gentle flood:
  There by the river stopt, and tir'd before;
  Relief from water nymphs her pray'rs implore.
  
  Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace,
  Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace,
  He fill'd his arms with reeds, new rising on the
  place.
  
  And while he sighs, his ill success to find,
  The tender canes were shaken by the wind;
  And breath'd a mournful air, unheard before;
  That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas'd him more.
  
  Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said,
  Who canst not be the partner of my bed,
  At least shall be the confort of my mind:
  And often, often to my lips be joyn'd.
  
  He form'd the reeds, proportion'd as they are,
  Unequal in their length, and wax'd with care,
  They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.
  
  While Hermes pip'd, and sung, and told his tale,
  The keeper's winking eyes began to fail,
  And drowsie slumber on the lids to creep;
  'Till all the watchman was at length asleep.
  
  Then soon the God his voice, and song supprest;
  And with his pow'rful rod confirm'd his rest:
  Without delay his crooked faulchion drew,
  And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew.
  
  Down from the rock fell the dissever'd head,
  Opening its eyes in death; and falling, bled;
  And mark'd the passage with a crimson trail:
  Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold, and pale;
  And all his hundred eyes, with all their light,
  Are clos'd at once, in one perpetual night.
  
  These Juno takes, that they no more may fail,
  And spreads them in her peacock's gaudy tail.
  
  Impatient to revenge her injur'd bed,
  She wreaks her anger on her rival's head;
  With Furies frights her from her native home;
  And drives her gadding, round the world to roam:
  Nor ceas'd her madness, and her flight, before
  She touch'd the limits of the Pharian shore.
  
  At length, arriving on the banks of Nile,
  Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil,
  She laid her down; and leaning on her knees,
  Invok'd the cause of all her miseries:
  And cast her languishing regards above,
  For help from Heav'n, and her ungrateful Jove.
  
  She sigh'd, she wept, she low'd; 'twas all she
  cou'd;
  And with unkindness seem'd to tax the God.
  
  Last, with an humble pray'r, she beg'd repose,
  Or death at least, to finish all her woes.
  
  Jove heard her vows, and with a flatt'ring look,
  In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke,
  He cast his arms about her neck, and said,
  Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bed
  This nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear,
  And every oath that binds the Thunderer.
  
  The Goddess was appeas'd; and at the word
  Was Io to her former shape restor'd.
  
  The rugged hair began to fall away;
  The sweetness of her eyes did only stay,
  Tho' not so large; her crooked horns decrease;
  The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease:
  Her hoofs to hands return, in little space:
  The five long taper fingers take their place,
  And nothing of the heyfer now is seen,
  Beside the native whiteness of the skin.
  
  Erected on her feet she walks again:
  And two the duty of the four sustain.
  
  She tries her tongue; her silence softly breaks,
  And fears her former lowings when she speaks:
  A Goddess now, through all th' Aegyptian State:
  And serv'd by priests, who in white linnen wait.
  
  Her son was Epaphus, at length believ'd
  The son of Jove, and as a God receiv'd;
  With sacrifice ador'd, and publick pray'rs,
  He common temples with his mother shares.
  
  Equal in years, and rival in renown
  With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton
  Like honour claims; and boasts his sire the sun.
  
  His haughty looks, and his assuming air,
  The son of Isis could no longer bear:
  Thou tak'st thy mother's word too far, said he,
  And hast usurp'd thy boasted pedigree.
  
  Go, base pretender to a borrow'd name.
  
  Thus tax'd, he blush'd with anger, and with shame;
  But shame repress'd his rage: the daunted youth
  Soon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth:
  Mother, said he, this infamy was thrown
  By Epaphus on you, and me your son.
  
  He spoke in publick, told it to my face;
  Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace:
  Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong,
  Restrain'd by shame, was forc'd to hold my tongue.
  
  To hear an open slander, is a curse:
  But not to find an answer, is a worse.
  
  If I am Heav'n-begot, assert your son
  By some sure sign; and make my father known,
  To right my honour, and redeem your own.
  
  He said, and saying cast his arms about
  Her neck, and beg'd her to resolve the doubt.
  
  'Tis hard to judge if Clymene were mov'd
  More by his pray'r, whom she so dearly lov'd,
  Or more with fury fir'd, to find her name
  Traduc'd, and made the sport of common fame.
  
  She stretch'd her arms to Heav'n, and fix'd her
  eyes
  On that fair planet that adorns the skies;
  Now by those beams, said she, whose holy fires
  Consume my breast, and kindle my desires;
  By him, who sees us both, and clears our sight,
  By him, the publick minister of light,
  I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lye,
  Let him his chearful influence deny:
  Let him no more this perjur'd creature see;
  And shine on all the world but only me.
  
  If still you doubt your mother's innocence,
  His eastern mansion is not far from hence;
  With little pains you to his Leve go,
  And from himself your parentage may know.
  
  With joy th' ambitious youth his mother heard,
  And eager, for the journey soon prepar'd.
  
  He longs the world beneath him to survey;
  To guide the chariot; and to give the day:
  From Meroe's burning sands he bends his course,
  Nor less in India feels his father's force:
  His travel urging, till he came in sight;
  And saw the palace by the purple light.

• Metamorphoses: Book The Fourteenth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  NOW Glaucus, with a lover's haste, bounds o'er
  The swelling waves, and seeks the Latian shore.
  
  Messena, Rhegium, and the barren coast
  Of flaming Aetna, to his sight are lost:
  At length he gains the Tyrrhene seas, and views
  The hills where baneful philters Circe brews;
  Monsters, in various forms, around her press;
  As thus the God salutes the sorceress.
  
  The        O Circe, be indulgent to my grief,
  Transformation   And give a love-sick deity relief.
  
  of Scylla     Too well the mighty pow'r of plants I know,
  To those my figure, and new Fate I owe.
  
  Against Messena, on th' Ausonian coast,
  I Scylla view'd, and from that hour was lost.
  
  In tend'rest sounds I su'd; but still the fair
  Was deaf to vows, and pityless to pray'r.
  
  If numbers can avail, exert their pow'r;
  Or energy of plants, if plants have more.
  
  I ask no cure; let but the virgin pine
  With dying pangs, or agonies, like mine.
  
  No longer Circe could her flame disguise,
  But to the suppliant God marine, replies:
  When maids are coy, have manlier aims in view;
  Leave those that fly, but those that like, pursue.
  
  If love can be by kind compliance won;
  See, at your feet, the daughter of the Sun.
  
  Sooner, said Glaucus, shall the ash remove
  From mountains, and the swelling surges love;
  Or humble sea-weed to the hills repair;
  E'er I think any but my Scylla fair.
  
  Strait Circe reddens with a guilty shame,
  And vows revenge for her rejected flame.
  
  Fierce liking oft a spight as fierce creates;
  For love refus'd, without aversion, hates.
  
  To hurt her hapless rival she proceeds;
  And, by the fall of Scylla, Glaucus bleeds.
  
  Some fascinating bev'rage now she brews;
  Compos'd of deadly drugs, and baneful juice.
  
  At Rhegium she arrives; the ocean braves,
  And treads with unwet feet the boiling waves.
  
  Upon the beach a winding bay there lies,
  Shelter'd from seas, and shaded from the skies:
  This station Scylla chose: a soft retreat
  From chilling winds, and raging Cancer's heat.
  
  The vengeful sorc'ress visits this recess;
  Her charm infuses, and infects the place.
  
  Soon as the nymph wades in, her nether parts
  Turn into dogs; then at her self she starts.
  
  A ghastly horror in her eyes appears;
  But yet she knows not, who it is she fears;
  In vain she offers from her self to run,
  And drags about her what she strives to shun.
  
  .
  
  The End of the Fourteenth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Fourth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  YET still Alcithoe perverse remains,
  And Bacchus still, and all his rites, disdains.
  
  Too rash, and madly bold, she bids him prove
  Himself a God, nor owns the son of Jove.
  
  Her sisters too unanimous agree,
  Faithful associates in impiety.
  
  The Story of      Be this a solemn feast, the priest had said;
  Alcithoe and    Be, with each mistress, unemploy'd each maid.
  
  her Sisters    With skins of beasts your tender limbs enclose,
  And with an ivy-crown adorn your brows,
  The leafy Thyrsus high in triumph bear,
  And give your locks to wanton in the air.
  
  These rites profan'd, the holy seer foreshow'd
  A mourning people, and a vengeful God.
  
  Matrons and pious wives obedience show,
  Distaffs, and wooll, half spun, away they throw:
  Then incense burn, and, Bacchus, thee adore,
  Or lov'st thou Nyseus, or Lyaeus more?
  
  O! doubly got, O! doubly born, they sung,
  Thou mighty Bromius, hail, from light'ning sprung!
  Hail, Thyon, Eleleus! each name is thine:
  Or, listen parent of the genial vine!
  Iachus! Evan! loudly they repeat,
  And not one Grecian attribute forget,
  Which to thy praise, great Deity, belong,
  Stil'd justly Liber in the Roman song.
  
  Eternity of youth is thine! enjoy
  Years roul'd on years, yet still a blooming boy.
  
  In Heav'n thou shin'st with a superior grace;
  Conceal thy horns, and 'tis a virgin's face.
  
  Thou taught'st the tawny Indian to obey,
  And Ganges, smoothly flowing, own'd thy sway.
  
  Lycurgus, Pentheus, equally profane,
  By thy just vengeance equally were slain.
  
  By thee the Tuscans, who conspir'd to keep
  Thee captive, plung'd, and cut with finns the deep.
  
  With painted reins, all-glitt'ring from afar,
  The spotted lynxes proudly draw thy car.
  
  Around, the Bacchae, and the satyrs throng;
  Behind, Silenus, drunk, lags slow along:
  On his dull ass he nods from side to side,
  Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride.
  
  Still at thy near approach, applauses loud
  Are heard, with yellings of the female crowd.
  
  Timbrels, and boxen pipes, with mingled cries,
  Swell up in sounds confus'd, and rend the skies.
  
  Come, Bacchus, come propitious, all implore,
  And act thy sacred orgies o'er and o'er.
  
  But Mineus' daughters, while these rites were
  pay'd,
  At home, impertinently busie, stay'd.
  
  Their wicked tasks they ply with various art,
  And thro' the loom the sliding shuttle dart;
  Or at the fire to comb the wooll they stand,
  Or twirl the spindle with a dext'rous hand.
  
  Guilty themselves, they force the guiltless in;
  Their maids, who share the labour, share the sin.
  
  At last one sister cries, who nimbly knew
  To draw nice threads, and winde the finest clue,
  While others idly rove, and Gods revere,
  Their fancy'd Gods! they know not who, or where;
  Let us, whom Pallas taught her better arts,
  Still working, cheer with mirthful chat our hearts,
  And to deceive the time, let me prevail
  With each by turns to tell some antique tale.
  
  She said: her sisters lik'd the humour well,
  And smiling, bad her the first story tell.
  
  But she a-while profoundly seem'd to muse,
  Perplex'd amid variety to chuse:
  And knew not, whether she should first relate
  The poor Dircetis, and her wond'rous fate.
  
  The Palestines believe it to a man,
  And show the lake, in which her scales began.
  
  Or if she rather should the daughter sing,
  Who in the hoary verge of life took wing;
  Who soar'd from Earth, and dwelt in tow'rs on high,
  And now a dove she flits along the sky.
  
  Or how lewd Nais, when her lust was cloy'd,
  To fishes turn'd the youths, she had enjoy'd,
  By pow'rful verse, and herbs; effect most strange!
  At last the changer shar'd herself the change.
  
  Or how the tree, which once white berries bore,
  Still crimson bears, since stain'd with crimson
  gore.
  
  The tree was new; she likes it, and begins
  To tell the tale, and as she tells, she spins.
  
  The Story of      In Babylon, where first her queen, for state
  Pyramus and    Rais'd walls of brick magnificently great,
  Thisbe       Liv'd Pyramus, and Thisbe, lovely pair!
  He found no eastern youth his equal there,
  And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair.
  
  A closer neighbourhood was never known,
  Tho' two the houses, yet the roof was one.
  
  Acquaintance grew, th' acquaintance they improve
  To friendship, friendship ripen'd into love:
  Love had been crown'd, but impotently mad,
  What parents could not hinder, they forbad.
  
  For with fierce flames young Pyramus still burn'd,
  And grateful Thisbe flames as fierce return'd.
  
  Aloud in words their thoughts they dare not break,
  But silent stand; and silent looks can speak.
  
  The fire of love the more it is supprest,
  The more it glows, and rages in the breast.
  
  When the division-wall was built, a chink
  Was left, the cement unobserv'd to shrink.
  
  So slight the cranny, that it still had been
  For centuries unclos'd, because unseen.
  
  But oh! what thing so small, so secret lies,
  Which scapes, if form'd for love, a lover's eyes?
  
  Ev'n in this narrow chink they quickly found
  A friendly passage for a trackless sound.
  
  Safely they told their sorrows, and their joys,
  In whisper'd murmurs, and a dying noise,
  By turns to catch each other's breath they strove,
  And suck'd in all the balmy breeze of love.
  
  Oft as on diff'rent sides they stood, they cry'd,
  Malicious wall, thus lovers to divide!
  Suppose, thou should'st a-while to us give place
  To lock, and fasten in a close embrace:
  But if too much to grant so sweet a bliss,
  Indulge at least the pleasure of a kiss.
  
  We scorn ingratitude: to thee, we know,
  This safe conveyance of our minds we owe.
  
  Thus they their vain petition did renew
  'Till night, and then they softly sigh'd adieu.
  
  But first they strove to kiss, and that was all;
  Their kisses dy'd untasted on the wall.
  
  Soon as the morn had o'er the stars prevail'd,
  And warm'd by Phoebus, flow'rs their dews exhal'd,
  The lovers to their well-known place return,
  Alike they suffer, and alike they mourn.
  
  At last their parents they resolve to cheat
  (If to deceive in love be call'd deceit),
  To steal by night from home, and thence unknown
  To seek the fields, and quit th' unfaithful town.
  
  But, to prevent their wand'ring in the dark,
  They both agree to fix upon a mark;
  A mark, that could not their designs expose:
  The tomb of Ninus was the mark they chose.
  
  There they might rest secure beneath the shade,
  Which boughs, with snowy fruit encumber'd, made:
  A wide-spread mulberry its rise had took
  Just on the margin of a gurgling brook.
  
  Impatient for the friendly dusk they stay;
  And chide the slowness of departing day;
  In western seas down sunk at last the light,
  From western seas up-rose the shades of night.
  
  The loving Thisbe ev'n prevents the hour,
  With cautious silence she unlocks the door,
  And veils her face, and marching thro' the gloom
  Swiftly arrives at th' assignation-tomb.
  
  For still the fearful sex can fearless prove;
  Boldly they act, if spirited by love.
  
  When lo! a lioness rush'd o'er the plain,
  Grimly besmear'd with blood of oxen slain:
  And what to the dire sight new horrors brought,
  To slake her thirst the neighb'ring spring she
  sought.
  
  Which, by the moon, when trembling Thisbe spies,
  Wing'd with her fear, swift, as the wind, she
  flies;
  And in a cave recovers from her fright,
  But drop'd her veil, confounded in her flight.
  
  When sated with repeated draughts, again
  The queen of beasts scour'd back along the plain,
  She found the veil, and mouthing it all o'er,
  With bloody jaws the lifeless prey she tore.
  
  The youth, who could not cheat his guards so
  soon,
  Late came, and noted by the glimm'ring moon
  Some savage feet, new printed on the ground,
  His cheeks turn'd pale, his limbs no vigour found;
  But when, advancing on, the veil he spied
  Distain'd with blood, and ghastly torn, he cried,
  One night shall death to two young lovers give,
  But she deserv'd unnumber'd years to live!
  'Tis I am guilty, I have thee betray'd,
  Who came not early, as my charming maid.
  
  Whatever slew thee, I the cause remain,
  I nam'd, and fix'd the place where thou wast slain.
  
  Ye lions from your neighb'ring dens repair,
  Pity the wretch, this impious body tear!
  But cowards thus for death can idly cry;
  The brave still have it in their pow'r to die.
  
  Then to th' appointed tree he hastes away,
  The veil first gather'd, tho' all rent it lay:
  The veil all rent yet still it self endears,
  He kist, and kissing, wash'd it with his tears.
  
  Tho' rich (he cry'd) with many a precious stain,
  Still from my blood a deeper tincture gain.
  
  Then in his breast his shining sword he drown'd,
  And fell supine, extended on the ground.
  
  As out again the blade lie dying drew,
  Out spun the blood, and streaming upwards flew.
  
  So if a conduit-pipe e'er burst you saw,
  Swift spring the gushing waters thro' the flaw:
  Then spouting in a bow, they rise on high,
  And a new fountain plays amid the sky.
  
  The berries, stain'd with blood, began to show
  A dark complexion, and forgot their snow;
  While fatten'd with the flowing gore, the root
  Was doom'd for ever to a purple fruit.
  
  Mean-time poor Thisbe fear'd, so long she stay'd,
  Her lover might suspect a perjur'd maid.
  
  Her fright scarce o'er, she strove the youth to
  find
  With ardent eyes, which spoke an ardent mind.
  
  Already in his arms, she hears him sigh
  At her destruction, which was once so nigh.
  
  The tomb, the tree, but not the fruit she knew,
  The fruit she doubted for its alter'd hue.
  
  Still as she doubts, her eyes a body found
  Quiv'ring in death, and gasping on the ground.
  
  She started back, the red her cheeks forsook,
  And ev'ry nerve with thrilling horrors shook.
  
  So trembles the smooth surface of the seas,
  If brush'd o'er gently with a rising breeze.
  
  But when her view her bleeding love confest,
  She shriek'd, she tore her hair, she beat her
  breast.
  
  She rais'd the body, and embrac'd it round,
  And bath'd with tears unfeign'd the gaping wound.
  
  Then her warm lips to the cold face apply'd,
  And is it thus, ah! thus we meet, she cry'd!
  My Pyramus! whence sprung thy cruel fate?
  
  My Pyramus!- ah! speak, ere 'tis too late.
  
  I, thy own Thisbe, but one word implore,
  One word thy Thisbe never ask'd before.
  
  At Thisbe's name, awak'd, he open'd wide
  His dying eyes; with dying eyes he try'd
  On her to dwell, but clos'd them slow, and dy'd.
  
  The fatal cause was now at last explor'd,
  Her veil she knew, and saw his sheathless sword:
  From thy own hand thy ruin thou hast found,
  She said, but love first taught that hand to wound,
  Ev'n I for thee as bold a hand can show,
  And love, which shall as true direct the blow.
  
  I will against the woman's weakness strive,
  And never thee, lamented youth, survive.
  
  The world may say, I caus'd, alas! thy death,
  But saw thee breathless, and resign'd my breath.
  
  Fate, tho' it conquers, shall no triumph gain,
  Fate, that divides us, still divides in vain.
  
  Now, both our cruel parents, hear my pray'r;
  My pray'r to offer for us both I dare;
  Oh! see our ashes in one urn confin'd,
  Whom love at first, and fate at last has join'd.
  
  The bliss, you envy'd, is not our request;
  Lovers, when dead, may sure together rest.
  
  Thou, tree, where now one lifeless lump is laid,
  Ere-long o'er two shalt cast a friendly shade.
  
  Still let our loves from thee be understood,
  Still witness in thy purple fruit our blood.
  
  She spoke, and in her bosom plung'd the sword,
  All warm and reeking from its slaughter'd lord.
  
  The pray'r, which dying Thisbe had preferr'd,
  Both Gods, and parents, with compassion heard.
  
  The whiteness of the mulberry soon fled,
  And rip'ning, sadden'd in a dusky red:
  While both their parents their lost children mourn,
  And mix their ashes in one golden urn.
  
  Thus did the melancholy tale conclude,
  And a short, silent interval ensu'd.
  
  The next in birth unloos'd her artful tongue,
  And drew attentive all the sister-throng.
  
  The Story of      The Sun, the source of light, by beauty's pow'r
  Leucothoe and   Once am'rous grew; then hear the Sun's amour.
  
  the Sun      Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes
  This God first spy'd; this God first all things
  spies.
  
  Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent,
  To haughty Juno's shapeless son he went:
  The Goddess, and her God gallant betray'd,
  And told the cuckold, where their pranks were
  play'd.
  
  Poor Vulcan soon desir'd to hear no more,
  He drop'd his hammer, and he shook all o'er:
  Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire
  He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire:
  From liquid brass, tho' sure, yet subtile snares
  He forms, and next a wond'rous net prepares,
  Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly,
  Unseen the mashes cheat the searching eye.
  
  Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave,
  Which the most wary, buzzing prey deceive.
  
  These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread
  In secret foldings o'er the conscious bed:
  The conscious bed again was quickly prest
  By the fond pair, in lawless raptures blest.
  
  Mars wonder'd at his Cytherea's charms,
  More fast than ever lock'd within her arms.
  
  While Vulcan th' iv'ry doors unbarr'd with care,
  Then call'd the Gods to view the sportive pair:
  The Gods throng'd in, and saw in open day,
  Where Mars, and beauty's queen, all naked, lay.
  
  O! shameful sight, if shameful that we name,
  Which Gods with envy view'd, and could not blame;
  But, for the pleasure, wish'd to bear the shame.
  
  Each Deity, with laughter tir'd, departs,
  Yet all still laugh'd at Vulcan in their hearts.
  
  Thro' Heav'n the news of this surprizal run,
  But Venus did not thus forget the Sun.
  
  He, who stol'n transports idly had betray'd,
  By a betrayer was in kind repay'd.
  
  What now avails, great God, thy piercing blaze,
  That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays?
  
  Thou, who can'st warm this universe alone,
  Feel'st now a warmth more pow'rful than thy own:
  And those bright eyes, which all things should
  survey,
  Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray.
  
  The lamp of light, for human good design'd,
  Is to one virgin niggardly confin'd.
  
  Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams,
  Sometimes too late they set in western streams:
  'Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays,
  And gives to winter skies long summer days.
  
  Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears,
  And spreads thro' impious nations empty fears:
  For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night,
  Poor mortals tremble in despair of light.
  
  'Tis not the moon, that o'er thee casts a veil
  'Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale.
  
  Leucothoe is grown thy only care,
  Not Phaeton's fair mother now is fair.
  
  The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought,
  And beauteous Porsa is at last forgot.
  
  Fond Clytie, scorn'd, yet lov'd, and sought thy
  bed,
  Ev'n then thy heart for other virgins bled.
  
  Leucothoe has all thy soul possest,
  And chas'd each rival passion from thy breast.
  
  To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth
  In the blest confines of the spicy Earth.
  
  Excelling others, she herself beheld
  By her own blooming daughter far excell'd.
  
  The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command,
  The sev'nth from Belus, rul'd the Persian Land.
  
  Deep in cool vales, beneath th' Hesperian sky,
  For the Sun's fiery steeds the pastures lye.
  
  Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain
  New vigour, and their daily toils sustain.
  
  While thus on heav'nly food the coursers fed,
  And night, around, her gloomy empire spread,
  The God assum'd the mother's shape and air,
  And pass'd, unheeded, to his darling fair.
  
  Close by a lamp, with maids encompass'd round,
  The royal spinster, full employ'd, he found:
  Then cry'd, A-while from work, my daughter, rest;
  And, like a mother, scarce her lips he prest.
  
  Servants retire!- nor secrets dare to hear,
  Intrusted only to a daughter's ear.
  
  They swift obey'd: not one, suspicious, thought
  The secret, which their mistress would be taught.
  
  Then he: since now no witnesses are near,
  Behold! the God, who guides the various year!
  The world's vast eye, of light the source serene,
  Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen.
  
  Believe me, nymph! (for I the truth have show'd)
  Thy charms have pow'r to charm so great a God.
  
  Confus'd, she heard him his soft passion tell,
  And on the floor, untwirl'd, the spindle fell:
  Still from the sweet confusion some new grace
  Blush'd out by stealth, and languish'd in her face.
  
  The lover, now inflam'd, himself put on,
  And out at once the God, all-radiant, shone.
  
  The virgin startled at his alter'd form,
  Too weak to bear a God's impetuous storm:
  No more against the dazling youth she strove,
  But silent yielded, and indulg'd his love.
  
  This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone,
  Whose soul was fix'd, and doated on the Sun.
  
  She rag'd to think on her neglected charms,
  And Phoebus, panting in another's arms.
  
  With envious madness fir'd, she flies in haste,
  And tells the king, his daughter was unchaste.
  
  The king, incens'd to hear his honour stain'd,
  No more the father nor the man retain'd.
  
  In vain she stretch'd her arms, and turn'd her eyes
  To her lov'd God, th' enlightner of the skies.
  
  In vain she own'd it was a crime, yet still
  It was a crime not acted by her will.
  
  The brutal sire stood deaf to ev'ry pray'r,
  And deep in Earth entomb'd alive the fair.
  
  What Phoebus could do, was by Phoebus done:
  Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone:
  To pointed beams the gaping Earth gave way;
  Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day,
  But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay.
  
  Not more the God wept, when the world was fir'd,
  And in the wreck his blooming boy expir'd.
  
  The vital flame he strives to light again,
  And warm the frozen blood in ev'ry vein:
  But since resistless Fates deny'd that pow'r,
  On the cold nymph he rain'd a nectar show'r.
  
  Ah! undeserving thus (he said) to die,
  Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky.
  
  The body soon dissolv'd, and all around
  Perfum'd with heav'nly fragrancies the ground,
  A sacrifice for Gods up-rose from thence,
  A sweet, delightful tree of frankincense.
  
  The          Tho' guilty Clytie thus the sun betray'd,
  Transformation   By too much passion she was guilty made.
  
  of Clytie     Excess of love begot excess of grief,
  Grief fondly bad her hence to hope relief.
  
  But angry Phoebus hears, unmov'd, her sighs,
  And scornful from her loath'd embraces flies.
  
  All day, all night, in trackless wilds, alone
  She pin'd, and taught the list'ning rocks her moan.
  
  On the bare earth she lies, her bosom bare,
  Loose her attire, dishevel'd is her hair.
  
  Nine times the morn unbarr'd the gates of light,
  As oft were spread th' alternate shades of night,
  So long no sustenance the mourner knew,
  Unless she drunk her tears, or suck'd the dew.
  
  She turn'd about, but rose not from the ground,
  Turn'd to the Sun, still as he roul'd his round:
  On his bright face hung her desiring eyes,
  'Till fix'd to Earth, she strove in vain to rise.
  
  Her looks their paleness in a flow'r retain'd,
  But here, and there, some purple streaks they
  gain'd.
  
  Still the lov'd object the fond leafs pursue,
  Still move their root, the moving Sun to view,
  And in the Heliotrope the nymph is true.
  
  The sisters heard these wonders with surprise,
  But part receiv'd them as romantick lies;
  And pertly rally'd, that they could not see
  In Pow'rs divine so vast an energy.
  
  Part own'd, true Gods such miracles might do,
  But own'd not Bacchus, one among the true.
  
  At last a common, just request they make,
  And beg Alcithoe her turn to take.
  
  I will (she said) and please you, if I can.
  
  Then shot her shuttle swift, and thus began.
  
  The fate of Daphnis is a fate too known,
  Whom an enamour'd nymph transform'd to stone,
  Because she fear'd another nymph might see
  The lovely youth, and love as much as she:
  So strange the madness is of jealousie!
  Nor shall I tell, what changes Scython made,
  And how he walk'd a man, or tripp'd a maid.
  
  You too would peevish frown, and patience want
  To hear, how Celmis grew an adamant.
  
  He once was dear to Jove, and saw of old
  Jove, when a child; but what he saw, he told.
  
  Crocus, and Smilax may be turn'd to flow'rs,
  And the Curetes spring from bounteous show'rs;
  I pass a hundred legends stale, as these,
  And with sweet novelty your taste will please.
  
  The Story of      How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams
  Salmacis and    Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs,
  Hermaphroditus   And what the secret cause, shall here be shown;
  The cause is secret, but th' effect is known.
  
  The Naids nurst an infant heretofore,
  That Cytherea once to Hermes bore:
  From both th' illustrious authors of his race
  The child was nam'd, nor was it hard to trace
  Both the bright parents thro' the infant's face.
  
  When fifteen years in Ida's cool retreat
  The boy had told, he left his native seat,
  And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil:
  The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil,
  With eager steps the Lycian fields he crost,
  A river here he view'd so lovely bright,
  It shew'd the bottom in a fairer light,
  Nor kept a sand conceal'd from human sight.
  
  The stream produc'd nor slimy ooze, nor weeds,
  Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds;
  But dealt enriching moisture all around,
  The fruitful banks with chearful verdure crown'd,
  And kept the spring eternal on the ground.
  
  A nymph presides, not practis'd in the chace,
  Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race;
  Of all the blue-ey'd daughters of the main,
  The only stranger to Diana's train:
  Her sisters often, as 'tis said, wou'd cry,
  "Fie Salmacis: what, always idle! fie.
  
  Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize,
  And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease.
  
  "
  Nor quiver she nor arrows e'er wou'd seize,
  Nor mix the toils of hunting with her ease.
  
  But oft would bathe her in the chrystal tide,
  Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide;
  Now in the limpid streams she views her face,
  And drest her image in the floating glass:
  On beds of leaves she now repos'd her limbs,
  Now gather'd flow'rs that grew about her streams,
  And then by chance was gathering, as he stood
  To view the boy, and long'd for what she view'd.
  
  Fain wou'd she meet the youth with hasty feet,
  She fain wou'd meet him, but refus'd to meet
  Before her looks were set with nicest care,
  And well deserv'd to be reputed fair.
  
  "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features
  prove
  A God, and, if a God, the God of love;
  But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast,
  Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest:
  But oh how blest! how more than blest thy bride,
  Ally'd in bliss, if any yet ally'd.
  
  If so, let mine the stoln enjoyments be;
  If not, behold a willing bride in me.
  
  "
  The boy knew nought of love, and toucht with
  shame,
  He strove, and blusht, but still the blush became:
  In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose;
  The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows,
  And such the moon, when all her silver white
  Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light.
  
  The nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss,
  A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss:
  And now prepares to take the lovely boy
  Between her arms.
  
  He, innocently coy,
  Replies, "Or leave me to my self alone,
  You rude uncivil nymph, or I'll be gone.
  
  "
  "Fair stranger then," says she, "it shall be so";
  And, for she fear'd his threats, she feign'd to go:
  But hid within a covert's neighbouring green,
  She kept him still in sight, herself unseen.
  
  The boy now fancies all the danger o'er,
  And innocently sports about the shore,
  Playful and wanton to the stream he trips,
  And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips.
  
  The coolness pleas'd him, and with eager haste
  His airy garments on the banks he cast;
  His godlike features, and his heav'nly hue,
  And all his beauties were expos'd to view.
  
  His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies,
  While hotter passions in her bosom rise,
  Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes.
  
  She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms,
  And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his charms.
  
  Now all undrest upon the banks he stood,
  And clapt his sides, and leapt into the flood:
  His lovely limbs the silver waves divide,
  His limbs appear more lovely through the tide;
  As lillies shut within a chrystal case,
  Receive a glossy lustre from the glass.
  
  He's mine, he's all my own, the Naid cries,
  And flings off all, and after him she flies.
  
  And now she fastens on him as he swims,
  And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs.
  
  The more the boy resisted, and was coy,
  The more she clipt, and kist the strugling boy.
  
  So when the wrigling snake is snatcht on high
  In Eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky,
  Around the foe his twirling tail he flings,
  And twists her legs, and wriths about her wings.
  
  The restless boy still obstinately strove
  To free himself, and still refus'd her love.
  
  Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs intwin'd,
  "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind!
  Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever join'd!
  Oh may we never, never part again!"
  So pray'd the nymph, nor did she pray in vain:
  For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest,
  Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast;
  'Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run
  Together, and incorporate in one:
  Last in one face are both their faces join'd,
  As when the stock and grafted twig combin'd
  Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind:
  Both bodies in a single body mix,
  A single body with a double sex.
  
  The boy, thus lost in woman, now survey'd
  The river's guilty stream, and thus he pray'd.
  
  (He pray'd, but wonder'd at his softer tone,
  Surpriz'd to hear a voice but half his own.
  
  )
  You parent-Gods, whose heav'nly names I bear,
  Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my pray'r;
  Oh grant, that whomsoe'er these streams contain,
  If man he enter'd, he may rise again
  Supple, unsinew'd, and but half a man!
  The heav'nly parents answer'd from on high,
  Their two-shap'd son, the double votary
  Then gave a secret virtue to the flood,
  And ting'd its source to make his wishes good.
  
  Alcithoe and      But Mineus' daughters still their tasks pursue,
  her Sisters    To wickedness most obstinately true:
  transform'd    At Bacchus still they laugh, when all around,
  to Bats      Unseen, the timbrels hoarse were heard to sound.
  
  Saffron and myrrh their fragrant odours shed,
  And now the present deity they dread.
  
  Strange to relate! Here ivy first was seen,
  Along the distaff crept the wond'rous green.
  
  Then sudden-springing vines began to bloom,
  And the soft tendrils curl'd around the loom:
  While purple clusters, dangling from on high,
  Ting'd the wrought purple with a second die.
  
  Now from the skies was shot a doubtful light,
  The day declining to the bounds of night.
  
  The fabrick's firm foundations shake all o'er,
  False tigers rage, and figur'd lions roar.
  
  Torches, aloft, seem blazing in the air,
  And angry flashes of red light'nings glare.
  
  To dark recesses, the dire sight to shun,
  Swift the pale sisters in confusion run.
  
  Their arms were lost in pinions, as they fled,
  And subtle films each slender limb o'er-spread.
  
  Their alter'd forms their senses soon reveal'd;
  Their forms, how alter'd, darkness still conceal'd.
  
  Close to the roof each, wond'ring, upwards springs,
  Born on unknown, transparent, plumeless wings.
  
  They strove for words; their little bodies found
  No words, but murmur'd in a fainting sound.
  
  In towns, not woods, the sooty bats delight,
  And, never, 'till the dusk, begin their flight;
  'Till Vesper rises with his ev'ning flame;
  From whom the Romans have deriv'd their name.
  
  The          The pow'r of Bacchus now o'er Thebes had flown:
  Transformation   With awful rev'rence soon the God they own.
  
  of Ino and     Proud Ino, all around the wonder tells,
  Melicerta to    And on her nephew deity still dwells.
  
  Sea-Gods      Of num'rous sisters, she alone yet knew
  No grief, but grief, which she from sisters drew.
  
  Imperial Juno saw her with disdain,
  Vain in her offspring, in her consort vain,
  Who rul'd the trembling Thebans with a nod,
  But saw her vainest in her foster-God.
  
  Could then (she cry'd) a bastard-boy have pow'r
  To make a mother her own son devour?
  
  Could he the Tuscan crew to fishes change,
  And now three sisters damn to forms so strange?
  
  Yet shall the wife of Jove find no relief?
  
  Shall she, still unreveng'd, disclose her grief?
  
  Have I the mighty freedom to complain?
  
  Is that my pow'r?
  
  is that to ease my pain?
  
  A foe has taught me vengeance; and who ought
  To scorn that vengeance, which a foe has taught?
  
  What sure destruction frantick rage can throw,
  The gaping wounds of slaughter'd Pentheus show.
  
  Why should not Ino, fir'd with madness, stray,
  Like her mad sisters her own kindred slay?
  
  Why, she not follow, where they lead the way?
  
  Down a steep, yawning cave, where yews display'd
  In arches meet, and lend a baleful shade,
  Thro' silent labyrinths a passage lies
  To mournful regions, and infernal skies.
  
  Here Styx exhales its noisome clouds, and here,
  The fun'ral rites once paid, all souls appear.
  
  Stiff cold, and horror with a ghastly face
  And staring eyes, infest the dreary place.
  
  Ghosts, new-arriv'd, and strangers to these plains,
  Know not the palace, where grim Pluto reigns.
  
  They journey doubtful, nor the road can tell,
  Which leads to the metropolis of Hell.
  
  A thousand avenues those tow'rs command,
  A thousand gates for ever open stand.
  
  As all the rivers, disembogu'd, find room
  For all their waters in old Ocean's womb:
  So this vast city worlds of shades receives,
  And space for millions still of worlds she leaves.
  
  Th' unbody'd spectres freely rove, and show
  Whate'er they lov'd on Earth, they love below.
  
  The lawyers still, or right, or wrong, support,
  The courtiers smoothly glide to Pluto's court.
  
  Still airy heroes thoughts of glory fire,
  Still the dead poet strings his deathless lyre,
  And lovers still with fancy'd darts expire.
  
  The Queen of Heaven, to gratify her hate,
  And sooth immortal wrath, forgets her state.
  
  Down from the realms of day, to realms of night,
  The Goddess swift precipitates her flight.
  
  At Hell arriv'd, the noise Hell's porter heard,
  Th' enormous dog his triple head up-rear'd:
  Thrice from three grizly throats he howl'd
  profound,
  Then suppliant couch'd, and stretch'd along the
  ground.
  
  The trembling threshold, which Saturnia prest,
  The weight of such divinity confest.
  
  Before a lofty, adamantine gate,
  Which clos'd a tow'r of brass, the Furies sate:
  Mis-shapen forms, tremendous to the sight,
  Th' implacable foul daughters of the night.
  
  A sounding whip each bloody sister shakes,
  Or from her tresses combs the curling snakes.
  
  But now great Juno's majesty was known;
  Thro' the thick gloom, all heav'nly bright, she
  shone:
  The hideous monsters their obedience show'd,
  And rising from their seats, submissive bow'd.
  
  This is the place of woe, here groan the dead;
  Huge Tityus o'er nine acres here is spread.
  
  Fruitful for pain th' immortal liver breeds,
  Still grows, and still th' insatiate vulture feeds.
  
  Poor Tantalus to taste the water tries,
  But from his lips the faithless water flies:
  Then thinks the bending tree he can command,
  The tree starts backwards, and eludes his hand.
  
  The labour too of Sisyphus is vain,
  Up the steep mount he heaves the stone with pain,
  Down from the summet rouls the stone again.
  
  The Belides their leaky vessels still
  Are ever filling, and yet never fill:
  Doom'd to this punishment for blood they shed,
  For bridegrooms slaughter'd in the bridal bed.
  
  Stretch'd on the rolling wheel Ixion lies;
  Himself he follows, and himself he flies.
  
  Ixion, tortur'd, Juno sternly ey'd,
  Then turn'd, and toiling Sisyphus espy'd:
  And why (she said) so wretched is the fate
  Of him, whose brother proudly reigns in state?
  
  Yet still my altars unador'd have been
  By Athamas, and his presumptuous queen.
  
  What caus'd her hate, the Goddess thus confest,
  What caus'd her journey now was more than guest.
  
  That hate, relentless, its revenge did want,
  And that revenge the Furies soon could grant:
  They could the glory of proud Thebes efface,
  And hide in ruin the Cadmean race.
  
  For this she largely promises, entreats,
  And to intreaties adds imperial threats.
  
  Then fell Tisiphone with rage was stung,
  And from her mouth th' untwisted serpents flung.
  
  To gain this trifling boon, there is no need
  (She cry'd) in formal speeches to proceed.
  
  Whatever thou command'st to do, is done;
  Believe it finish'd, tho' not yet begun.
  
  But from these melancholly seats repair
  To happier mansions, and to purer air.
  
  She spoke: the Goddess, darting upwards, flies,
  And joyous re-ascends her native skies:
  Nor enter'd there, till 'round her Iris threw
  Ambrosial sweets, and pour'd celestial dew.
  
  The faithful Fury, guiltless of delays,
  With cruel haste the dire command obeys.
  
  Girt in a bloody gown, a torch she shakes,
  And round her neck twines speckled wreaths of
  snakes.
  
  Fear, and dismay, and agonizing pain,
  With frantick rage, compleat her loveless train.
  
  To Thebes her flight she sped, and Hell forsook;
  At her approach the Theban turrets shook:
  The sun shrunk back, thick clouds the day
  o'er-cast,
  And springing greens were wither'd as she past.
  
  Now, dismal yellings heard, strange spectres
  seen,
  Confound as much the monarch as the queen.
  
  In vain to quit the palace they prepar'd,
  Tisiphone was there, and kept the ward.
  
  She wide extended her unfriendly arms,
  And all the Fury lavish'd all her harms.
  
  Part of her tresses loudly hiss, and part
  Spread poyson, as their forky tongues they dart.
  
  Then from her middle locks two snakes she drew,
  Whose merit from superior mischief grew:
  Th' envenom'd ruin, thrown with spiteful care,
  Clung to the bosoms of the hapless pair.
  
  The hapless pair soon with wild thoughts were
  fir'd,
  And madness, by a thousand ways inspir'd.
  
  'Tis true, th' unwounded body still was sound,
  But 'twas the soul which felt the deadly wound.
  
  Nor did th' unsated monster here give o'er,
  But dealt of plagues a fresh, unnumber'd store.
  
  Each baneful juice too well she understood,
  Foam, churn'd by Cerberus, and Hydra's blood.
  
  Hot hemlock, and cold aconite she chose,
  Delighted in variety of woes.
  
  Whatever can untune th' harmonious soul,
  And its mild, reas'ning faculties controul,
  Give false ideas, raise desires profane,
  And whirl in eddies the tumultuous brain,
  Mix'd with curs'd art, she direfully around
  Thro' all their nerves diffus'd the sad compound.
  
  Then toss'd her torch in circles still the same,
  Improv'd their rage, and added flame to flame.
  
  The grinning Fury her own conquest spy'd,
  And to her rueful shades return'd with pride,
  And threw th' exhausted, useless snakes aside.
  
  Now Athamas cries out, his reason fled,
  Here, fellow-hunters, let the toils be spread.
  
  I saw a lioness, in quest of food,
  With her two young, run roaring in this wood.
  
  Again the fancy'd savages were seen,
  As thro' his palace still he chac'd his queen;
  Then tore Learchus from her breast: the child
  Stretch'd little arms, and on its father smil'd:
  A father now no more, who now begun
  Around his head to whirl his giddy son,
  And, quite insensible to Nature's call,
  The helpless infant flung against the wall.
  
  The same mad poyson in the mother wrought,
  Young Melicerta in her arms she caught,
  And with disorder'd tresses, howling, flies,
  O! Bacchus, Evoe, Bacchus! loud she cries.
  
  The name of Bacchus Juno laugh'd to hear,
  And said, Thy foster-God has cost thee dear.
  
  A rock there stood, whose side the beating waves
  Had long consum'd, and hollow'd into caves.
  
  The head shot forwards in a bending steep,
  And cast a dreadful covert o'er the deep.
  
  The wretched Ino, on destruction bent,
  Climb'd up the cliff; such strength her fury lent:
  Thence with her guiltless boy, who wept in vain,
  At one bold spring she plung'd into the main.
  
  Her neice's fate touch'd Cytherea's breast,
  And in soft sounds she Neptune thus addrest:
  Great God of waters, whose extended sway
  Is next to his, whom Heav'n and Earth obey:
  Let not the suit of Venus thee displease,
  Pity the floaters on th' Ionian seas.
  
  Encrease thy Subject-Gods, nor yet disdain
  To add my kindred to that glorious train.
  
  If from the sea I may such honours claim,
  If 'tis desert, that from the sea I came,
  As Grecian poets artfully have sung,
  And in the name confest, from whence I sprung.
  
  Pleas'd Neptune nodded his assent, and free
  Both soon became from frail mortality.
  
  He gave them form, and majesty divine,
  And bad them glide along the foamy brine.
  
  For Melicerta is Palaemon known,
  And Ino once, Leucothoe is grown.
  
  The          The Theban matrons their lov'd queen pursu'd,
  Transformation   And tracing to the rock, her footsteps view'd.
  
  of the Theban   Too certain of her fate, they rend the skies
  Matrons      With piteous shrieks, and lamentable cries.
  
  All beat their breasts, and Juno all upbraid,
  Who still remember'd a deluded maid:
  Who, still revengeful for one stol'n embrace,
  Thus wreak'd her hate on the Cadmean race.
  
  This Juno heard: And shall such elfs, she cry'd,
  Dispute my justice, or my pow'r deride?
  
  You too shall feel my wrath not idly spent;
  A Goddess never for insults was meant.
  
  She, who lov'd most, and who most lov'd had been,
  Said, Not the waves shall part me from my queen.
  
  She strove to plunge into the roaring flood;
  Fix'd to the stone, a stone her self she stood.
  
  This, on her breast would fain her blows repeat,
  Her stiffen'd hands refus'd her breast to beat.
  
  That, stretch'd her arms unto the seas; in vain
  Her arms she labour'd to unstretch again.
  
  To tear her comely locks another try'd,
  Both comely locks, and fingers petryfi'd.
  
  Part thus; but Juno with a softer mind
  Part doom'd to mix among the feather'd kind.
  
  Transform'd, the name of Theban birds they keep,
  And skim the surface of that fatal deep.
  
  Cadmus         Mean-time, the wretched Cadmus mourns, nor knows,
  and his Queen   That they who mortal fell, immortal rose.
  
  transform'd to   With a long series of new ills opprest,
  Serpents      He droops, and all the man forsakes his breast.
  
  Strange prodigies confound his frighted eyes;
  From the fair city, which he rais'd, he flies:
  As if misfortune not pursu'd his race,
  But only hung o'er that devoted place.
  
  Resolv'd by sea to seek some distant land,
  At last he safely gain'd th' Illyrian strand.
  
  Chearless himself, his consort still he chears,
  Hoary, and loaden'd both with woes and years.
  
  Then to recount past sorrows they begin,
  And trace them to the gloomy origin.
  
  That serpent sure was hallow'd, Cadmus cry'd,
  Which once my spear transfix'd with foolish pride;
  When the big teeth, a seed before unknown,
  By me along the wond'ring glebe were sown,
  And sprouting armies by themselves o'erthrown.
  
  If thence the wrath of Heav'n on me is bent,
  May Heav'n conclude it with one sad event;
  To an extended serpent change the man:
  And while he spoke, the wish'd-for change began.
  
  His skin with sea-green spots was vary'd 'round,
  And on his belly prone he prest the ground.
  
  He glitter'd soon with many a golden scale,
  And his shrunk legs clos'd in a spiry tail.
  
  Arms yet remain'd, remaining arms he spread
  To his lov'd wife, and human tears yet shed.
  
  Come, my Harmonia, come, thy face recline
  Down to my face; still touch, what still is mine.
  
  O! let these hands, while hands, be gently prest,
  While yet the serpent has not all possest.
  
  More he had spoke, but strove to speak in vain,
  The forky tongue refus'd to tell his pain,
  And learn'd in hissings only to complain.
  
  Then shriek'd Harmonia, Stay, my Cadmus, stay,
  Glide not in such a monstrous shape away!
  Destruction, like impetuous waves, rouls on.
  
  Where are thy feet, thy legs, thy shoulders gone?
  
  Chang'd is thy visage, chang'd is all thy frame;
  Cadmus is only Cadmus now in name.
  
  Ye Gods, my Cadmus to himself restore,
  Or me like him transform; I ask no more.
  
  The husband-serpent show'd he still had thought,
  With wonted fondness an embrace he sought;
  Play'd 'round her neck in many a harmless twist,
  And lick'd that bosom, which, a man, he kist.
  
  The lookers-on (for lookers-on there were)
  Shock'd at the sight, half-dy'd away with fear.
  
  The transformation was again renew'd,
  And, like the husband, chang'd the wife they
  view'd.
  
  Both, serpents now, with fold involv'd in fold,
  To the next covert amicably roul'd.
  
  There curl'd they lie, or wave along the green,
  Fearless see men, by men are fearless seen,
  Still mild, and conscious what they once have been.
  
  The Story of      Yet tho' this harsh, inglorious fate they found,
  Perseus      Each in the deathless grandson liv'd renown'd.
  
  Thro' conquer'd India Bacchus nobly rode,
  And Greece with temples hail'd the conqu'ring God.
  
  In Argos only proud Acrisius reign'd,
  Who all the consecrated rites profan'd.
  
  Audacious wretch! thus Bacchus to deny,
  And the great Thunderer's great son defie!
  Nor him alone: thy daughter vainly strove,
  Brave Perseus of celestial stem to prove,
  And her self pregnant by a golden Jove.
  
  Yet this was true, and truth in time prevails;
  Acrisius now his unbelief bewails.
  
  His former thought, an impious thought he found,
  And both the heroe, and the God were own'd.
  
  He saw, already one in Heav'n was plac'd,
  And one with more than mortal triumphs grac'd,
  The victor Perseus with the Gorgon-head,
  O'er Libyan sands his airy journey sped.
  
  The gory drops distill'd, as swift he flew,
  And from each drop envenom'd serpents grew,
  The mischiefs brooded on the barren plains,
  And still th' unhappy fruitfulness remains.
  
  Atlas         Thence Perseus, like a cloud, by storms was
  transform'd to       driv'n,
  a Mountain     Thro' all th' expanse beneath the cope of Heaven.
  
  The jarring winds unable to controul,
  He saw the southern, and the northern pole:
  And eastward thrice, and westward thrice was
  whirl'd,
  And from the skies survey'd the nether world.
  
  But when grey ev'ning show'd the verge of night,
  He fear'd in darkness to pursue his flight.
  
  He pois'd his pinions, and forgot to soar,
  And sinking, clos'd them on th' Hesperian shore:
  Then beg'd to rest, 'till Lucifer begun
  To wake the morn, the morn to wake the sun.
  
  Here Atlas reign'd, of more than human size,
  And in his kingdom the world's limit lies.
  
  Here Titan bids his weary'd coursers sleep,
  And cools the burning axle in the deep.
  
  The mighty monarch, uncontrol'd, alone,
  His sceptre sways: no neighb'ring states are known.
  
  A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed,
  A thousand herds o'er grassy plains were spread.
  
  Here wond'rous trees their shining stores unfold,
  Their shining stores too wond'rous to be told,
  Their leafs, their branches, and their apples,
  gold.
  
  Then Perseus the gigantick prince addrest,
  Humbly implor'd a hospitable rest.
  
  If bold exploits thy admiration fire,
  He said, I fancy, mine thou wilt admire.
  
  Or if the glory of a race can move,
  Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove.
  
  At this confession Atlas ghastly star'd,
  Mindful of what an oracle declar'd,
  That the dark womb of Time conceal'd a day,
  Which should, disclos'd, the bloomy gold betray:
  All should at once be ravish'd from his eyes,
  And Jove's own progeny enjoy the prize.
  
  For this, the fruit he loftily immur'd,
  And a fierce dragon the strait pass secur'd.
  
  For this, all strangers he forbad to land,
  And drove them from th' inhospitable strand.
  
  To Perseus then: Fly quickly, fly this coast,
  Nor falsly dare thy acts and race to boast.
  
  In vain the heroe for one night entreats,
  Threat'ning he storms, and next adds force to
  threats.
  
  By strength not Perseus could himself defend,
  For who in strength with Atlas could contend?
  
  But since short rest to me thou wilt not give,
  A gift of endless rest from me receive,
  He said, and backward turn'd, no more conceal'd
  The present, and Medusa's head reveal'd.
  
  Soon the high Atlas a high mountain stood,
  His locks, and beard became a leafy wood.
  
  His hands, and shoulders, into ridges went,
  The summit-head still crown'd the steep ascent.
  
  His bones a solid, rocky hardness gain'd:
  He, thus immensely grown (as fate ordain'd),
  The stars, the Heav'ns, and all the Gods sustain'd.
  
  Andromeda       Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd,
  rescu'd from    And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind,
  the Sea Monster  The rising Phospher with a purple light
  Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite.
  
  His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes,
  And his keen sabre in his hand resumes:
  Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs,
  And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings.
  
  O'er various seas, and various lands he past,
  'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last.
  
  Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone
  By her own ruin follies not her own:
  And if injustice in a God can be,
  Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree.
  
  Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd
  His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid.
  
  So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine,
  She seem'd a statue by a hand divine,
  Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd,
  And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd.
  
  Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires;
  The more he looks, the more he still admires.
  
  Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly,
  And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high.
  
  O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove,
  But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love;
  Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose,
  And give a true rehearsal of thy woes.
  
  A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd,
  To the free converse of a man unus'd.
  
  Her rising blushes had concealment found
  From her spread hands, but that her hands were
  bound.
  
  She acted to her full extent of pow'r,
  And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r.
  
  But by degrees in innocence grown bold,
  Her name, her country, and her birth she told:
  And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride,
  Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd.
  
  Part yet untold, the seas began to roar,
  And mounting billows tumbled to the shore.
  
  Above the waves a monster rais'd his head,
  His body o'er the deep was widely spread:
  Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries;
  Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies:
  But she had deepest cause to rend the skies.
  
  Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears
  Of help, they only lend their helpless tears.
  
  Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said,
  Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid,
  In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold,
  Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold.
  
  Medusa's snaky head is now my prey,
  And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way.
  
  If such desert be worthy of esteem,
  And, if your daughter I from death redeem,
  Shall she be mine?
  
  Shall it not then be thought,
  A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought?
  
  For her my arms I willingly employ,
  If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy.
  
  The parents eagerly the terms embrace:
  For who would slight such terms in such a case?
  
  Nor her alone they promise, but beside,
  The dowry of a kingdom with the bride.
  
  As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating,
  row,
  With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough;
  So when the monster mov'd, still at his back
  The furrow'd waters left a foamy track.
  
  Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh,
  Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly.
  
  Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung,
  And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung.
  
  His shadow quickly floated on the main;
  The monster could not his wild rage restrain,
  But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain.
  
  As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies,
  Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies,
  Unseen, he souses down, and bears away,
  Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey.
  
  To writh his neck the labour nought avails,
  Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales.
  
  Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars,
  And at his pleasure the vast monster gores.
  
  Full in his back, swift stooping from above,
  The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove.
  
  The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain,
  First bounded high, and then sunk low again.
  
  Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds,
  And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds,
  He on the foe turns with collected might,
  Who still eludes him with an airy flight;
  And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries
  Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies:
  'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood,
  And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood.
  
  At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er,
  With flaggy heaviness their master bore:
  A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low,
  Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow.
  
  A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd,
  And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd;
  With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around,
  And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd.
  
  In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise,
  And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies.
  
  The saviour-youth the royal pair confess,
  And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom
  bless.
  
  The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from
  chains,
  The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's
  pains,
  Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood,
  And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's
  blood:
  Then in the windings of a sandy bed
  Compos'd Medusa's execrable head.
  
  But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw,
  And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew,
  There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd,
  Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd.
  
  The wonted flexibility quite gone,
  The tender scyons harden'd into stone.
  
  Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought,
  Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught.
  
  The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep,
  And propagate the wonder thro' the deep.
  
  The pliant sprays of coral yet declare
  Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air.
  
  Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move,
  Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove,
  And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above.
  
  The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd,
  And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd.
  
  To Hermes this; and that he did assign
  To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine,
  He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull,
  A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull.
  
  Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight,
  Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite.
  
  Andromeda alone he greatly sought,
  The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought.
  
  Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays;
  With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze,
  Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high,
  And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye.
  
  The melting musick melting thoughts inspires,
  And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres.
  
  The palace opens wide in pompous state,
  And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate.
  
  A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give,
  And fit for God-like heroes to receive.
  
  The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl
  Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each
  soul.
  
  Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd,
  And by what laws the people were restrain'd.
  
  Which told; the teller a like freedom takes,
  And to the warrior his petition makes,
  To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes.
  
  The Story of      The heroe with his just request complies,
  Medusa's Head   Shows, how a vale beneath cold Atlas lies,
  Where, with aspiring mountains fenc'd around,
  He the two daughters of old Phorcus found.
  
  Fate had one common eye to both assign'd,
  Each saw by turns, and each by turns was blind.
  
  But while one strove to lend her sister sight,
  He stretch'd his hand, and stole their mutual
  light,
  And left both eyeless, both involv'd in night.
  
  Thro' devious wilds, and trackless woods he past,
  And at the Gorgon-seats arriv'd at last:
  But as he journey'd, pensive he survey'd,
  What wasteful havock dire Medusa made.
  
  Here, stood still breathing statues, men before;
  There, rampant lions seem'd in stone to roar.
  
  Nor did he, yet affrighted, quit the field,
  But in the mirror of his polish'd shield
  Reflected saw Medusa slumbers take,
  And not one serpent by good chance awake.
  
  Then backward an unerring blow he sped,
  And from her body lop'd at once her head.
  
  The gore prolifick prov'd; with sudden force
  Sprung Pegasus, and wing'd his airy course.
  
  The Heav'n-born warrior faithfully went on,
  And told the num'rous dangers which he run.
  
  What subject seas, what lands he had in view,
  And nigh what stars th' advent'rous heroe flew.
  
  At last he silent sate; the list'ning throng
  Sigh'd at the pause of his delightful tongue.
  
  Some beg'd to know, why this alone should wear,
  Of all the sisters, such destructive hair.
  
  Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail,
  Worth the relation, to relate a tale.
  
  Medusa once had charms; to gain her love
  A rival crowd of envious lovers strove.
  
  They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace
  More moving features in a sweeter face.
  
  Yet above all, her length of hair, they own,
  In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone.
  
  Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd,
  Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd.
  
  In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd,
  And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid.
  
  The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away,
  Nor durst such bold impurity survey;
  But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes,
  Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes.
  
  These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear,
  The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare,
  Than they did lovers once, when shining hair.
  
  The End of the Fourth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Ninth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Theseus requests the God to tell his woes,
  Whence his maim'd brow, and whence his groans arose
  Whence thus the Calydonian stream reply'd,
  With twining reeds his careless tresses ty'd:
  Ungrateful is the tale; for who can bear,
  When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful war?
  
  Yet I'll the melancholy story trace;
  So great a conqu'ror softens the disgrace:
  Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield,
  As great, and glorious to dispute the field.
  
  The Story of      Perhaps you've heard of Deianira's name,
  Achelous and    For all the country spoke her beauty's fame.
  
  Hercules      Long was the nymph by num'rous suitors woo'd,
  Each with address his envy'd hopes pursu'd:
  I joyn'd the loving band; to gain the fair,
  Reveal'd my passion to her father's ear.
  
  Their vain pretensions all the rest resign,
  Alcides only strove to equal mine;
  He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils,
  His step-dame's hate subdu'd, and finish'd toils.
  
  Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare?
  
  Behold a God; mine is the watry care:
  Through your wide realms I take my mazy way,
  Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray:
  No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores,
  But one who rises in your native shores.
  
  Let not his punishment your pity move;
  Is Juno's hate an argument for love?
  
  Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew,
  Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true.
  
  Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost,
  Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast.
  
  While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain,
  Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain,
  Which thus break forth.
  
  This arm decides our right;
  Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight.
  
  Bold he rush'd on.
  
  My honour to maintain,
  I fling my verdant garments on the plain,
  My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare,
  And with bent hands expect the furious war.
  
  O'er my sleek skin now gather'd dust he throws,
  And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows.
  
  Oft he my neck, and nimble legs assails,
  He seems to grasp me, but as often fails.
  
  Each part he now invades with eager hand;
  Safe in my bulk, immoveable I stand.
  
  So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar
  Against some mole that stretches from the shore;
  The firm foundation lasting tempests braves,
  Defies the warring winds, and driving waves.
  
  A-while we breathe, then forward rush amain,
  Renew the combat, and our ground maintain;
  Foot strove with foot, I prone extend my breast,
  Hands war with hands, and forehead forehead prest.
  
  Thus have I seen two furious bulls engage,
  Inflam'd with equal love, and equal rage;
  Each claims the fairest heifer of the grove,
  And conquest only can decide their love:
  The trembling herds survey the fight from far,
  'Till victory decides th' important war.
  
  Three times in vain he strove my joints to wrest,
  To force my hold, and throw me from his breast;
  The fourth he broke my gripe, that clasp'd him
  round,
  Then with new force he stretch'd me on the ground;
  Close to my back the mighty burthen clung,
  As if a mountain o'er my limbs were flung.
  
  Believe my tale; nor do I, boastful, aim
  By feign'd narration to extol my fame.
  
  No sooner from his grasp I freedom get,
  Unlock my arms, that flow'd with trickling sweat,
  But quick he seized me, and renew'd the strife,
  As my exhausted bosom pants for life:
  My neck he gripes, my knee to earth he strains;
  I fall, and bite the sand with shame, and pains.
  
  O'er-match'd in strength, to wiles, and arts I
  take,
  And slip his hold, in form of speckled snake;
  Who, when I wreath'd in spires my body round,
  Or show'd my forky tongue with hissing sound,
  Smiles at my threats: Such foes my cradle knew,
  He cries, dire snakes my infant hand o'erthrew;
  A dragon's form might other conquests gain,
  To war with me you take that shape in vain.
  
  Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's length,
  Who by his wounds receiv'd augmented strength?
  
  He rais'd a hundred hissing heads in air;
  When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful pair.
  
  By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong,
  Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along.
  
  What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone,
  To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own?
  
  He said; and round my neck his hands he cast,
  And with his straining fingers wrung me fast;
  My throat he tortur'd, close as pincers clasp,
  In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp.
  
  Thus vanquish'd too, a third form still remains,
  Chang'd to a bull, my lowing fills the plains.
  
  Strait on the left his nervous arms were thrown
  Upon my brindled neck, and tugg'd it down;
  Then deep he struck my horn into the sand,
  And fell'd my bulk among the dusty land.
  
  Nor yet his fury cool'd; 'twixt rage and scorn,
  From my maim'd front he tore the stubborn horn:
  This, heap'd with flow'rs, and fruits, the Naiads
  bear,
  Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year.
  
  He spoke; when lo, a beauteous nymph appears,
  Girt like Diana's train, with flowing hairs;
  The horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd,
  And ruddy apples for the second board.
  
  Now morn begins to dawn, the sun's bright fire
  Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire;
  Nor stay'd they, 'till the troubled stream
  subsides,
  And in its bounds with peaceful current glides.
  
  But Achelous in his oozy bed
  Deep hides his brow deform'd, and rustick head:
  No real wound the victor's triumph show'd,
  But his lost honours griev'd the watry God;
  Yet ev'n that loss the willow's leaves o'erspread,
  And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head.
  
  The Death of      This virgin too, thy love, O Nessus, found,
  Nessus the     To her alone you owe the fatal wound.
  
  Centaur      As the strong son of Jove his bride conveys,
  Where his paternal lands their bulwarks raise;
  Where from her slopy urn, Evenus pours
  Her rapid current, swell'd by wintry show'rs,
  He came.
  
  The frequent eddies whirl'd the tide,
  And the deep rolling waves all pass deny'd.
  
  As for himself, he stood unmov'd by fears,
  For now his bridal charge employ'd his cares,
  The strong-limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd
  (For he the shallows of the stream had try'd),
  Swim thou, Alcides, all thy strength prepare,
  On yonder bank I'll lodge thy nuptial care.
  
  Th' Aonian chief to Nessus trusts his wife,
  All pale, and trembling for her heroe's life:
  Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce lion's hide,
  The laden quiver o'er his shoulder ty'd
  (For cross the stream his bow and club were cast),
  Swift he plung'd in: These billows shall be past,
  He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide,
  But stem'd the rapid dangers of the tide.
  
  The bank he reach'd; again the bow he bears;
  When, hark! his bride's known voice alarms his
  ears.
  
  Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries)
  Vain is thy trust in flight, be timely wise:
  Thou monster double-shap'd, my right set free;
  If thou no rev'rence owe my fame and me,
  Yet kindred should thy lawless lust deny;
  Think not, perfidious wretch, from me to fly,
  Tho' wing'd with horse's speed; wounds shall
  pursue;
  Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew:
  The centaur's back admits the feather'd wood,
  And thro' his breast the barbed weapon stood;
  Which when, in anguish, thro' the flesh he tore,
  From both the wounds gush'd forth the spumy gore
  Mix'd with Lernaean venom; this he took,
  Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook.
  
  His garment, in the reeking purple dy'd,
  To rouse love's passion, he presents the bride.
  
  The Death of      Now a long interval of time succeeds,
  Hercules      When the great son of Jove's immortal deeds,
  And step-dame's hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost
  round;
  He from Oechalia, with new lawrels crown'd,
  In triumph was return'd.
  
  He rites prepares,
  And to the King of Gods directs his pray'rs;
  When Fame (who falshood cloaths in truth's
  disguise,
  And swells her little bulk with growing lies)
  Thy tender ear, o Deianira, mov'd,
  That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd.
  
  Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears
  Of his new passion, and gives way to tears.
  
  The flowing tears diffus'd her wretched grief,
  Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief?
  
  She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless cares,
  The harlot will but triumph in thy tears:
  Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's time;
  My bed not conscious of a rival's crime.
  
  In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain?
  
  Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain?
  
  What tho', ally'd to Meleager's fame,
  I boast the honours of a sister's name?
  
  My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue
  Some desp'rate deed, by which the world shall view
  How far revenge, and woman's rage can rise,
  When weltring in her blood the harlot dies.
  
  Thus various passions rul'd by turns her breast,
  She now resolves to send the fatal vest,
  Dy'd with Lernaean gore, whose pow'r might move
  His soul anew, and rouse declining love.
  
  Nor knew she what her sudden rage bestows,
  When she to Lychas trusts her future woes;
  With soft endearments she the boy commands,
  To bear the garment to her husband's hands.
  
  Th' unwitting hero takes the gift in haste,
  And o'er his shoulders Lerna's poison cast,
  As first the fire with frankincense he strows,
  And utters to the Gods his holy vows;
  And on the marble altar's polish'd frame
  Pours forth the grapy stream; the rising flame
  Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous juice,
  Which taints his blood, and all his nerves bedews.
  
  With wonted fortitude he bore the smart,
  And not a groan confess'd his burning heart.
  
  At length his patience was subdu'd by pain,
  He rends the sacred altar from the plain;
  Oete's wide forests echo with his cries:
  Now to rip off the deathful robe he tries.
  
  Where-e'er he plucks the vest, the skin he tears,
  The mangled muscles, and huge bones he bares
  (A ghastful sight!), or raging with his pain,
  To rend the sticking plague he tugs in vain.
  
  As the red iron hisses in the flood,
  So boils the venom in his curdling blood.
  
  Now with the greedy flame his entrails glow,
  And livid sweats down all his body flow;
  The cracking nerves burnt up are burst in twain,
  The lurking venom melts his swimming brain.
  
  Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries,
  Glut thy revenge, dread Empress of the skies;
  Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart,
  Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart.
  
  Or, if e'er pity mov'd a hostile breast
  (For here I stand thy enemy profest),
  Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn,
  Inur'd to trouble, and to labours born.
  
  Death is the gift most welcome to my woe,
  And such a gift a stepdame may bestow.
  
  Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd,
  Whose barb'rous temples reek'd with strangers'
  blood?
  
  Press'd in these arms his fate Antaeus found,
  Nor gain'd recruited vigour from the ground.
  
  Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell?
  
  Or did I fear the triple dog of Hell?
  
  Did not these hands the bull's arm'd forehead hold?
  
  Are not our mighty toils in Elis told?
  
  Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame?
  
  And fair Parthenian woods resound thy name?
  
  Who seiz'd the golden belt of Thermodon?
  
  And who the dragon-guarded apples won?
  
  Could the fierce centaur's strength my force
  withstand,
  Or the fell boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian land?
  
  Did not these arms the Hydra's rage subdue,
  Who from his wounds to double fury grew?
  
  What if the Thracian horses, fat with gore,
  Who human bodies in their mangers tore,
  I saw, and with their barb'rous lord o'erthrew?
  
  What if these hands Nemaea's lion slew?
  
  Did not this neck the heav'nly globe sustain?
  
  The female partner of the Thunderer's reign
  Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh commands,
  Yet no fatigue hath slack'd these valiant hands.
  
  But now new plagues pursue me, neither force,
  Nor arms, nor darts can stop their raging course.
  
  Devouring flame thro' my rack'd entrails strays,
  And on my lungs and shrivel'd muscles preys.
  
  Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital air.
  
  What mortal now shall seek the Gods with pray'r?
  
  The          The hero said; and with the torture stung,
  Transformation   Furious o'er Oete's lofty hills he sprung.
  
  of Lychas     Stuck with the shaft, thus scours the tyger round,
  into a Rock    And seeks the flying author of his wound.
  
  Now might you see him trembling, now he vents
  His anguish'd soul in groans, and loud laments;
  He strives to tear the clinging vest in vain,
  And with up-rooted forests strows the plain;
  Now kindling into rage, his hands he rears,
  And to his kindred Gods directs his pray'rs.
  
  When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew,
  And in a hollow rock conceal'd from view,
  Had shun'd his wrath.
  
  Now grief renew'd his pain,
  His madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again.
  
  Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe,
  Who bore the gift, the cause of all my woe.
  
  The youth all pale, with shiv'ring fear was stung,
  And vain excuses falter'd on his tongue.
  
  Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant face
  He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace:
  He toss'd him o'er his head with airy course,
  And hurl'd with more than with an engine's force;
  Far o'er th' Eubaean main aloof he flies,
  And hardens by degrees amid the skies.
  
  So showry drops, when chilly tempests blow,
  Thicken at first, then whiten into snow,
  In balls congeal'd the rolling fleeces bound,
  In solid hail result upon the ground.
  
  Thus, whirl'd with nervous force thro' distant air,
  The purple tide forsook his veins, with fear;
  All moisture left his limbs.
  
  Transform'd to stone,
  In ancient days the craggy flint was known;
  Still in the Eubaean waves his front he rears,
  Still the small rock in human form appears,
  And still the name of hapless Lychas bears.
  
  The Apotheosis     But now the hero of immortal birth
  of Hercules    Fells Oete's forests on the groaning Earth;
  A pile he builds; to Philoctetes' care
  He leaves his deathful instruments of war;
  To him commits those arrows, which again
  Shall see the bulwarks of the Trojan reign.
  
  The son of Paean lights the lofty pyre,
  High round the structure climbs the greedy fire;
  Plac'd on the top, thy nervous shoulders spread
  With the Nemaean spoils, thy careless head
  Rais'd on a knotty club, with look divine,
  Here thou, dread hero, of celestial line,
  Wert stretch'd at ease; as when a chearful guest,
  Wine crown'd thy bowls, and flow'rs thy temples
  drest.
  
  Now on all sides the potent flames aspire,
  And crackle round those limbs that mock the fire
  A sudden terror seiz'd th' immortal host,
  Who thought the world's profess'd defender lost.
  
  This when the Thund'rer saw, with smiles he cries,
  'Tis from your fears, ye Gods, my pleasures rise;
  Joy swells my breast, that my all-ruling hand
  O'er such a grateful people boasts command,
  That you my suff'ring progeny would aid;
  Tho' to his deeds this just respect be paid,
  Me you've oblig'd.
  
  Be all your fears forborn,
  Th' Oetean fires do thou, great hero, scorn.
  
  Who vanquish'd all things, shall subdue the flame.
  
  That part alone of gross maternal frame
  Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew
  Shall live immortal, and its force subdue;
  That, when he's dead, I'll raise to realms above;
  May all the Pow'rs the righteous act approve.
  
  If any God dissent, and judge too great
  The sacred honours of the heav'nly seat,
  Ev'n he shall own his deeds deserve the sky,
  Ev'n he reluctant, shall at length comply.
  
  Th' assembled Pow'rs assent.
  
  No frown 'till now
  Had mark'd with passion vengeful Juno's brow,
  Mean-while whate'er was in the pow'r of flame
  Was all consum'd; his body's nervous frame
  No more was known, of human form bereft,
  Th' eternal part of Jove alone was left.
  
  As an old serpent casts his scaly vest,
  Wreathes in the sun, in youthful glory drest;
  So when Alcides mortal mold resign'd,
  His better part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd;
  August his visage shone; almighty Jove
  In his swift carr his honour'd offspring drove;
  High o'er the hollow clouds the coursers fly,
  And lodge the hero in the starry sky.
  
  The          Atlas perceiv'd the load of Heav'n's new guest.
  
  Transformation   Revenge still rancour'd in Eurystheus' breast
  of Galanthis    Against Alcides' race.
  
  Alcmena goes
  To Iole, to vent maternal woes;
  Here she pours forth her grief, recounts the spoils
  Her son had bravely reap'd in glorious toils.
  
  This Iole, by Hercules' commands,
  Hyllus had lov'd, and joyn'd in nuptial bands.
  
  Her swelling womb the teeming birth confess'd,
  To whom Alcmena thus her speech address'd.
  
  O, may the Gods protect thee, in that hour,
  When, 'midst thy throws, thou call'st th' Ilithyan
  Pow'r!
  May no delays prolong thy racking pain,
  As when I su'd for Juno's aid in vain.
  
  When now Alcides' mighty birth drew nigh,
  And the tenth sign roll'd forward on the sky,
  My womb extends with such a mighty load,
  As Jove the parent of the burthen show'd.
  
  I could no more th' encreasing smart sustain,
  My horror kindles to recount the pain;
  Cold chills my limbs while I the tale pursue,
  And now methinks I feel my pangs anew.
  
  Seven days and nights amidst incessant throws,
  Fatigu'd with ills I lay, nor knew repose;
  When lifting high my hands, in shrieks I pray'd,
  Implor'd the Gods, and call'd Lucina's aid.
  
  She came, but prejudic'd, to give my Fate
  A sacrifice to vengeful Juno's hate.
  
  She hears the groaning anguish of my fits,
  And on the altar at my door she sits.
  
  O'er her left knee her crossing leg she cast,
  Then knits her fingers close, and wrings them fast:
  This stay'd the birth; in mutt'ring verse she
  pray'd,
  The mutt'ring verse th' unfinish'd birth delay'd.
  
  Now with fierce struggles, raging with my pain,
  At Jove's ingratitude I rave in vain.
  
  How did I wish for death! such groans I sent,
  As might have made the flinty heart relent.
  
  Now the Cadmeian matrons round me press,
  Offer their vows, and seek to bring redress;
  Among the Theban dames Galanthis stands,
  Strong limb'd, red hair'd, and just to my commands:
  She first perceiv'd that all these racking woes
  From the persisting hate of Juno rose.
  
  As here and there she pass'd, by chance she sees
  The seated Goddess; on her close-press'd knees
  Her fast-knit hands she leans; with chearful voice
  Galanthis cries, Whoe'er thou art, rejoyce,
  Congratulate the dame, she lies at rest,
  At length the Gods Alcmena's womb have blest.
  
  Swift from her seat the startled Goddess springs,
  No more conceal'd, her hands abroad she flings;
  The charm unloos'd, the birth my pangs reliev'd;
  Galanthis' laughter vex'd the Pow'r deceiv'd.
  
  Fame says, the Goddess dragg'd the laughing maid
  Fast by the hair; in vain her force essay'd
  Her grov'ling body from the ground to rear;
  Chang'd to fore-feet her shrinking arms appear:
  Her hairy back her former hue retains,
  The form alone is lost; her strength remains;
  Who, since the lye did from her mouth proceed,
  Shall from her pregnant mouth bring forth her
  breed;
  Nor shall she quit her long-frequented home,
  But haunt those houses where she lov'd to roam.
  
  The Fable of      She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs;
  Dryope       When the fair consort of her son replies;
  Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan,
  And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own,
  Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
  A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate.
  
  No nymph of all Oechaloa could compare
  For beauteous form with Dryope the fair;
  Her tender mother's only hope and pride
  (My self the offspring of a second bride),
  This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day,
  Whom Delphi, and the Delian isle obey,
  Andraemon lov'd; and blest in all those charms
  That pleas'd a God, succeeded to her arms.
  
  A lake there was, with shelving banks around,
  Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd.
  
  Those shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought;
  And to the Naiads flow'ry garlands brought;
  Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she prest
  Between her arms, and nourish'd at her breast.
  
  Not distant far a watry lotos grows;
  The Spring was new, and all the verdant boughs,
  Acorn'd with blossoms, promis'd fruits that vye
  In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye.
  
  Of these she cropt, to please her infant son,
  And I my self the same rash act had done,
  But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood)
  The violated blossoms drop with blood;
  Upon the tree I cast a frightful look,
  The trembling tree with sudden horror shook.
  
  Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true)
  As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew,
  Forsook her form; and fixing here became
  A flow'ry plant, which still preserves her name.
  
  This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight,
  My trembling sister strove to urge her flight;
  Yet first the pardon of the Nymphs implor'd,
  And those offended Sylvan pow'rs ador'd:
  But when she backward would have fled, she found
  Her stiff'ning feet were rooted to the ground:
  In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove,
  And as she struggles only moves above;
  She feels th' incroaching bark around her grow,
  By slow degrees, and cover all below:
  Surpriz'd at this, her trembling hand she heaves
  To rend her hair; her hand is fill'd with leaves;
  Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen
  To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.
  
  The Child Amphisus, to her bosom prest,
  Perceiv'd a colder and a harder breast,
  And found the springs, that n'er 'till then deny'd
  Their milky moisture, on a sudden dry'd.
  
  I saw, unhappy, what I now relate,
  And stood the helpless witness of thy fate;
  Embrac'd thy boughs, the rising bark delay'd,
  There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade.
  
  Behold Andraemon, and th' unhappy sire
  Appear, and for their Dryope enquire;
  A springing tree for Dryope they find,
  And print warm kisses on the panting rind;
  Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew,
  And close embrac'd, as to the roots they grew;
  The face was all that now remain'd of thee;
  No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree:
  Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
  From ev'ry leaf distills a trickling tear;
  And strait a voice, while yet a voice remains,
  Thus thro' the trembling boughs in sighs complains.
  
  If to the wretched any faith be giv'n,
  I swear by all th' unpitying Pow'rs of Heav'n,
  No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred,
  In mutual innocence our lives we led.
  
  If this be false, let these new greens decay,
  Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,
  And crackling flames on all my honours prey.
  
  Now from my branching arms this infant bear,
  Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care;
  Yet to his mother let him oft be led,
  Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed;
  Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame
  Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name,
  To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes,
  Within this plant my hapless parent lies;
  And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,
  Oh, let him fly the chrystal lakes and floods,
  Nor touch the fatal flow'rs; but warn'd by me,
  Believe a Goddess shrin'd in ev'ry tree.
  
  My sire, my sister, and my spouse farewel!
  If in your breasts or love, or pity, dwell,
  Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel
  The browzing cattle, or the piercing steel.
  
  Farewel! and since I cannot bend to join
  My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.
  
  My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive,
  While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
  
  I can no more; the creeping rind invades
  My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:
  Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice,
  Without their aid, to seal these dying eyes.
  
  She ceas'd at once to speak, and ceas'd to be;
  And all the nymph was lost within the tree:
  Yet latent life thro' her new branches reign'd,
  And long the plant a human heat retain'd.
  
  Iolaus restor'd    While Iole the fatal change declares,
  to Youth      Alcmena's pitying hand oft wip'd her tears.
  
  Grief too stream'd down her cheeks; soon sorrow
  flies,
  And rising joy the trickling moisture dries,
  Lo Iolaus stands before their eyes.
  
  A youth he stood; and the soft down began
  O'er his smooth chin to spread, and promise man.
  
  Hebe submitted to her husband's pray'rs,
  Instill'd new vigour, and restor'd his years.
  
  The Prophecy of    Now from her lips a solemn oath had past,
  Themis       That Iolaus this gift alone shou'd taste,
  Had not just Themis thus maturely said
  (Which check'd her vow, and aw'd the blooming
  maid).
  
  Thebes is embroil'd in war.
  
  Capaneus stands
  Invincible, but by the Thund'rer's hands.
  
  Ambition shall the guilty brothers fire,
  Both rush to mutual wounds, and both expire.
  
  The reeling Earth shall ope her gloomy womb,
  Where the yet breathing bard shall find his tomb.
  
  The son shall bath his hands in parents' blood,
  And in one act be both unjust, and good.
  
  Of home, and sense depriv'd, where-e'er he flies,
  The Furies, and his mother's ghost he spies.
  
  His wife the fatal bracelet shall implore,
  And Phegeus stain his sword in kindred gore.
  
  Callirhoe shall then with suppliant pray'r
  Prevail on Jupiter's relenting ear.
  
  Jove shall with youth her infant sons inspire,
  And bid their bosoms glow with manly fire.
  
  The Debate of     When Themis thus with prescient voice had spoke,
  the Gods      Among the Gods a various murmur broke;
  Dissention rose in each immortal breast,
  That one should grant, what was deny'd the rest.
  
  Aurora for her aged spouse complains,
  And Ceres grieves for Jason's freezing veins;
  Vulcan would Erichthonius' years renew,
  Her future race the care of Venus drew,
  She would Anchises' blooming age restore;
  A diff'rent care employ'd each heav'nly Pow'r:
  Thus various int'rests did their jars encrease,
  'Till Jove arose; he spoke, their tumults cease.
  
  Is any rev'rence to our presence giv'n,
  Then why this discord 'mong the Pow'rs of Heav'n?
  
  Who can the settled will of Fate subdue?
  
  'Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew
  A second youth.
  
  The Fates' determin'd doom
  Shall give Callirhoe's race a youthful bloom.
  
  Arms, nor ambition can this pow'r obtain;
  Quell your desires; ev'n me the Fates restrain.
  
  Could I their will controul, no rolling years
  Had Aeacus bent down with silver hairs;
  Then Rhadamanthus still had youth possess'd,
  And Minos with eternal bloom been bless'd.
  
  Jove's words the synod mov'd; the Pow'rs give o'er,
  And urge in vain unjust complaint no more.
  
  Since Rhadamanthus' veins now slowly flow'd,
  And Aeacus, and Minos bore the load;
  Minos, who in the flow'r of youth, and fame,
  Made mighty nations tremble at his name,
  Infirm with age, the proud Miletus fears,
  Vain of his birth, and in the strength of years,
  And now regarding all his realms as lost,
  He durst not force him from his native coast.
  
  But you by choice, Miletus, fled his reign,
  And thy swift vessel plow'd th' Aegean main;
  On Asiatick shores a town you frame,
  Which still is honour'd with the founder's name.
  
  Here you Cyanee knew, the beauteous maid,
  As on her father's winding banks she stray'd:
  Caunus and Byblis hence their lineage trace,
  The double offspring of your warm embrace.
  
  The Passion of     Let the sad fate of wretched Byblis prove
  of Byblis     A dismal warning to unlawful love;
  One birth gave being to the hapless pair,
  But more was Caunus than a sister's care;
  Unknown she lov'd, for yet the gentle fire
  Rose not in flames, nor kindled to desire,
  'Twas thought no sin to wonder at his charms,
  Hang on his neck, and languish in his arms;
  Thus wing'd with joy, fled the soft hours away,
  And all the fatal guilt on harmless Nature lay.
  
  But love (too soon from piety declin'd)
  Insensibly deprav'd her yielding mind.
  
  Dress'd she appears, with nicest art adorn'd,
  And ev'ry youth, but her lov'd brother, scorn'd;
  For him alone she labour'd to be fair,
  And curst all charms that might with hers compare.
  
  'Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please,
  Sick at her heart, yet knew not her disease:
  She call'd him lord, for brother was a name
  Too cold, and dull for her aspiring flame;
  And when he spoke, if sister he reply'd,
  For Byblis change that frozen word, she cry'd.
  
  Yet waking still she watch'd her strugling breast,
  And love's approaches were in vain address'd,
  'Till gentle sleep an easy conquest made,
  And in her soft embrace the conqueror was laid.
  
  But oh too soon the pleasing vision fled,
  And left her blushing on the conscious bed:
  Ah me! (she cry'd) how monstrous do I seem?
  
  Why these wild thoughts?
  
  and this incestuous dream?
  
  Envy herself ('tis true) must own his charms,
  But what is beauty in a sister's arms?
  
  Oh were I not that despicable she,
  How bless'd, how pleas'd, how happy shou'd I be!
  But unregarded now must bear my pain,
  And but in dreams, my wishes can obtain.
  
  O sea-born Goddess! with thy wanton boy!
  Was ever such a charming scene of joy?
  
  Such perfect bliss! such ravishing delight!
  Ne'er hid before in the kind shades of night.
  
  How pleas'd my heart! in what sweet raptures tost!
  Ev'n life it self in the soft combat lost,
  While breathless he on my heav'd bosom lay,
  And snatch'd the treasures of my soul away.
  
  If the bare fancy so affects my mind,
  How shou'd I rave if to the substance join'd?
  
  Oh, gentle Caunus! quit thy hated line,
  Or let thy parents be no longer mine!
  Oh that in common all things were enjoy'd,
  But those alone who have our hopes destroy'd.
  
  Were I a princess, thou an humble swain,
  The proudest kings shou'd rival thee in vain.
  
  It cannot be, alas! the dreadful ill
  Is fix'd by Fate, and he's my brother still.
  
  Hear me, ye Gods! I must have friends in Heav'n,
  For Jove himself was to a sister giv'n:
  But what are their prerogatives above,
  To the short liberties of human love?
  
  Fantastick thoughts! down, down, forbidden fires,
  Or instant death extinguish my desires.
  
  Strict virtue, then, with thy malicious leave,
  Without a crime I may a kiss receive:
  But say shou'd I in spight of laws comply,
  Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny,
  No pity take of an afflicted maid
  (For love's sweet game must be by couples play'd).
  
  Yet why shou'd youth, and charms like mine,
  despair?
  
  Such fears ne'er startled the Aeolian pair;
  No ties of blood could their full hopes destroy,
  They broke thro' all, for the prevailing joy;
  And who can tell but Caunus too may be
  Rack'd and tormented in his breast for me?
  
  Like me, to the extreamest anguish drove,
  Like me, just waking from a dream of love?
  
  But stay! Oh whither wou'd my fury run!
  What arguments I urge to be undone!
  Away fond Byblis, quench these guilty flames;
  Caunus thy love but as brother claims;
  Yet had he first been touch'd with love of me,
  The charming youth cou'd I despairing see?
  
  Oppress'd with grief, and dying by disdain?
  
  Ah no! too sure I shou'd have eas'd his pain!
  Since then, if Caunus ask'd me, it were done;
  Asking my self, what dangers can I run?
  
  But canst thou ask?
  
  and see that right betray'd,
  From Pyrrha down to thy whole sex convey'd?
  
  That self-denying gift we all enjoy,
  Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy.
  
  Well then, for once, let a fond mistress woo;
  The force of love no custom can subdue;
  This frantick passion he by words shall know,
  Soft as the melting heart from whence they flow.
  
  The pencil then in her fair hand she held,
  By fear discourag'd, but by love compell'd
  She writes, then blots, writes on, and blots again,
  Likes it as fit, then razes it as vain:
  Shame, and assurance in her face appear,
  And a faint hope just yielding to despair;
  Sister was wrote, and blotted as a word
  Which she, and Caunus too (she hop'd) abhorr'd;
  But now resolv'd to be no more controul'd
  By scrup'lous virtue, thus her grief she told.
  
  Thy lover (gentle Caunus) wishes thee
  That health, which thou alone canst give to me.
  
  O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow,
  Ere thou the name of the fond writer know;
  To thee without a name I would be known,
  Since knowing that, my frailty I must own.
  
  Yet why shou'd I my wretched name conceal?
  
  When thousand instances my flames reveal:
  Wan looks, and weeping eyes have spoke my pain,
  And sighs discharg'd from my heav'd heart in vain;
  Had I not wish'd my passion might be seen,
  What cou'd such fondness and embraces mean?
  
  Such kisses too! (Oh heedless lovely boy)
  Without a crime no sister cou'd enjoy:
  Yet (tho' extreamest rage has rack'd my soul,
  And raging fires in my parch'd bosom roul)
  Be witness, Gods! how piously I strove,
  To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love.
  
  But who cou'd scape so fierce, and sure a dart,
  Aim'd at a tender, and defenceless heart?
  
  Alas! what maid cou'd suffer, I have born,
  Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn;
  To thee a helpless vanquish'd wretch I come,
  'Tis you alone can save, or give my doom;
  My life, or death this moment you may chuse.
  
  Yet think, oh think, no hated stranger sues,
  No foe; but one, alas! too near ally'd,
  And wishing still much nearer to be ty'd.
  
  The forms of decency let age debate,
  And virtue's rules by their cold morals state;
  Their ebbing joys give leisure to enquire,
  And blame those noble flights our youth inspire:
  Where Nature kindly summons let us go,
  Our sprightly years no bounds in love shou'd know,
  Shou'd feel no check of guilt, and fear no ill;
  Lovers, and Gods act all things at their will:
  We gain one blessing from our hated kin,
  Since our paternal freedom hides the sin;
  Uncensur'd in each other's arms we lye,
  Think then how easie to compleat our joy.
  
  Oh, pardon and oblige a blushing maid,
  Whose rage the pride of her vain sex betray'd;
  Nor let my tomb thus mournfully complain,
  Here Byblis lies, by her lov'd Caunus slain.
  
  Forc'd here to end, she with a falling tear
  Temper'd the pliant wax, which did the signet bear:
  The curious cypher was impress'd by art,
  But love had stamp'd one deeper in her heart;
  Her page, a youth of confidence, and skill,
  (Secret as night) stood waiting on her will;
  Sighing (she cry'd): Bear this, thou faithful boy,
  To my sweet partner in eternal joy:
  Here a long pause her secret guilt confess'd,
  And when at length she would have spoke the rest,
  Half the dear name lay bury'd in her breast.
  
  Thus as he listned to her vain command,
  Down fell the letter from her trembling hand.
  
  The omen shock'd her soul.
  
  Yet go, she cry'd;
  Can a request from Byblis be deny'd?
  
  To the Maeandrian youth this message's born,
  The half-read lines by his fierce rage were torn;
  Hence, hence, he cry'd, thou pandar to her lust,
  Bear hence the triumph of thy impious trust:
  Thy instant death will but divulge her shame,
  Or thy life's blood shou'd quench the guilty flame.
  
  Frighted, from threatning Caunus he withdrew,
  And with the dreadful news to his lost mistress
  flew.
  
  The sad repulse so struck the wounded fair,
  Her sense was bury'd in her wild despair;
  Pale was her visage, as the ghastly dead;
  And her scar'd soul from the sweet mansion fled;
  Yet with her life renew'd, her love returns,
  And faintly thus her cruel fate she mourns:
  'Tis just, ye Gods! was my false reason blind?
  
  To write a secret of this tender kind?
  
  With female craft I shou'd at first have strove,
  By dubious hints to sound his distant love;
  And try'd those useful, tho' dissembled, arts,
  Which women practise on disdainful hearts:
  I shou'd have watch'd whence the black storm might
  rise;
  Ere I had trusted the unfaithful skies.
  
  Now on the rouling billows I am tost,
  And with extended sails, on the blind shelves am
  lost.
  
  Did not indulgent Heav'n my doom foretell,
  When from my hand the fatal letter fell?
  
  What madness seiz'd my soul?
  
  and urg'd me on
  To take the only course to be undone?
  
  I cou'd my self have told the moving tale
  With such alluring grace as must prevail;
  Then had his eyes beheld my blushing fears,
  My rising sighs, and my descending tears;
  Round his dear neck these arms I then had spread,
  And, if rejected, at his feet been dead:
  If singly these had not his thoughts inclin'd,
  Yet all united would have shock'd his mind.
  
  Perhaps, my careless page might be in fault,
  And in a luckless hour the fatal message brought;
  Business, and worldly thoughts might fill his
  breast,
  Sometimes ev'n love itself may be an irksome guest:
  He cou'd not else have treated me with scorn,
  For Caunus was not of a tygress born;
  Nor steel, nor adamant has fenc'd his heart;
  Like mine, 'tis naked to the burning dart.
  
  Away false fears! he must, he shall be mine;
  In death alone I will my claim resign;
  'Tis vain to wish my written crime unknown,
  And for my guilt much vainer to atone.
  
  Repuls'd and baffled, fiercer still she burns,
  And Caunus with disdain her impious love returns.
  
  He saw no end of her injurious flame,
  And fled his country to avoid the shame.
  
  Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more;
  Burst out in rage, and her loose robes she tore;
  With her fair hands she smote her tender breast,
  And to the wond'ring world her love confess'd;
  O'er hills and dales, o'er rocks and streams she
  flew,
  But still in vain did her wild lust pursue:
  Wearied at length, on the cold earth she fell,
  And now in tears alone could her sad story tell.
  
  Relenting Gods in pity fix'd her there,
  And to a fountain turn'd the weeping fair.
  
  The Fable of      The fame of this, perhaps, thro' Crete had flown:
  Iphis and     But Crete had newer wonders of her own,
  Ianthe       In Iphis chang'd; for, near the Gnossian bounds
  (As loud report the miracle resounds),
  At Phaestus dwelt a man of honest blood,
  But meanly born, and not so rich as good;
  Esteem'd, and lov'd by all the neighbourhood;
  Who to his wife, before the time assign'd
  For child-birth came, thus bluntly spoke his mind.
  
  If Heav'n, said Lygdus, will vouchsafe to hear,
  I have but two petitions to prefer;
  Short pains for thee, for me a son and heir.
  
  Girls cost as many throes in bringing forth;
  Beside, when born, the titts are little worth;
  Weak puling things, unable to sustain
  Their share of labour, and their bread to gain.
  
  If, therefore, thou a creature shalt produce,
  Of so great charges, and so little use
  (Bear witness, Heav'n, with what reluctancy),
  Her hapless innocence I doom to die.
  
  He said, and common tears the common grief display,
  Of him who bad, and her who must obey.
  
  Yet Telethusa still persists, to find
  Fit arguments to move a father's mind;
  T' extend his wishes to a larger scope,
  And in one vessel not confine his hope.
  
  Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near,
  And she her heavy load could scarcely bear;
  When slumbring, in the latter shades of night,
  Before th' approaches of returning light,
  She saw, or thought she saw, before her bed,
  A glorious train, and Isis at their head:
  Her moony horns were on her forehead plac'd,
  And yellow shelves her shining temples grac'd:
  A mitre, for a crown, she wore on high;
  The dog, and dappl'd bull were waiting by;
  Osyris, sought along the banks of Nile;
  The silent God: the sacred crocodile;
  And, last, a long procession moving on,
  With timbrels, that assist the lab'ring moon.
  
  Her slumbers seem'd dispell'd, and, broad awake,
  She heard a voice, that thus distinctly spake.
  
  My votary, thy babe from death defend,
  Nor fear to save whate'er the Gods will send.
  
  Delude with art thy husband's dire decree:
  When danger calls, repose thy trust on me:
  And know thou hast not serv'd a thankless deity.
  
  This promise made, with night the Goddess fled;
  With joy the woman wakes, and leaves her bed;
  Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high,
  And prays the Pow'rs their gift to ratifie.
  
  Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throes,
  'Till its own weight the burden did disclose.
  
  'Twas of the beauteous kind, and brought to light
  With secrecy, to shun the father's sight.
  
  Th' indulgent mother did her care employ,
  And past it on her husband for a boy.
  
  The nurse was conscious of the fact alone;
  The father paid his vows as for a son;
  And call'd him Iphis, by a common name,
  Which either sex with equal right may claim.
  
  Iphis his grandsire was; the wife was pleas'd,
  Of half the fraud by Fortune's favour eas'd:
  The doubtful name was us'd without deceit,
  And truth was cover'd with a pious cheat.
  
  The habit show'd a boy, the beauteous face
  With manly fierceness mingled female grace.
  
  Now thirteen years of age were swiftly run,
  When the fond father thought the time drew on
  Of settling in the world his only son.
  
  Ianthe was his choice; so wondrous fair,
  Her form alone with Iphis cou'd compare;
  A neighbour's daughter of his own degree,
  And not more bless'd with Fortune's goods than he.
  
  They soon espous'd; for they with ease were
  join'd,
  Who were before contracted in the mind.
  
  Their age the same, their inclinations too;
  And bred together, in one school they grew.
  
  Thus, fatally dispos'd to mutual fires,
  They felt, before they knew, the same desires.
  
  Equal their flame, unequal was their care;
  One lov'd with hope, one languish'd in despair.
  
  The maid accus'd the lingring day alone:
  For whom she thought a man, she thought her own.
  
  But Iphis bends beneath a greater grief;
  As fiercely burns, but hopes for no relief.
  
  Ev'n her despair adds fuel to her fire;
  A maid with madness does a maid desire.
  
  And, scarce refraining tears, Alas, said she,
  What issue of my love remains for me!
  How wild a passion works within my breast,
  With what prodigious flames am I possest!
  Could I the care of Providence deserve,
  Heav'n must destroy me, if it would preserve.
  
  And that's my fate, or sure it would have sent
  Some usual evil for my punishment:
  Not this unkindly curse; to rage, and burn,
  Where Nature shews no prospect of return.
  
  Nor cows for cows consume with fruitless fire;
  Nor mares, when hot, their fellow-mares desire:
  The father of the fold supplies his ewes;
  The stag through secret woods his hind pursues;
  And birds for mates the males of their own species
  chuse.
  
  Her females Nature guards from female flame,
  And joins two sexes to preserve the game:
  Wou'd I were nothing, or not what I am!
  Crete, fam'd for monsters, wanted of her store,
  'Till my new love produc'd one monster more.
  
  The daughter of the sun a bull desir'd,
  And yet ev'n then a male a female fir'd:
  Her passion was extravagantly new,
  But mine is much the madder of the two.
  
  To things impossible she was not bent,
  But found the means to compass her intent.
  
  To cheat his eyes she took a different shape;
  Yet still she gain'd a lover, and a leap.
  
  Shou'd all the wit of all the world conspire,
  Shou'd Daedalus assist my wild desire,
  What art can make me able to enjoy,
  Or what can change Ianthe to a boy?
  
  Extinguish then thy passion, hopeless maid,
  And recollect thy reason for thy aid.
  
  Know what thou art, and love as maidens ought,
  And drive these golden wishes from thy thought.
  
  Thou canst not hope thy fond desires to gain;
  Where hope is wanting, wishes are in vain.
  
  And yet no guards against our joys conspire;
  No jealous husband hinders our desire;
  My parents are propitious to my wish,
  And she herself consenting to the bliss.
  
  All things concur to prosper our design;
  All things to prosper any love but mine.
  
  And yet I never can enjoy the fair;
  'Tis past the pow'r of Heav'n to grant my pray'r.
  
  Heav'n has been kind, as far as Heav'n can be;
  Our parents with our own desires agree;
  But Nature, stronger than the Gods above,
  Refuses her assistance to my love;
  She sets the bar that causes all my pain;
  One gift refus'd, makes all their bounty vain.
  
  And now the happy day is just at hand,
  To bind our hearts in Hymen's holy band:
  Our hearts, but not our bodies: thus accurs'd,
  In midst of water I complain of thirst.
  
  Why com'st thou, Juno, to these barren rites,
  To bless a bed defrauded of delights?
  
  But why shou'd Hymen lift his torch on high,
  To see two brides in cold embraces lye?
  
  Thus love-sick Iphis her vain passion mourns;
  With equal ardour fair Ianthe burns,
  Invoking Hymen's name, and Juno's pow'r,
  To speed the work, and haste the happy hour.
  
  She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day,
  And strives to interpose some new delay:
  Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright
  For this bad omen, or that boding sight.
  
  But having done whate'er she could devise,
  And empty'd all her magazine of lies,
  The time approach'd; the next ensuing day
  The fatal secret must to light betray.
  
  Then Telethusa had recourse to pray'r,
  She, and her daughter with dishevel'd hair;
  Trembling with fear, great Isis they ador'd,
  Embrac'd her altar, and her aid implor'd.
  
  Fair queen, who dost on fruitful Egypt smile,
  Who sway'st the sceptre of the Pharian isle,
  And sev'n-fold falls of disemboguing Nile,
  Relieve, in this our last distress, she said,
  A suppliant mother, and a mournful maid.
  
  Thou, Goddess, thou wert present to my sight;
  Reveal'd I saw thee by thy own fair light:
  I saw thee in my dream, as now I see,
  With all thy marks of awful majesty:
  The glorious train that compass'd thee around;
  And heard the hollow timbrels holy sound.
  
  Thy words I noted, which I still retain;
  Let not thy sacred oracles be vain.
  
  That Iphis lives, that I myself am free
  From shame, and punishment, I owe to thee.
  
  On thy protection all our hopes depend.
  
  Thy counsel sav'd us, let thy pow'r defend.
  
  Her tears pursu'd her words; and while she spoke,
  The Goddess nodded, and her altar shook:
  The temple doors, as with a blast of wind,
  Were heard to clap; the lunar horns that bind
  The brows of Isis cast a blaze around;
  The trembling timbrel made a murm'ring sound.
  
  Some hopes these happy omens did impart;
  Forth went the mother with a beating heart:
  Not much in fear, nor fully satisfy'd;
  But Iphis follow'd with a larger stride:
  The whiteness of her skin forsook her face;
  Her looks embolden'd with an awful grace;
  Her features, and her strength together grew,
  And her long hair to curling locks withdrew.
  
  Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone,
  Big was her voice, audacious was her tone.
  
  The latent parts, at length reveal'd, began
  To shoot, and spread, and burnish into man.
  
  The maid becomes a youth; no more delay
  Your vows, but look, and confidently pay.
  
  Their gifts the parents to the temple bear:
  The votive tables this inscription wear;
  Iphis the man, has to the Goddess paid
  The vows, that Iphis offer'd when a maid.
  
  Now when the star of day had shewn his face,
  Venus and Juno with their presence grace
  The nuptial rites, and Hymen from above
  Descending to compleat their happy love;
  The Gods of marriage lend their mutual aid;
  And the warm youth enjoys the lovely maid.
  
  The End of the Ninth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Second Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THE Sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd,
  With burnish'd gold and flaming jewels blaz'd;
  The folding gates diffus'd a silver light,
  And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight;
  Of polish'd iv'ry was the cov'ring wrought:
  The Story of    The matter vied not with the sculptor's thought,
  Phaeton      For in the portal was display'd on high
  (The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky;
  A waving sea th' inferiour Earth embrac'd,
  And Gods and Goddesses the waters grac'd.
  
  Aegeon here a mighty whale bestrode;
  Triton, and Proteus (the deceiving God)
  With Doris here were carv'd, and all her train,
  Some loosely swimming in the figur'd main,
  While some on rocks their dropping hair divide,
  And some on fishes through the waters glide:
  Tho' various features did the sisters grace,
  A sister's likeness was in ev'ry face.
  
  On Earth a diff'rent landskip courts the eyes,
  Men, towns, and beasts in distant prospects rise,
  And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural
  deities.
  
  O'er all, the Heav'n's refulgent image shines;
  On either gate were six engraven signs.
  
  Here Phaeton still gaining on th' ascent,
  To his suspected father's palace went,
  'Till pressing forward through the bright abode,
  He saw at distance the illustrious God:
  He saw at distance, or the dazling light
  Had flash'd too strongly on his aking sight.
  
  The God sits high, exalted on a throne
  Of blazing gems, with purple garments on;
  The Hours, in order rang'd on either hand,
  And Days, and Months, and Years, and Ages stand.
  
  Here Spring appears with flow'ry chaplets bound;
  Here Summer in her wheaten garland crown'd;
  Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear;
  And hoary Winter shivers in the reer.
  
  Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne;
  That eye, which looks on all, was fix'd in one.
  
  He saw the boy's confusion in his face,
  Surpriz'd at all the wonders of the place;
  And cries aloud, "What wants my son?
  
  for know
  My son thou art, and I must call thee so.
  
  "
  "Light of the world," the trembling youth replies,
  "Illustrious parent! since you don't despise
  The parent's name, some certain token give,
  That I may Clymene's proud boast believe,
  Nor longer under false reproaches grieve.
  
  "
  The tender sire was touch'd with what he said,
  And flung the blaze of glories from his head,
  And bid the youth advance: "My son," said he,
  "Come to thy father's arms! for Clymene
  Has told thee true; a parent's name I own,
  And deem thee worthy to be called my son.
  
  As a sure proof, make some request, and I,
  Whate'er it be, with that request comply;
  By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night,
  And roul impervious to my piercing sight.
  
  "
  The youth transported, asks, without delay,
  To guide the sun's bright chariot for a day.
  
  The God repented of the oath he took,
  For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook;
  "My son," says he, "some other proof require,
  Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire.
  
  I'd fain deny this wish, which thou hast made,
  Or, what I can't deny, wou'd fain disswade.
  
  Too vast and hazardous the task appears,
  Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years.
  
  Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly
  Beyond the province of mortality:
  There is not one of all the Gods that dares
  (However skill'd in other great affairs)
  To mount the burning axle-tree, but I;
  Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky,
  That hurles the three-fork'd thunder from above,
  Dares try his strength: yet who so strong as Jove?
  
  The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain,
  And when the middle firmament they gain,
  If downward from the Heav'ns my head I bow,
  And see the Earth and Ocean hang below,
  Ev'n I am seiz'd with horror and affright,
  And my own heart misgives me at the sight.
  
  A mighty downfal steeps the ev'ning stage,
  And steddy reins must curb the horses' rage.
  
  Tethys herself has fear'd to see me driv'n
  Down headlong from the precipice of Heav'n.
  
  Besides, consider what impetuous force
  Turns stars and planets in a diff'rent course.
  
  I steer against their motions; nor am I
  Born back by all the current of the sky.
  
  But how cou'd you resist the orbs that roul
  In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole?
  
  But you perhaps may hope for pleasing woods,
  And stately dooms, and cities fill'd with Gods;
  While through a thousand snares your progress lies,
  Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies:
  For, shou'd you hit the doubtful way aright,
  The bull with stooping horns stands opposite;
  Next him the bright Haemonian bow is strung,
  And next, the lion's grinning visage hung:
  The scorpion's claws, here clasp a wide extent;
  And here the crab's in lesser clasps are bent.
  
  Nor wou'd you find it easie to compose
  The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows
  The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows.
  
  Ev'n I their head-strong fury scarce restrain,
  When they grow warm and restif to the rein.
  
  Let not my son a fatal gift require,
  But, O! in time, recall your rash desire;
  You ask a gift that may your parent tell,
  Let these my fears your parentage reveal;
  And learn a father from a father's care:
  Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare,
  Cou'd you but look, you'd read the father there.
  
  Chuse out a gift from seas, or Earth, or skies,
  For open to your wish all Nature lies,
  Only decline this one unequal task,
  For 'tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask.
  
  You ask a real mischief, Phaeton:
  Nay hang not thus about my neck, my son:
  I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice,
  Chuse what you will, but make a wiser choice.
  
  "
  Thus did the God th' unwary youth advise;
  But he still longs to travel through the skies.
  
  When the fond father (for in vain he pleads)
  At length to the Vulcanian Chariot leads.
  
  A golden axle did the work uphold,
  Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb'd with gold.
  
  The spokes in rows of silver pleas'd the sight,
  The seat with party-colour'd gems was bright;
  Apollo shin'd amid the glare of light.
  
  The youth with secret joy the work surveys,
  When now the moon disclos'd her purple rays;
  The stars were fled, for Lucifer had chased
  The stars away, and fled himself at last.
  
  Soon as the father saw the rosy morn,
  And the moon shining with a blunter horn,
  He bid the nimble Hours, without delay,
  Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours obey:
  From their full racks the gen'rous steeds retire,
  Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire.
  
  Still anxious for his son, the God of day,
  To make him proof against the burning ray,
  His temples with celestial ointment wet,
  Of sov'reign virtue to repel the heat;
  Then fix'd the beamy circle on his head,
  And fetch'd a deep foreboding sigh, and said,
  "Take this at least, this last advice, my son,
  Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on:
  The coursers of themselves will run too fast,
  Your art must be to moderate their haste.
  
  Drive 'em not on directly through the skies,
  But where the Zodiac's winding circle lies,
  Along the midmost Zone; but sally forth
  Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north.
  
  The horses' hoofs a beaten track will show,
  But neither mount too high, nor sink too low.
  
  That no new fires, or Heav'n or Earth infest;
  Keep the mid way, the middle way is best.
  
  Nor, where in radiant folds the serpent twines,
  Direct your course, nor where the altar shines.
  
  Shun both extreams; the rest let Fortune guide,
  And better for thee than thy self provide!
  See, while I speak, the shades disperse away,
  Aurora gives the promise of a day;
  I'm call'd, nor can I make a longer stay.
  
  Snatch up the reins; or still th' attempt forsake,
  And not my chariot, but my counsel, take,
  While yet securely on the Earth you stand;
  Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand.
  
  Let me alone to light the world, while you
  Enjoy those beams which you may safely view.
  
  "
  He spoke in vain; the youth with active heat
  And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat;
  And joys to hold the reins, and fondly gives
  Those thanks his father with remorse receives.
  
  Mean-while the restless horses neigh'd aloud,
  Breathing out fire, and pawing where they stood.
  
  Tethys, not knowing what had past, gave way,
  And all the waste of Heav'n before 'em lay.
  
  They spring together out, and swiftly bear
  The flying youth thro' clouds and yielding air;
  With wingy speed outstrip the eastern wind,
  And leave the breezes of the morn behind.
  
  The youth was light, nor cou'd he fill the seat,
  Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight:
  But as at sea th' unballass'd vessel rides,
  Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and tides;
  So in the bounding chariot toss'd on high,
  The youth is hurry'd headlong through the sky.
  
  Soon as the steeds perceive it, they forsake
  Their stated course, and leave the beaten track.
  
  The youth was in a maze, nor did he know
  Which way to turn the reins, or where to go;
  Nor wou'd the horses, had he known, obey.
  
  Then the sev'n stars first felt Apollo's ray,
  And wish'd to dip in the forbidden sea.
  
  The folded serpent next the frozen pole,
  Stiff and benum'd before, began to rowle,
  And raged with inward heat, and threaten'd war,
  And shot a redder light from ev'ry star;
  Nay, and 'tis said Bootes too, that fain
  Thou woud'st have fled, tho' cumber'd with thy
  wane.
  
  Th' unhappy youth then, bending down his head,
  Saw Earth and Ocean far beneath him spread.
  
  His colour chang'd, he startled at the sight,
  And his eyes darken'd by too great a light.
  
  Now cou'd he wish the fiery steeds untry'd,
  His birth obscure, and his request deny'd:
  Now wou'd he Merops for his father own,
  And quit his boasted kindred to the sun.
  
  So fares the pilot, when his ship is tost
  In troubled seas, and all its steerage lost,
  He gives her to the winds, and in despair
  Seeks his last refuge in the Gods and pray'r.
  
  What cou'd he do?
  
  his eyes, if backward cast,
  Find a long path he had already past;
  If forward, still a longer path they find:
  Both he compares, and measures in his mind;
  And sometimes casts an eye upon the east,
  And sometimes looks on the forbidden west,
  The horses' names he knew not in the fright,
  Nor wou'd he loose the reins, nor cou'd he hold 'em
  right.
  
  Now all the horrors of the Heav'ns he spies,
  And monstrous shadows of prodigious size,
  That, deck'd with stars, lye scatter'd o'er the
  skies.
  
  There is a place above, where Scorpio bent
  In tail and arms surrounds a vast extent;
  In a wide circuit of the Heav'ns he shines,
  And fills the space of two coelestial signs.
  
  Soon as the youth beheld him vex'd with heat
  Brandish his sting, and in his poison sweat,
  Half dead with sudden fear he dropt the reins;
  The horses felt 'em loose upon their mains,
  And, flying out through all the plains above,
  Ran uncontroul'd where-e're their fury drove;
  Rush'd on the stars, and through a pathless way
  Of unknown regions hurry'd on the day.
  
  And now above, and now below they flew,
  And near the Earth the burning chariot drew.
  
  The clouds disperse in fumes, the wond'ring Moon
  Beholds her brother's steeds beneath her own;
  The highlands smoak, cleft by the piercing rays,
  Or, clad with woods, in their own fewel blaze.
  
  Next o'er the plains, where ripen'd harvests grow,
  The running conflagration spreads below.
  
  But these are trivial ills: whole cities burn,
  And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn.
  
  The mountains kindle as the car draws near,
  Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear;
  Oeagrian Haemus (then a single name)
  And virgin Helicon increase the flame;
  Taurus and Oete glare amid the sky,
  And Ida, spight of all her fountains, dry.
  
  Eryx and Othrys, and Cithaeron, glow,
  And Rhodope, no longer cloath'd in snow;
  High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus, sweat,
  And Aetna rages with redoubled heat.
  
  Ev'n Scythia, through her hoary regions warm'd,
  In vain with all her native frost was arm'd.
  
  Cover'd with flames the tow'ring Appennine,
  And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine;
  And, where the long-extended Alpes aspire,
  Now stands a huge continu'd range of fire.
  
  Th' astonisht youth, where-e'er his eyes cou'd
  turn,
  Beheld the universe around him burn:
  The world was in a blaze; nor cou'd he bear
  The sultry vapours and the scorching air,
  Which from below, as from a furnace, flow'd;
  And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd:
  Lost in the whirling clouds that round him broke,
  And white with ashes, hov'ring in the smoke.
  
  He flew where-e'er the horses drove, nor knew
  Whither the horses drove, or where he flew.
  
  'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun
  To change his hue, and blacken in the sun.
  
  Then Libya first, of all her moisture drain'd,
  Became a barren waste, a wild of sand.
  
  The water-nymphs lament their empty urns,
  Boeotia, robb's of silve Dirce, mourns,
  Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails,
  And Argos grieves whilst Amymone fails.
  
  The floods are drain'd from ev'ry distant coast,
  Ev'n Tanais, tho' fix'd in ice, was lost.
  
  Enrag'd Caicus and Lycormas roar,
  And Xanthus, fated to be burnt once more.
  
  The fam'd Maeander, that unweary'd strays
  Through mazy windings, smoaks in ev'ry maze.
  
  From his lov'd Babylon Euphrates flies;
  The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise
  In thick'ning fumes, and darken half the skies.
  
  In flames Ismenos and the Phasis roul'd,
  And Tagus floating in his melted gold.
  
  The swans, that on Cayster often try'd
  Their tuneful songs, now sung their last and dy'd.
  
  The frighted Nile ran off, and under ground
  Conceal'd his head, nor can it yet be found:
  His sev'n divided currents all are dry,
  And where they row'ld, sev'n gaping trenches lye:
  No more the Rhine or Rhone their course maintain,
  Nor Tiber, of his promis'd empire vain.
  
  The ground, deep-cleft, admits the dazling ray,
  And startles Pluto with the flash of day.
  
  The seas shrink in, and to the sight disclose
  Wide naked plains, where once their billows rose;
  Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase
  The number of the scatter'd Cyclades.
  
  The fish in sholes about the bottom creep,
  Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap
  Gasping for breath, th' unshapen Phocae die,
  And on the boiling wave extended lye.
  
  Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train,
  Seek out the last recesses of the main;
  Beneath unfathomable depths they faint,
  And secret in their gloomy caverns pant.
  
  Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld
  His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd.
  
  The Earth at length, on ev'ry side embrac'd
  With scalding seas that floated round her waste,
  When now she felt the springs and rivers come,
  And crowd within the hollow of her womb,
  Up-lifted to the Heav'ns her blasted head,
  And clapt her hand upon her brows, and said
  (But first, impatient of the sultry heat,
  Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat):
  "If you, great king of Gods, my death approve,
  And I deserve it, let me die by Jove;
  If I must perish by the force of fire,
  Let me transfix'd with thunder-bolts expire.
  
  See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choak
  (For now her face lay wrapt in clouds of smoak),
  See my singe'd hair, behold my faded eye,
  And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lye!
  And does the plow for this my body tear?
  
  This the reward for all the fruits I bear,
  Tortur'd with rakes, and harrass'd all the year?
  
  That herbs for cattle daily I renew,
  And food for Man, and frankincense for you?
  
  But grant me guilty; what has Neptune done?
  
  Why are his waters boiling in the sun?
  
  The wavy empire, which by lot was giv'n,
  Why does it waste, and further shrink from Heav'n?
  
  If I nor he your pity can provoke,
  See your own Heav'ns, the Heav'ns begin to smoke!
  Shou'd once the sparkles catch those bright abodes,
  Destruction seizes on the Heav'ns and Gods;
  Atlas becomes unequal to his freight,
  And almost faints beneath the glowing weight.
  
  If Heav'n, and Earth, and sea, together burn,
  All must again into their chaos turn.
  
  Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate,
  And succour Nature, ere it be too late.
  
  "
  She cea'sd, for choak'd with vapours round her
  spread,
  Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head.
  
  Jove call'd to witness ev'ry Pow'r above,
  And ev'n the God, whose son the chariot drove,
  That what he acts he is compell'd to do,
  Or universal ruin must ensue.
  
  Strait he ascends the high aetherial throne,
  From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down,
  From whence his show'rs and storms he us'd to pour,
  But now cou'd meet with neither storm nor show'r.
  
  Then, aiming at the youth, with lifted hand,
  Full at his head he hurl'd the forky brand,
  In dreadful thund'rings.
  
  Thus th' almighty sire
  Suppress'd the raging of the fires with fire.
  
  At once from life and from the chariot driv'n,
  Th' ambitious boy fell thunder-struck from Heav'n.
  
  The horses started with a sudden bound,
  And flung the reins and chariot to the ground:
  The studded harness from their necks they broke,
  Here fell a wheel, and here a silver spoke,
  Here were the beam and axle torn away;
  And, scatter'd o'er the Earth, the shining
  fragments lay.
  
  The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair,
  Shot from the chariot, like a falling star,
  That in a summer's ev'ning from the top
  Of Heav'n drops down, or seems at least to drop;
  'Till on the Po his blasted corps was hurl'd,
  Far from his country, in the western world.
  
  Phaeton's       The Latian nymphs came round him, and, amaz'd,
  Sisters      On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd;
  transform'd    And, whilst yet smoaking from the bolt he lay,
  into Trees     His shatter'd body to a tomb convey,
  And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise:
  "Here he, who drove the sun's bright chariot, lies;
  His father's fiery steeds he cou'd not guide,
  But in the glorious enterprize he dy'd.
  
  "
  Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief,
  And, if the story may deserve belief,
  The space of one whole day is said to run,
  From morn to wonted ev'n, without a sun:
  The burning ruins, with a fainter ray,
  Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day,
  A day, that still did Nature's face disclose:
  This comfort from the mighty mischief rose.
  
  But Clymene, enrag'd with grief, laments,
  And as her grief inspires, her passion vents:
  Wild for her son, and frantick in her woes,
  With hair dishevel'd round the world she goes,
  To seek where-e'er his body might be cast;
  'Till, on the borders of the Po, at last
  The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears.
  
  The dear dear name she bathes in flowing tears,
  Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart,
  And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart.
  
  Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn
  (A fruitless tribute to their brother's urn),
  And beat their naked bosoms, and complain,
  And call aloud for Phaeton in vain:
  All the long night their mournful watch they keep,
  And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep.
  
  Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd;
  So long the mother and the daughters mourn'd:
  When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove
  To rest her weary limbs, but could not move;
  Lampetia wou'd have help'd her, but she found
  Her self with-held, and rooted to the ground:
  A third in wild affliction, as she grieves,
  Wou'd rend her hair, but fills her hands with
  leaves;
  One sees her thighs transform'd, another views
  Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs.
  
  And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood
  Crusted with bark, and hard'ning into wood;
  But still above were female heads display'd,
  And mouths, that call'd the mother to their aid.
  
  What cou'd, alas! the weeping mother do?
  
  From this to that with eager haste she flew,
  And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew.
  
  She tears the bark that to each body cleaves,
  And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves:
  The blood came trickling, where she tore away
  The leaves and bark: the maids were heard to say,
  "Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear;
  A wounded daughter in each tree you tear;
  Farewell for ever.
  
  " Here the bark encreas'd,
  Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress'd.
  
  The new-made trees in tears of amber run,
  Which, harden'd into value by the sun,
  Distill for ever on the streams below:
  The limpid streams their radiant treasure show,
  Mixt in the sand; whence the rich drops convey'd
  Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid.
  
  The          Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform'd, ally'd
  Transformation   To their dead brother on the mortal side,
  of Cycnus into   In friendship and affection nearer bound;
  a Swan       He left the cities and the realms he own'd,
  Thro' pathless fields and lonely shores to range,
  And woods made thicker by the sisters' change.
  
  Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone,
  The melancholy monarch made his moan,
  His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak,
  And issu'd through a long-extended neck;
  His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet
  In skinny films, and shape his oary feet;
  From both his sides the wings and feathers break;
  And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak:
  All Cycnus now into a Swan was turn'd,
  Who, still remembring how his kinsman burn'd,
  To solitary pools and lakes retires,
  And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires.
  
  Mean-while Apollo in a gloomy shade
  (The native lustre of his brows decay'd)
  Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight
  Of his own sun-shine, and abhors the light;
  The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise,
  Sadden his looks and over-cast his eyes,
  As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,
  And sullies in a dim eclipse the day.
  
  Now secretly with inward griefs he pin'd,
  Now warm resentments to his griefs he joyn'd,
  And now renounc'd his office to mankind.
  
  "Ere since the birth of time," said he, "I've born
  A long ungrateful toil, without return;
  Let now some other manage, if he dare,
  The fiery steeds, and mount the burning carr;
  Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try,
  And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by;
  Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late,
  My son deserv'd not so severe a fate.
  
  "
  The Gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray
  He would resume the conduct of the day,
  Nor let the world be lost in endless night:
  Jove too himself descending from his height,
  Excuses what had happen'd, and intreats,
  Majestically mixing pray'rs and threats.
  
  Prevail'd upon at length, again he took
  The harness'd steeds, that still with horror shook,
  And plies 'em with the lash, and whips 'em on,
  And, as he whips, upbraids 'em with his son.
  
  The Story of    The day was settled in its course; and Jove
  Calisto      Walk'd the wide circuit of the Heavens above,
  To search if any cracks or flaws were made;
  But all was safe: the Earth he then survey'd,
  And cast an eye on ev'ry diff'rent coast,
  And ev'ry land; but on Arcadia most.
  
  Her fields he cloath'd, and chear'd her blasted
  face
  With running fountains, and with springing grass.
  
  No tracks of Heav'n's destructive fire remain,
  The fields and woods revive, and Nature smiles
  again.
  
  But as the God walk'd to and fro the Earth,
  And rais'd the plants, and gave the spring its
  birth,
  By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd,
  And felt the lovely charmer in his blood.
  
  The nymph nor spun, nor dress'd with artful pride,
  Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was ty'd;
  Now in her hand a slender spear she bore,
  Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore;
  To chaste Diana from her youth inclin'd,
  The sprightly warriors of the wood she joyn'd.
  
  Diana too the gentle huntress lov'd,
  Nor was there one of all the nymphs that rov'd
  O'er Maenalus, amid the maiden throng,
  More favour'd once; but favour lasts not long.
  
  The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove
  The heated virgin panting to a grove;
  The grove around a grateful shadow cast:
  She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrac'd;
  She flung her self on the cool grassy bed;
  And on the painted quiver rais'd her head,
  Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd,
  Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard.
  
  "Here I am safe," he cries, "from Juno's eye;
  Or shou'd my jealous queen the theft descry,
  Yet wou'd I venture on a theft like this,
  And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss!"
  Diana's shape and habit strait he took,
  Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look,
  And mildly in a female accent spoke.
  
  "How fares my girl?
  
  How went the morning chase?
  
  "
  To whom the virgin, starting from the grass,
  "All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer
  To Jove himself, tho' Jove himself were here.
  
  "
  The God was nearer than she thought, and heard
  Well-pleas'd himself before himself preferr'd.
  
  He then salutes her with a warm embrace;
  And, e're she half had told the morning chase,
  With love enflam'd, and eager on his bliss,
  Smother'd her words, and stop'd her with a kiss;
  His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd,
  Nor cou'd Diana's shape conceal the God.
  
  The virgin did whate'er a virgin cou'd
  (Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd);
  With all her might against his force she strove;
  But how can mortal maids contend with Jove?
  
  Possest at length of what his heart desir'd,
  Back to his Heav'ns, th' exulting God retir'd.
  
  The lovely huntress, rising from the grass,
  With down-cast eyes, and with a blushing face,
  By shame confounded, and by fear dismay'd,
  Flew from the covert of the guilty shade,
  And almost, in the tumult of her mind,
  Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind.
  
  But now Diana, with a sprightly train
  Of quiver'd virgins, bounding o'er the plain,
  Call'd to the nymph; the nymph began to fear
  A second fraud, a Jove disguis'd in her;
  But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress'd
  Her rising fears, and mingled with the rest.
  
  How in the look does conscious guilt appear!
  Slowly she mov'd, and loiter'd in the rear;
  Nor lightly tripp'd, nor by the Goddess ran,
  As once she us'd, the foremost of the train.
  
  Her looks were flush'd, and sullen was her mien,
  That sure the virgin Goddess (had she been
  Aught but a virgin) must the guilt have seen.
  
  'Tis said the nymphs saw all, and guess'd aright:
  And now the moon had nine times lost her light,
  When Dian, fainting in the mid-day beams,
  Found a cool covert, and refreshing streams
  That in soft murmurs through the forest flow'd,
  And a smooth bed of shining gravel show'd.
  
  A covert so obscure, and streams so clear,
  The Goddess prais'd: "And now no spies are near
  Let's strip, my gentle maids, and wash," she cries.
  
  Pleas'd with the motion, every maid complies;
  Only the blushing huntress stood confus'd,
  And form'd delays, and her delays excus'd;
  In vain excus'd: her fellows round her press'd,
  And the reluctant nymph by force undress'd,
  The naked huntress all her shame reveal'd,
  In vain her hands the pregnant womb conceal'd;
  "Begone!" the Goddess cries with stern disdain,
  "Begone! nor dare the hallow'd stream to stain":
  She fled, for ever banish'd from the train.
  
  This Juno heard, who long had watch'd her time
  To punish the detested rival's crime;
  The time was come; for, to enrage her more,
  A lovely boy the teeming rival bore.
  
  The Goddess cast a furious look, and cry'd,
  "It is enough! I'm fully satisfy'd!
  This boy shall stand a living mark, to prove
  My husband's baseness and the strumpet's love:
  But vengeance shall awake: those guilty charms
  That drew the Thunderer from Juno's arms,
  No longer shall their wonted force retain,
  Nor please the God, nor make the mortal vain.
  
  "
  This said, her hand within her hair she wound,
  Swung her to Earth, and drag'd her on the ground:
  The prostrate wretch lifts up her arms in pray'r;
  Her arms grow shaggy, and deform'd with hair,
  Her nails are sharpen'd into pointed claws,
  Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws;
  Her lips, that once cou'd tempt a God, begin
  To grow distorted in an ugly grin.
  
  And, lest the supplicating brute might reach
  The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech:
  Her surly voice thro' a hoarse passage came
  In savage sounds: her mind was still the same,
  The furry monster fix'd her eyes above,
  And heav'd her new unwieldy paws to Jove,
  And beg'd his aid with inward groans; and tho'
  She could not call him false, she thought him so.
  
  How did she fear to lodge in woods alone,
  And haunt the fields and meadows, once her own!
  How often wou'd the deep-mouth'd dogs pursue,
  Whilst from her hounds the frighted huntress flew!
  How did she fear her fellow-brutes, and shun
  The shaggy bear, tho' now her self was one!
  How from the sight of rugged wolves retire,
  Although the grim Lycaon was her sire!
  But now her son had fifteen summers told,
  Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold;
  When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey,
  He chanc'd to rouze his mother where she lay.
  
  She knew her son, and kept him in her sight,
  And fondly gaz'd: the boy was in a fright,
  And aim'd a pointed arrow at her breast,
  And would have slain his mother in the beast;
  But Jove forbad, and snatch'd 'em through the air
  In whirlwinds up to Heav'n, and fix'd 'em there!
  Where the new constellations nightly rise,
  And add a lustre to the northern skies.
  
  When Juno saw the rival in her height,
  Spangled with stars, and circled round with light,
  She sought old Ocean in his deep abodes,
  And Tethys, both rever'd among the Gods.
  
  They ask what brings her there: "Ne'er ask," says
  she,
  "What brings me here, Heav'n is no place for me.
  
  You'll see, when night has cover'd all things o'er,
  Jove's starry bastard and triumphant whore
  Usurp the Heav'ns; you'll see 'em proudly rowle
  And who shall now on Juno's altars wait,
  When those she hates grow greater by her hate?
  
  I on the nymph a brutal form impress'd,
  Jove to a goddess has transform'd the beast;
  This, this was all my weak revenge could do:
  But let the God his chaste amours pursue,
  And, as he acted after Io's rape,
  Restore th' adultress to her former shape;
  Then may he cast his Juno off, and lead
  The great Lycaon's offspring to his bed.
  
  But you, ye venerable Pow'rs, be kind,
  And, if my wrongs a due resentment find,
  Receive not in your waves their setting beams,
  Nor let the glaring strumpet taint your streams.
  
  "
  The Goddess ended, and her wish was giv'n.
  
  Back she return'd in triumph up to Heav'n;
  Her gawdy peacocks drew her through the skies.
  
  Their tails were spotted with a thousand eyes;
  The eyes of Argus on their tails were rang'd,
  At the same time the raven's colour chang'd.
  
  The Story of      The raven once in snowy plumes was drest,
  Coronis, and    White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast,
  Birth of      Fair as the guardian of the Capitol,
  Aesculapius    Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl;
  His tongue, his prating tongue had chang'd him
  quite
  To sooty blackness, from the purest white.
  
  The story of his change shall here be told;
  In Thessaly there liv'd a nymph of old,
  Coronis nam'd; a peerless maid she shin'd,
  Confest the fairest of the fairer kind.
  
  Apollo lov'd her, 'till her guilt he knew,
  While true she was, or whilst he thought her true.
  
  But his own bird the raven chanc'd to find
  The false one with a secret rival joyn'd.
  
  Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale,
  But could not with repeated pray'rs prevail.
  
  His milk-white pinions to the God he ply'd;
  The busy daw flew with him, side by side,
  And by a thousand teizing questions drew
  Th' important secret from him as they flew.
  
  The daw gave honest counsel, tho' despis'd,
  And, tedious in her tattle, thus advis'd:
  "Stay, silly bird, th' ill-natur'd task refuse,
  Nor be the bearer of unwelcome news.
  
  Be warn'd by my example: you discern
  What now I am, and what I was shall learn.
  
  My foolish honesty was all my crime;
  Then hear my story.
  
  Once upon a time,
  The two-shap'd Ericthonius had his birth
  (Without a mother) from the teeming Earth;
  Minerva nurs'd him, and the infant laid
  Within a chest, of twining osiers made.
  
  The daughters of king Cecrops undertook
  To guard the chest, commanded not to look
  On what was hid within.
  
  I stood to see
  The charge obey'd, perch'd on a neighb'ring tree.
  
  The sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep
  The strict command; Aglauros needs would peep,
  And saw the monstrous infant, in a fright,
  And call'd her sisters to the hideous sight:
  A boy's soft shape did to the waste prevail,
  But the boy ended in a dragon's tail.
  
  I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd;
  But for my pains, discarded and disgrac'd,
  The frowning Goddess drove me from her sight,
  And for her fav'rite chose the bird of night.
  
  Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong
  Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue.
  
  But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd,
  As never by the heav'nly maid belov'd:
  But I was lov'd; ask Pallas if I lye;
  Tho' Pallas hate me now, she won't deny:
  For I, whom in a feather'd shape you view,
  Was once a maid (by Heav'n the story's true)
  A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too.
  
  A crowd of lovers own'd my beauty's charms;
  My beauty was the cause of all my harms;
  Neptune, as on his shores I wont to rove,
  Observ'd me in my walks, and fell in love.
  
  He made his courtship, he confess'd his pain,
  And offer'd force, when all his arts were vain;
  Swift he pursu'd: I ran along the strand,
  'Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking sand,
  I shriek'd aloud, with cries I fill'd the air
  To Gods and men; nor God nor man was there:
  A virgin Goddess heard a virgin's pray'r.
  
  For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,
  I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;
  I strove to fling my garment on the ground;
  My garment turn'd to plumes, and girt me round:
  My hands to beat my naked bosom try;
  Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I:
  Lightly I tript, nor weary as before
  Sunk in the sand, but skim'd along the shore;
  'Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr'd
  To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird:
  Preferr'd in vain! I am now in disgrace:
  Nyctimene the owl enjoys my place.
  
  On her incestuous life I need not dwell
  (In Lesbos still the horrid tale they tell),
  And of her dire amours you must have heard,
  For which she now does penance in a bird,
  That conscious of her shame, avoids the light,
  And loves the gloomy cov'ring of the night;
  The birds, where-e'er she flutters, scare away
  The hooting wretch, and drive her from the day.
  
  "
  The raven, urg'd by such impertinence,
  Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence,
  And curst the harmless daw; the daw withdrew:
  The raven to her injur'd patron flew,
  And found him out, and told the fatal truth
  Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth.
  
  The God was wroth, the colour left his look,
  The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook:
  His silver bow and feather'd shafts he took,
  And lodg'd an arrow in the tender breast,
  That had so often to his own been prest.
  
  Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan'd,
  And pull'd his arrow reeking from the wound;
  And weltring in her blood, thus faintly cry'd,
  "Ah cruel God! tho' I have justly dy'd,
  What has, alas! my unborn infant done,
  That he should fall, and two expire in one?
  
  "
  This said, in agonies she fetch'd her breath.
  
  The God dissolves in pity at her death;
  He hates the bird that made her falshood known,
  And hates himself for what himself had done;
  The feather'd shaft, that sent her to the Fates,
  And his own hand, that sent the shaft, he hates.
  
  Fain would he heal the wound, and ease her pain,
  And tries the compass of his art in vain.
  
  Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire,
  The pile made ready, and the kindling fire.
  
  With sighs and groans her obsequies he kept,
  And, if a God could weep, the God had wept.
  
  Her corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly incense brought,
  And solemniz'd the death himself had wrought.
  
  But lest his offspring should her fate partake,
  Spight of th' immortal mixture in his make,
  He ript her womb, and set the child at large,
  And gave him to the centaur Chiron's charge:
  Then in his fury black'd the raven o'er,
  And bid him prate in his white plumes no more.
  
  Ocyrrhoe        Old Chiron took the babe with secret joy,
  transform'd    Proud of the charge of the celestial boy.
  
  into a Mare    His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore
  The nymph Charicle to the centaur bore,
  With hair dishevel'd on her shoulders, came
  To see the child, Ocyrrhoe was her name;
  She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse
  The depths of prophecy in sounding verse.
  
  Once, as the sacred infant she survey'd,
  The God was kindled in the raving maid,
  And thus she utter'd her prophetick tale:
  "Hail, great physician of the world, all-hail;
  Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come
  Shalt heal the nations, and defraud the tomb;
  Swift be thy growth! thy triumphs unconfin'd!
  Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind.
  
  Thy daring art shall animate the dead,
  And draw the thunder on thy guilty head:
  Then shalt thou dye, but from the dark abode
  Rise up victorious, and be twice a God.
  
  And thou, my sire, not destin'd by thy birth
  To turn to dust, and mix with common earth,
  How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to dye,
  And quit thy claim to immortality;
  When thou shalt feel, enrag'd with inward pains,
  The Hydra's venom rankling in thy veins?
  
  The Gods, in pity, shall contract thy date,
  And give thee over to the pow'r of Fate.
  
  "
  Thus entring into destiny, the maid
  The secrets of offended Jove betray'd:
  More had she still to say; but now appears
  Oppress'd with sobs and sighs, and drown'd in
  tears.
  
  "My voice," says she, "is gone, my language fails;
  Through ev'ry limb my kindred shape prevails:
  Why did the God this fatal gift impart,
  And with prophetick raptures swell my heart!
  What new desires are these?
  
  I long to pace
  O'er flow'ry meadows, and to feed on grass;
  I hasten to a brute, a maid no more;
  But why, alas! am I transform'd all o'er?
  
  My sire does half a human shape retain,
  And in his upper parts preserve the man.
  
  "
  Her tongue no more distinct complaints affords,
  But in shrill accents and mis-shapen words
  Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare
  The human form confounded in the mare:
  'Till by degrees accomplish'd in the beast,
  She neigh'd outright, and all the steed exprest.
  
  Her stooping body on her hands is born,
  Her hands are turn'd to hoofs, and shod in horn,
  Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane,
  And in a flowing tail she frisks her train,
  The mare was finish'd in her voice and look,
  And a new name from the new figure took.
  
  The          Sore wept the centuar, and to Phoebus pray'd;
  Transformation   But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid?
  
  of Battus to a   Degraded of his pow'r by angry Jove,
  Touch stone    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 sev'n compacted reeds he us'd to play,
  And on his rural pipe to waste the day.
  
  As once attentive to his pipe he play'd,
  The crafty Hermes from the God convey'd
  A drove, that sep'rate from their fellows stray'd.
  
  The theft an old insidious peasant view'd
  (They call'd him Battus in the neighbourhood),
  Hir'd by a vealthy Pylian prince to feed
  His fav'rite mares, and watch the gen'rous breed.
  
  The thievish God suspected him, and took
  The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke:
  "Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be,
  And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee.
  
  "
  "Go, stranger," cries the clown, "securely on,
  That stone shall sooner tell," and show'd a stone.
  
  The God withdrew, but strait return'd again,
  In speech and habit like a country swain;
  And cries out, "Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray
  Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way?
  
  In the recov'ry of my cattle join,
  A bullock and a heifer shall be thine.
  
  "
  The peasant quick replies, "You'll find 'em there
  In yon dark vale"; and in the vale they were.
  
  The double bribe had his false heart beguil'd:
  The God, successful in the tryal, smil'd;
  "And dost thou thus betray my self to me?
  
  Me to my self dost thou betray?
  
  " says he:
  Then to a Touch stone turns the faithless spy;
  And in his name records his infamy.
  
  The Story of      This done, the God flew up on high, and pass'd
  Aglauros,     O'er lofty Athens, by Minerva grac'd,
  transform'd    And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey
  into a Statue   All the vast region that beneath him lay.
  
  'Twas now the feast, when each Athenian maid
  Her yearly homage to Minerva paid;
  In canisters, with garlands cover'd o'er,
  High on their heads, their mystick gifts they bore:
  And now, returning in a solemn train,
  The troop of shining virgins fill'd the plain.
  
  The God well pleas'd beheld the pompous show,
  And saw the bright procession pass below;
  Then veer'd about, and took a wheeling flight,
  And hover'd o'er them: as the spreading kite,
  That smells the slaughter'd victim from on high,
  Flies at a distance, if the priests are nigh,
  And sails around, and keeps it in her eye:
  So kept the God the virgin quire in view,
  And in slow winding circles round them flew.
  
  As Lucifer excells the meanest star,
  Or, as the full-orb'd Phoebe, Lucifer;
  So much did Herse all the rest outvy,
  And gave a grace to the solemnity.
  
  Hermes was fir'd, as in the clouds he hung:
  So the cold bullet, that with fury slung
  From Balearick engines mounts on high,
  Glows in the whirl, and burns along the sky.
  
  At length he pitch'd upon the ground, and show'd
  The form divine, the features of a God.
  
  He knew their vertue o'er a female heart,
  And yet he strives to better them by art.
  
  He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to show
  The golden edging on the seam below;
  Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his hand
  Waves, with an air, the sleep-procuring wand;
  The glitt'ring sandals to his feet applies,
  And to each heel the well-trim'd pinion ties.
  
  His ornaments with nicest art display'd,
  He seeks th' apartment of the royal maid.
  
  The roof was all with polish'd iv'ry lin'd,
  That richly mix'd, in clouds of tortoise shin'd.
  
  Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were plac'd,
  The midmost by the beauteous Herse grac'd;
  Her virgin sisters lodg'd on either side.
  
  Aglauros first th' approaching God descry'd,
  And, as he cross'd her chamber, ask'd his name,
  And what his business was, and whence he came.
  
  "I come," reply'd the God, "from Heav'n, to woo
  Your sister, and to make an aunt of you;
  I am the son and messenger of Jove;
  My name is Mercury, my bus'ness love;
  Do you, kind damsel, take a lover's part,
  And gain admittance to your sister's heart.
  
  "
  She star'd him in the face with looks amaz'd,
  As when she on Minerva's secret gaz'd,
  And asks a mighty treasure for her hire;
  And, 'till he brings it, makes the God retire.
  
  Minerva griev'd to see the nymph succeed;
  And now remembring the late impious deed,
  When, disobedient to her strict command,
  She touch'd the chest with an unhallow'd hand;
  In big-swoln sighs her inward rage express'd,
  That heav'd the rising Aegis on her breast;
  Then sought out Envy in her dark abode,
  Defil'd with ropy gore and clots of blood:
  Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome skies,
  In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies,
  Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light
  Invades the winter, or disturbs the night.
  
  Directly to the cave her course she steer'd;
  Against the gates her martial lance she rear'd;
  The gates flew open, and the fiend appear'd.
  
  A pois'nous morsel in her teeth she chew'd,
  And gorg'd the flesh of vipers for her food.
  
  Minerva loathing turn'd away her eye;
  The hideous monster, rising heavily,
  Came stalking forward with a sullen pace,
  And left her mangled offals on the place.
  
  Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright,
  She fetch'd a groan at such a chearful sight.
  
  Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye
  In foul distorted glances turn'd awry;
  A hoard of gall her inward parts possess'd,
  And spread a greenness o'er her canker'd breast;
  Her teeth were brown with rust, and from her
  tongue,
  In dangling drops, the stringy poison hung.
  
  She never smiles but when the wretched weep,
  Nor lulls her malice with a moment's sleep,
  Restless in spite: while watchful to destroy,
  She pines and sickens at another's joy;
  Foe to her self, distressing and distrest,
  She bears her own tormentor in her breast.
  
  The Goddess gave (for she abhorr'd her sight)
  A short command: "To Athens speed thy flight;
  On curst Aglauros try thy utmost art,
  And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart.
  
  "
  This said, her spear she push'd against the ground,
  And mounting from it with an active bound,
  Flew off to Heav'n: the hag with eyes askew
  Look'd up, and mutter'd curses as she flew;
  For sore she fretted, and began to grieve
  At the success which she her self must give.
  
  Then takes her staff, hung round with wreaths of
  thorn,
  And sails along, in a black whirlwind born,
  O'er fields and flow'ry meadows: where she steers
  Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears,
  Mildews and blights; the meadows are defac'd,
  The fields, the flow'rs, and the whole years laid
  waste:
  On mortals next, and peopled towns she falls,
  And breathes a burning plague among their walls.
  
  When Athens she beheld, for arts renown'd,
  With peace made happy, and with plenty crown'd,
  Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears forbear,
  To find out nothing that deserv'd a tear.
  
  Th' apartment now she enter'd, where at rest
  Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep opprest.
  
  To execute Minerva's dire command,
  She stroak'd the virgin with her canker'd hand,
  Then prickly thorns into her breast convey'd,
  That stung to madness the devoted maid:
  Her subtle venom still improves the smart,
  Frets in the blood, and festers in the heart.
  
  To make the work more sure, a scene she drew,
  And plac'd before the dreaming virgin's view
  Her sister's marriage, and her glorious fate:
  Th' imaginary bride appears in state;
  The bride-groom with unwonted beauty glows:
  For envy magnifies what-e'er she shows.
  
  Full of the dream, Aglauros pin'd away
  In tears all night, in darkness all the day;
  Consum'd like ice, that just begins to run,
  When feebly smitten by the distant sun;
  Or like unwholsome weeds, that set on fire
  Are slowly wasted, and in smoke expire.
  
  Giv'n up to envy (for in ev'ry thought
  The thorns, the venom, and the vision wrought)
  Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed,
  Rather than see her sister's wish succeed,
  To tell her awfull father what had past:
  At length before the door her self she cast;
  And, sitting on the ground with sullen pride,
  A passage to the love-sick God deny'd.
  
  The God caress'd, and for admission pray'd,
  And sooth'd in softest words th' envenom'd maid.
  
  In vain he sooth'd: "Begone!" the maid replies,
  "Or here I keep my seat, and never rise.
  
  "
  "Then keep thy seat for ever," cries the God,
  And touch'd the door, wide op'ning to his rod.
  
  Fain would she rise, and stop him, but she found
  Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground;
  Her joynts are all benum'd, her hands are pale,
  And marble now appears in ev'ry nail.
  
  As when a cancer in the body feeds,
  And gradual death from limb to limb proceeds;
  So does the chilness to each vital parte
  Spread by degrees, and creeps into her heart;
  'Till hard'ning ev'ry where, and speechless grown,
  She sits unmov'd, and freezes to a stone.
  
  But still her envious hue and sullen mien
  Are in the sedentary figure seen.
  
  Europa's Rape     When now the God his fury had allay'd,
  And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid,
  From where the bright Athenian turrets rise
  He mounts aloft, and re-ascends the skies.
  
  Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes,
  And, as he mix'd among the crowd of Gods,
  Beckon'd him out, and drew him from the rest,
  And in soft whispers thus his will exprest.
  
  "My trusty Hermes, by whose ready aid
  Thy sire's commands are through the world convey'd.
  
  Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force,
  And to the walls of Sidon speed thy course;
  There find a herd of heifers wand'ring o'er
  The neighb'ring hill, and drive 'em to the shore.
  
  "
  Thus spoke the God, concealing his intent.
  
  The trusty Hermes, on his message went,
  And found the herd of heifers wand'ring o'er
  A neighb'ring hill, and drove 'em to the shore;
  Where the king's daughter, with a lovely train
  Of fellow-nymphs, was sporting on the plain.
  
  The dignity of empire laid aside,
  (For love but ill agrees with kingly pride)
  The ruler of the skies, the thund'ring God,
  Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod,
  Among a herd of lowing heifers ran,
  Frisk'd in a bull, and bellow'd o'er the plain.
  
  Large rowles of fat about his shoulders clung,
  And from his neck the double dewlap hung.
  
  His skin was whiter than the snow that lies
  Unsully'd by the breath of southern skies;
  Small shining horns on his curl'd forehead stand,
  As turn'd and polish'd by the work-man's hand;
  His eye-balls rowl'd, not formidably bright,
  But gaz'd and languish'd with a gentle light.
  
  His ev'ry look was peaceful, and exprest
  The softness of the lover in the beast.
  
  Agenor's royal daughter, as she plaid
  Among the fields, the milk-white bull survey'd,
  And view'd his spotless body with delight,
  And at a distance kept him in her sight.
  
  At length she pluck'd the rising flow'rs, and fed
  The gentle beast, and fondly stroak'd his head.
  
  He stood well-pleas'd to touch the charming fair,
  But hardly could confine his pleasure there.
  
  And now he wantons o'er the neighb'ring strand,
  Now rowls his body on the yellow sand;
  And, now perceiving all her fears decay'd,
  Comes tossing forward to the royal maid;
  Gives her his breast to stroke, and downward turns
  His grizly brow, and gently stoops his horns.
  
  In flow'ry wreaths the royal virgin drest
  His bending horns, and kindly clapt his breast.
  
  'Till now grown wanton and devoid of fear,
  Not knowing that she prest the Thunderer,
  She plac'd her self upon his back, and rode
  O'er fields and meadows, seated on the God.
  
  He gently march'd along, and by degrees
  Left the dry meadow, and approach'd the seas;
  Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs,
  Now plunges in, and carries off the prize.
  
  The frighted nymph looks backward on the shoar,
  And hears the tumbling billows round her roar;
  But still she holds him fast: one hand is born
  Upon his back; the other grasps a horn:
  Her train of ruffling garments flies behind,
  Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind.
  
  Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore,
  And lands her safe on the Dictean shore;
  Where now, in his divinest form array'd,
  In his true shape he captivates the maid;
  Who gazes on him, and with wond'ring eyes
  Beholds the new majestick figure rise,
  His glowing features, and celestial light,
  And all the God discover'd to her sight.
  
  The End of the Second Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Seventh Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THE Argonauts now stemm'd the foaming tide,
  And to Arcadia's shore their course apply'd;
  Where sightless Phineus spent his age in grief,
  But Boreas' sons engage in his relief;
  And those unwelcome guests, the odious race
  Of Harpyes, from the monarch's table chase.
  
  With Jason then they greater toils sustain,
  And Phasis' slimy banks at last they gain,
  Here boldly they demand the golden prize
  Of Scythia's king, who sternly thus replies:
  That mighty labours they must first o'ercome,
  Or sail their Argo thence unfreighted home.
  
  The Story of      Meanwhile Medea, seiz'd with fierce desire,
  Medea and     By reason strives to quench the raging fire;
  Jason       But strives in vain!- Some God (she said)
  withstands,
  And reason's baffl'd council countermands.
  
  What unseen Pow'r does this disorder move?
  
  'Tis love,- at least 'tis like, what men call love.
  
  Else wherefore shou'd the king's commands appear
  To me too hard?
  
  - But so indeed they are.
  
  Why shou'd I for a stranger fear, lest he
  Shou'd perish, whom I did but lately see?
  
  His death, or safety, what are they to me?
  
  Wretch, from thy virgin-breast this flame expel,
  And soon- Oh cou'd I, all wou'd then be well!
  But love, resistless love, my soul invades;
  Discretion this, affection that perswades.
  
  I see the right, and I approve it too,
  Condemn the wrong- and yet the wrong pursue.
  
  Why, royal maid, shou'dst thou desire to wed
  A wanderer, and court a foreign bed?
  
  Thy native land, tho' barb'rous, can present
  A bridegroom worth a royal bride's content:
  And whether this advent'rer lives, or dies,
  In Fate, and Fortune's fickle pleasure lies.
  
  Yet may be live! for to the Pow'rs above,
  A virgin, led by no impulse of love,
  So just a suit may, for the guiltless, move.
  
  Whom wou'd not Jason's valour, youth and blood
  Invite?
  
  or cou'd these merits be withstood,
  At least his charming person must encline
  The hardest heart- I'm sure 'tis so with mine!
  Yet, if I help him not, the flaming breath
  Of bulls, and earth-born foes, must be his death.
  
  Or, should he through these dangers force his way,
  At last he must be made the dragon's prey.
  
  If no remorse for such distress I feel,
  I am a tigress, and my breast is steel.
  
  Why do I scruple then to see him slain,
  And with the tragick scene my eyes prophane?
  
  My magick's art employ, not to asswage
  The Salvages, but to enflame their rage?
  
  His earth-born foes to fiercer fury move,
  And accessary to his murder prove?
  
  The Gods forbid- But pray'rs are idle breath,
  When action only can prevent his death.
  
  Shall I betray my father, and the state,
  To intercept a rambling hero's fate;
  Who may sail off next hour, and sav'd from harms
  By my assistance, bless another's arms?
  
  Whilst I, not only of my hopes bereft,
  But to unpity'd punishment am left.
  
  If he is false, let the ingrateful bleed!
  But no such symptom in his looks I read.
  
  Nature wou'd ne'er have lavish'd so much grace
  Upon his person, if his soul were base.
  
  Besides, he first shall plight his faith, and swear
  By all the Gods; what therefore can'st thou fear?
  
  Medea haste, from danger set him free,
  Jason shall thy eternal debtor be.
  
  And thou, his queen, with sov'raign state
  enstall'd,
  By Graecian dames the Kind Preserver call'd.
  
  Hence idle dreams, by love-sick fancy bred!
  Wilt thou, Medea, by vain wishes led,
  To sister, brother, father bid adieu?
  
  Forsake thy country's Gods, and country too?
  
  My father's harsh, my brother but a child,
  My sister rivals me, my country's wild;
  And for its Gods, the greatest of 'em all
  Inspires my breast, and I obey his call.
  
  That great endearments I forsake, is true,
  But greater far the hopes that I pursue:
  The pride of having sav'd the youths of Greece
  (Each life more precious than our golden fleece);
  A nobler soil by me shall be possest,
  I shall see towns with arts and manners blest;
  And, what I prize above the world beside,
  Enjoy my Jason- and when once his bride,
  Be more than mortal, and to Gods ally'd.
  
  They talk of hazards I must first sustain,
  Of floating islands justling in the main;
  Our tender barque expos'd to dreadful shocks
  Of fierce Charybdis' gulf, and Scylla's rocks,
  Where breaking waves in whirling eddies rowl,
  And rav'nous dogs that in deep caverns howl:
  Amidst these terrors, while I lye possest
  Of him I love, and lean on Jason's breast,
  In tempests unconcern'd I will appear,
  Or, only for my husband's safety fear.
  
  Didst thou say husband?
  
  - canst thou so deceive
  Thy self, fond maid, and thy own cheat believe?
  
  In vain thou striv'st to varnish o'er thy shame,
  And grace thy guilt with wedlock's sacred name.
  
  Pull off the coz'ning masque, and oh! in time
  Discover and avoid the fatal crime.
  
  She ceas'd- the Graces now, with kind surprize,
  And virtue's lovely train, before her eyes
  Present themselves, and vanquish'd Cupid flies.
  
  She then retires to Hecate's shrine, that stood
  Far in the covert of a shady wood:
  She finds the fury of her flames asswag'd,
  But, seeing Jason there, again they rag'd.
  
  Blushes, and paleness did by turns invade
  Her tender cheeks, and secret grief betray'd.
  
  As fire, that sleeping under ashes lyes,
  Fresh-blown, and rous'd, does up in blazes rise,
  So flam'd the virgin's breast-
  New kindled by her lover's sparkling eyes.
  
  For chance, that day, had with uncommon grace
  Adorn'd the lovely youth, and through his face
  Display'd an air so pleasing as might charm
  A Goddess, and a Vestal's bosom warm.
  
  Her ravish'd eyes survey him o'er and o'er,
  As some gay wonder never seen before;
  Transported to the skies she seems to be,
  And thinks she gazes on a deity.
  
  But when he spoke, and prest her trembling hand,
  And did with tender words her aid demand,
  With vows, and oaths to make her soon his bride,
  She wept a flood of tears, and thus reply'd:
  I see my error, yet to ruin move,
  Nor owe my fate to ignorance, but love:
  Your life I'll guard, and only crave of you
  To swear once more- and to your oath be true.
  
  He swears by Hecate he would all fulfil,
  And by her grandfather's prophetick skill,
  By ev'ry thing that doubting love cou'd press,
  His present danger, and desir'd success.
  
  She credits him, and kindly does produce
  Enchanted herbs, and teaches him their use:
  Their mystick names, and virtues he admires,
  And with his booty joyfully retires.
  
  The        Impatient for the wonders of the day,
  Dragon's Teeth   Aurora drives the loyt'ring stars away.
  
  transform'd to   Now Mars's mount the pressing people fill,
  Men        The crowd below, the nobles crown the hill;
  The king himself high-thron'd above the rest,
  With iv'ry scepter, and in purple drest.
  
  Forthwith the brass-hoof'd bulls are set at
  large,
  Whose furious nostrils sulph'rous flame discharge:
  The blasted herbage by their breath expires;
  As forges rumble with excessive fires,
  And furnaces with fiercer fury glow,
  When water on the panting mass ye throw;
  With such a noise, from their convulsive breast,
  Thro' bellowing throats, the struggling vapour
  prest.
  
  Yet Jason marches up without concern,
  While on th' advent'rous youth the monsters turn
  Their glaring eyes, and, eager to engage,
  Brandish their steel-tipt horns in threatning rage:
  With brazen hoofs they beat the ground, and choak
  The ambient air with clouds of dust and smoak:
  Each gazing Graecian for his champion shakes,
  While bold advances he securely makes
  Thro' sindging blasts; such wonders magick art
  Can work, when love conspires, and plays his part.
  
  The passive savages like statues stand,
  While he their dew-laps stroaks with soothing hand;
  To unknown yokes their brawny necks they yield,
  And, like tame oxen, plow the wond'ring field.
  
  The Colchians stare; the Graecians shout, and raise
  Their champion's courage with inspiring praise.
  
  Embolden'd now, on fresh attempts he goes,
  With serpent's teeth the fertile furrows sows;
  The glebe, fermenting with inchanted juice,
  Makes the snake's teeth a human crop produce.
  
  For as an infant, pris'ner to the womb,
  Contented sleeps, 'till to perfection come,
  Then does the cell's obscure confinement scorn,
  He tosses, throbs, and presses to be born;
  So from the lab'ring Earth no single birth,
  But a whole troop of lusty youths rush forth;
  And, what's more strange, with martial fury warm'd,
  And for encounter all compleatly arm'd;
  In rank and file, as they were sow'd, they stand,
  Impatient for the signal of command.
  
  No foe but the Aemonian youth appears;
  At him they level their steel-pointed spears;
  His frighted friends, who triumph'd, just before,
  With peals of sighs his desp'rate case deplore:
  And where such hardy warriors are afraid,
  What must the tender, and enamour'd maid?
  
  Her spirits sink, the blood her cheek forsook;
  She fears, who for his safety undertook:
  She knew the vertue of the spells she gave,
  She knew the force, and knew her lover brave;
  But what's a single champion to an host?
  
  Yet scorning thus to see him tamely lost,
  Her strong reserve of secret arts she brings,
  And last, her never-failing song she sings.
  
  Wonders ensue; among his gazing foes
  The massy fragment of a rock he throws;
  This charm in civil war engag'd 'em all;
  By mutual wounds those Earth-born brothers fall.
  
  The Greeks, transported with the strange success,
  Leap from their seats the conqu'ror to caress;
  Commend, and kiss, and clasp him in their arms:
  So would the kind contriver of the charms;
  But her, who felt the tenderest concern,
  Honour condemns in secret flames to burn;
  Committed to a double guard of fame,
  Aw'd by a virgin's, and a princess' name.
  
  But thoughts are free, and fancy unconfin'd,
  She kisses, courts, and hugs him in her mind;
  To fav'ring Pow'rs her silent thanks she gives,
  By whose indulgence her lov'd hero lives.
  
  One labour more remains, and, tho' the last,
  In danger far surmounting all the past;
  That enterprize by Fates in store was kept,
  To make the dragon sleep that never slept,
  Whose crest shoots dreadful lustre; from his jaws
  A tripple tire of forked stings he draws,
  With fangs, and wings of a prodigious size:
  Such was the guardian of the golden prize.
  
  Yet him, besprinkled with Lethaean dew,
  The fair inchantress into slumber threw;
  And then, to fix him, thrice she did repeat
  The rhyme, that makes the raging winds retreat,
  In stormy seas can halcyon seasons make,
  Turn rapid streams into a standing lake;
  While the soft guest his drowzy eye-lids seals,
  Th' ungarded golden fleece the stranger steals;
  Proud to possess the purchase of his toil,
  Proud of his royal bride, the richer spoil;
  To sea both prize, and patroness he bore,
  And lands triumphant on his native shore.
  
  Old Aeson       Aemonian matrons, who their absence mourn'd,
  restor'd to    Rejoyce to see their prosp'rous sons return'd:
  Youth       Rich curling fumes of incense feast the skies,
  An hecatomb of voted victims dies,
  With gilded horns, and garlands on their head,
  And all the pomp of death, to th' altar led.
  
  Congratulating bowls go briskly round,
  Triumphant shouts in louder musick drown'd.
  
  Amidst these revels, why that cloud of care
  On Jason's brow?
  
  (to whom the largest share
  Of mirth was due)- His father was not there.
  
  Aeson was absent, once the young, and brave,
  Now crush'd with years, and bending to the grave.
  
  At last withdrawn, and by the crowd unseen,
  Pressing her hand (with starting sighs between),
  He supplicates his kind, and skilful queen.
  
  O patroness! preserver of my life!
  (Dear when my mistress, and much dearer wife)
  Your favours to so vast a sum amount,
  'Tis past the pow'r of numbers to recount;
  Or cou'd they be to computation brought,
  The history would a romance be thought:
  And yet, unless you add one favour more,
  Greater than all that you conferr'd before,
  But not too hard for love and magick skill,
  Your past are thrown away, and Jason's wretched
  still.
  
  The morning of my life is just begun,
  But my declining father's race is run;
  From my large stock retrench the long arrears,
  And add 'em to expiring Aeson's years.
  
  Thus spake the gen'rous youth, and wept the rest.
  
  Mov'd with the piety of his request,
  To his ag'd sire such filial duty shown,
  So diff'rent from her treatment of her own,
  But still endeav'ring her remorse to hide,
  She check'd her rising sighs, and thus reply'd.
  
  How cou'd the thought of such inhuman wrong
  Escape (said she) from pious Jason's tongue?
  
  Does the whole world another Jason bear,
  Whose life Medea can to yours prefer?
  
  Or cou'd I with so dire a change dispence,
  Hecate will never join in that offence:
  Unjust is the request you make, and I
  In kindness your petition shall deny;
  Yet she that grants not what you do implore,
  Shall yet essay to give her Jason more;
  Find means t' encrease the stock of Aeson's years,
  Without retrenchment of your life's arrears;
  Provided that the triple Goddess join
  A strong confed'rate in my bold design.
  
  Thus was her enterprize resolv'd; but still
  Three tedious nights are wanting to fulfil
  The circling crescents of th' encreasing moon;
  Then, in the height of her nocturnal noon,
  Medea steals from court; her ankles bare,
  Her garments closely girt, but loose her hair;
  Thus sally'd, like a solitary sprite,
  She traverses the terrors of the night.
  
  Men, beasts, and birds in soft repose lay
  charm'd,
  No boistrous wind the mountain-woods alarm'd;
  Nor did those walks of love, the myrtle-trees,
  Of am'rous Zephir hear the whisp'ring breeze;
  All elements chain'd in unactive rest,
  No sense but what the twinkling stars exprest;
  To them (that only wak'd) she rears her arm,
  And thus commences her mysterious charms.
  
  She turn'd her thrice about, as oft she threw
  On her pale tresses the nocturnal dew;
  Then yelling thrice a most enormous sound,
  Her bare knee bended on the flinty ground.
  
  O night (said she) thou confident and guide
  Of secrets, such as darkness ought to hide;
  Ye stars and moon, that, when the sun retires,
  Support his empire with succeeding fires;
  And thou, great Hecate, friend to my design;
  Songs, mutt'ring spells, your magick forces join;
  And thou, O Earth, the magazine that yields
  The midnight sorcerer drugs; skies, mountains,
  fields;
  Ye wat'ry Pow'rs of fountain, stream, and lake;
  Ye sylvan Gods, and Gods of night, awake,
  And gen'rously your parts in my adventure take.
  
  Oft by your aid swift currents I have led
  Thro' wand'ring banks, back to their fountain head;
  Transformed the prospect of the briny deep,
  Made sleeping billows rave, and raving billows
  sleep;
  Made clouds, or sunshine; tempests rise, or fall;
  And stubborn lawless winds obey my call:
  With mutter'd words disarm'd the viper's jaw;
  Up by the roots vast oaks, and rocks cou'd draw,
  Make forests dance, and trembling mountains come,
  Like malefactors, to receive their doom;
  Earth groan, and frighted ghosts forsake their
  tomb.
  
  Thee, Cynthia, my resistless rhymes drew down,
  When tinkling cymbals strove my voice to drown;
  Nor stronger Titan could their force sustain,
  In full career compell'd to stop his wain:
  Nor could Aurora's virgin blush avail,
  With pois'nous herbs I turn'd her roses pale;
  The fury of the fiery bulls I broke,
  Their stubborn necks submitting to my yoke;
  And when the sons of Earth with fury burn'd,
  Their hostile rage upon themselves I turn'd;
  The brothers made with mutual wounds to bleed,
  And by their fatal strife my lover freed;
  And, while the dragon slept, to distant Greece,
  Thro' cheated guards, convey'd the golden fleece.
  
  But now to bolder action I proceed,
  Of such prevailing juices now have need,
  That wither'd years back to their bloom can bring,
  And in dead winter raise a second spring.
  
  And you'll perform't-
  You will; for lo! the stars, with sparkling fires,
  Presage as bright success to my desires:
  And now another happy omen see!
  A chariot drawn by dragons waits for me.
  
  With these last words he leaps into the wain,
  Stroaks the snakes' necks, and shakes the golden
  rein;
  That signal giv'n, they mount her to the skies,
  And now beneath her fruitful Tempe lies,
  Whose stories she ransacks, then to Crete she
  flies;
  There Ossa, Pelion, Othrys, Pindus, all
  To the fair ravisher, a booty fall;
  The tribute of their verdure she collects,
  Nor proud Olympus' height his plants protects.
  
  Some by the roots she plucks; the tender tops
  Of others with her culling sickle crops.
  
  Nor could the plunder of the hills suffice,
  Down to the humble vales, and meads she flies;
  Apidanus, Amphrysus, the next rape
  Sustain, nor could Enipeus' bank escape;
  Thro' Beebe's marsh, and thro' the border rang'd
  Whose pasture Glaucus to a Triton chang'd.
  
  Now the ninth day, and ninth successive night,
  Had wonder'd at the restless rover's flight;
  Mean-while her dragons, fed with no repast,
  But her exhaling simples od'rous blast,
  Their tarnish'd scales, and wrinkled skins had
  cast.
  
  At last return'd before her palace gate,
  Quitting her chariot, on the ground she sate;
  The sky her only canopy of state.
  
  All conversation with her sex she fled,
  Shun'd the caresses of the nuptial bed:
  Two altars next of grassy turf she rears,
  This Hecate's name, that Youth's inscription bears;
  With forest-boughs, and vervain these she crown'd;
  Then delves a double trench in lower ground,
  And sticks a black-fleec'd ram, that ready stood,
  And drench'd the ditches with devoted blood:
  New wine she pours, and milk from th' udder warm,
  With mystick murmurs to compleat the charm,
  And subterranean deities alarm.
  
  To the stern king of ghosts she next apply'd,
  And gentle Proserpine, his ravish'd bride,
  That for old Aeson with the laws of Fate
  They would dispense, and lengthen his short date;
  Thus with repeated pray'rs she long assails
  Th' infernal tyrant and at last prevails;
  Then calls to have decrepit Aeson brought,
  And stupifies him with a sleeping draught;
  On Earth his body, like a corpse, extends,
  Then charges Jason and his waiting friends
  To quit the place, that no unhallow'd eye
  Into her art's forbidden secrets pry.
  
  This done, th' inchantress, with her locks unbound,
  About her altars trips a frantick round;
  Piece-meal the consecrated wood she splits,
  And dips the splinters in the bloody pits,
  Then hurles 'em on the piles; the sleeping sire
  She lustrates thrice, with sulphur, water, fire.
  
  In a large cauldron now the med'cine boils,
  Compounded of her late-collected spoils,
  Blending into the mesh the various pow'rs
  Of wonder-working juices, roots, and flow'rs;
  With gems i' th' eastern ocean's cell refin'd,
  And such as ebbing tides had left behind;
  To them the midnight's pearly dew she flings,
  A scretch-owl's carcase, and ill boding wings;
  Nor could the wizard wolf's warm entrails scape
  (That wolf who counterfeits a human shape).
  
  Then, from the bottom of her conj'ring bag,
  Snakes' skins, and liver of a long-liv'd stag;
  Last a crow's head to such an age arriv'd,
  That he had now nine centuries surviv'd;
  These, and with these a thousand more that grew
  In sundry soils, into her pot she threw;
  Then with a wither'd olive-bough she rakes
  The bubling broth; the bough fresh verdure takes;
  Green leaves at first the perish'd plant surround,
  Which the next minute with ripe fruit were crown'd.
  
  The foaming juices now the brink o'er-swell;
  The barren heath, where-e'er the liquor fell,
  Sprang out with vernal grass, and all the pride
  Of blooming May- When this Medea spy'd,
  She cuts her patient's throat; th' exhausted blood
  Recruiting with her new enchanted flood;
  While at his mouth, and thro' his op'ning wound,
  A double inlet her infusion found;
  His feeble frame resumes a youthful air,
  A glossy brown his hoary beard and hair.
  
  The meager paleness from his aspect fled,
  And in its room sprang up a florid red;
  Thro' all his limbs a youthful vigour flies,
  His empty'd art'ries swell with fresh supplies:
  Gazing spectators scarce believe their eyes.
  
  But Aeson is the most surpriz'd to find
  A happy change in body and in mind;
  In sense and constitution the same man,
  As when his fortieth active year began.
  
  Bacchus, who from the clouds this wonder view'd,
  Medea's method instantly pursu'd,
  And his indulgent nurse's youth renew'd.
  
  The Death of      Thus far obliging love employ'd her art,
  Pelias       But now revenge must act a tragick part;
  Medea feigns a mortal quarrel bred
  Betwixt her, and the partner of her bed;
  On this pretence to Pelias' court she flies,
  Who languishing with age and sickness lies:
  His guiltless daughters, with inveigling wiles,
  And well dissembled friendship, she beguiles:
  The strange achievements of her art she tells,
  With Aeson's cure, and long on that she dwells,
  'Till them to firm perswasion she has won,
  The same for their old father may be done:
  For him they court her to employ her skill,
  And put upon the cure what price she will.
  
  At first she's mute, and with a grave pretence
  Of difficulty, holds 'em in suspense;
  Then promises, and bids 'em, from the fold
  Chuse out a ram, the most infirm and old;
  That so by fact their doubts may be remov'd,
  And first on him the operation prov'd.
  
  A wreath-horn'd ram is brought, so far o'er-grown
  With years, his age was to that age unknown
  Of sense too dull the piercing point to feel,
  And scarce sufficient blood to stain the steel.
  
  His carcass she into a cauldron threw,
  With drugs whose vital qualities she knew;
  His limbs grow less, he casts his horns, and years,
  And tender bleatings strike their wond'ring ears.
  
  Then instantly leaps forth a frisking lamb,
  That seeks (too young to graze) a suckling dam.
  
  The sisters, thus confirm'd with the success,
  Her promise with renew'd entreaty press;
  To countenance the cheat, three nights and days
  Before experiment th' inchantress stays;
  Then into limpid water, from the springs,
  Weeds, and ingredients of no force she flings;
  With antique ceremonies for pretence
  And rambling rhymes without a word of sense.
  
  Mean-while the king with all his guards lay bound
  In magick sleep, scarce that of death so sound;
  The daughters now are by the sorc'ress led
  Into his chamber, and surround his bed.
  
  Your father's health's concern'd, and can ye stay?
  
  Unnat'ral nymphs, why this unkind delay?
  
  Unsheath your swords, dismiss his lifeless blood,
  And I'll recruit it with a vital flood:
  Your father's life and health is in your hand,
  And can ye thus like idle gazers stand?
  
  Unless you are of common sense bereft,
  If yet one spark of piety is left,
  Dispatch a father's cure, and disengage
  The monarch from his toilsome load of age:
  Come- drench your weapons in his putrid gore;
  'Tis charity to wound, when wounding will restore.
  
  Thus urg'd, the poor deluded maids proceed,
  Betray'd by zeal, to an inhumane deed,
  And, in compassion, make a father bleed.
  
  Yes, she who had the kindest, tend'rest heart,
  Is foremost to perform the bloody part.
  
  Yet, tho' to act the butchery betray'd,
  They could not bear to see the wounds they made;
  With looks averted, backward they advance,
  Then strike, and stab, and leave the blows to
  chance.
  
  Waking in consternation, he essays
  (Weltring in blood) his feeble arms to raise:
  Environ'd with so many swords- From whence
  This barb'rous usage?
  
  what is my offence?
  
  What fatal fury, what infernal charm,
  'Gainst a kind father does his daughters arm?
  
  Hearing his voice, as thunder-struck they stopt,
  Their resolution, and their weapons dropt:
  Medea then the mortal blow bestows,
  And that perform'd, the tragick scene to close,
  His corpse into the boiling cauldron throws.
  
  Then, dreading the revenge that must ensue,
  High mounted on her dragon-coach she flew;
  And in her stately progress thro' the skies,
  Beneath her shady Pelion first she spies,
  With Othrys, that above the clouds did rise;
  With skilful Chiron's cave, and neighb'ring ground,
  For old Cerambus' strange escape renown'd,
  By nymphs deliver'd, when the world was drown'd;
  Who him with unexpected wings supply'd,
  When delug'd hills a safe retreat deny'd.
  
  Aeolian Pitane on her left hand
  She saw, and there the statu'd dragon stand;
  With Ida's grove, where Bacchus, to disguise
  His son's bold theft, and to secure the prize,
  Made the stoln steer a stag to represent;
  Cocytus' father's sandy monument;
  And fields that held the murder'd sire's remains,
  Where howling Moera frights the startled plains.
  
  Euryphilus' high town, with tow'rs defac'd
  By Hercules, and matrons more disgrac'd
  With sprouting horns, in signal punishment,
  From Juno, or resenting Venus sent.
  
  Then Rhodes, which Phoebus did so dearly prize,
  And Jove no less severely did chastize;
  For he the wizard native's pois'ning sight,
  That us'd the farmer's hopeful crops to blight,
  In rage o'erwhelm'd with everlasting night.
  
  Cartheia's ancient walls come next in view,
  Where once the sire almost a statue grew
  With wonder, which a strange event did move,
  His daughter turn'd into a turtle-dove.
  
  Then Hyrie's lake, and Tempe's field o'er-ran,
  Fam'd for the boy who there became a swan;
  For there enamour'd Phyllius, like a slave,
  Perform'd what tasks his paramour would crave.
  
  For presents he had mountain-vultures caught,
  And from the desart a tame lion brought;
  Then a wild bull commanded to subdue,
  The conquer'd savage by the horns he drew;
  But, mock'd so oft, the treatment he disdains,
  And from the craving boy this prize detains.
  
  Then thus in choler the resenting lad:
  Won't you deliver him?
  
  - You'll wish you had:
  Nor sooner said, but, in a peevish mood,
  Leapt from the precipice on which he stood:
  The standers-by were struck with fresh surprize,
  Instead of falling, to behold him rise
  A snowy swan, and soaring to the skies.
  
  But dearly the rash prank his mother cost,
  Who ignorantly gave her son for lost;
  For his misfortune wept, 'till she became
  A lake, and still renown'd with Hyrie's name.
  
  Thence to Latona's isle, where once were seen,
  Transform'd to birds, a monarch, and his queen.
  
  Far off she saw how old Cephisus mourn'd
  His son, into a seele by Phoebus turn'd;
  And where, astonish'd at a stranger sight,
  Eumelus gaz'd on his wing'd daughter's flight.
  
  Aetolian Pleuron she did next survey,
  Where sons a mother's murder did essay,
  But sudden plumes the matron bore away.
  
  On her right hand, Cyllene, a fair soil,
  Fair, 'till Menephron there the beauteous hill
  Attempted with foul incest to defile.
  
  Her harness'd dragons now direct she drives
  For Corinth, and at Corinth she arrives;
  Where, if what old tradition tells, be true,
  In former ages men from mushrooms grew.
  
  But here Medea finds her bed supply'd,
  During her absence, by another bride;
  And hopeless to recover her lost game,
  She sets both bride and palace in a flame.
  
  Nor could a rival's death her wrath asswage,
  Nor stopt at Creon's family her rage,
  She murders her own infants, in despight
  To faithless Jason, and in Jason's sight;
  Yet e'er his sword could reach her, up she springs,
  Securely mounted on her dragon's wings.
  
  The Story of      From hence to Athens she directs her flight,
  Aegeus      Where Phineus, so renown'd for doing right;
  Where Periphas, and Polyphemon's neece,
  Soaring with sudden plumes amaz'd the towns of
  Greece.
  
  Here Aegeus so engaging she addrest,
  That first he treats her like a royal guest;
  Then takes the sorc'ress for his wedded wife;
  The only blemish of his prudent life.
  
  Mean-while his son, from actions of renown,
  Arrives at court, but to his sire unknown.
  
  Medea, to dispatch a dang'rous heir
  (She knew him), did a pois'nous draught prepare;
  Drawn from a drug, was long reserv'd in store
  For desp'rate uses, from the Scythian shore;
  That from the Echydnaean monster's jaws
  Deriv'd its origin, and this the cause.
  
  Thro' a dark cave a craggy passage lies,
  To ours, ascending from the nether skies;
  Thro' which, by strength of hand, Alcides drew
  Chain'd Cerberus, who lagg'd, and restive grew,
  With his blear'd eyes our brighter day to view.
  
  Thrice he repeated his enormous yell,
  With which he scares the ghosts, and startles Hell;
  At last outragious (tho' compell'd to yield)
  He sheds his foam in fury on the field,-
  Which, with its own, and rankness of the ground,
  Produc'd a weed, by sorcerers renown'd,
  The strongest constitution to confound;
  Call'd Aconite, because it can unlock
  All bars, and force its passage thro' a rock.
  
  The pious father, by her wheedles won,
  Presents this deadly potion to his son;
  Who, with the same assurance takes the cup,
  And to the monarch's health had drank it up,
  But in the very instant he apply'd
  The goblet to his lips, old Aegeus spy'd
  The iv'ry hilted sword that grac'd his side.
  
  That certain signal of his son he knew,
  And snatcht the bowl away; the sword he drew,
  Resolv'd, for such a son's endanger'd life,
  To sacrifice the most perfidious wife.
  
  Revenge is swift, but her more active charms
  A whirlwind rais'd, that snatch'd her from his
  arms.
  
  While conjur'd clouds their baffled sense surprize,
  She vanishes from their deluded eyes,
  And thro' the hurricane triumphant flies.
  
  The gen'rous king, altho' o'er-joy'd to find
  His son was safe, yet bearing still in mind
  The mischief by his treach'rous queen design'd;
  The horrour of the deed, and then how near
  The danger drew, he stands congeal'd with fear.
  
  But soon that fear into devotion turns,
  With grateful incense ev'ry altar burns;
  Proud victims, and unconscious of their fate,
  Stalk to the temple, there to die in state.
  
  In Athens never had a day been found
  For mirth, like that grand festival, renown'd.
  
  Promiscuously the peers, and people dine,
  Promiscuously their thankful voices join,
  In songs of wit, sublim'd by spritely wine.
  
  To list'ning spheres their joint applause they
  raise,
  And thus resound their matchless Theseus' praise.
  
  Great Theseus! Thee the Marathonian plain
  Admires, and wears with pride the noble stain
  Of the dire monster's blood, by valiant Theseus
  slain.
  
  That now Cromyon's swains in safety sow,
  And reap their fertile field, to thee they owe.
  
  By thee th' infested Epidaurian coast
  Was clear'd, and now can a free commerce boast.
  
  The traveller his journey can pursue,
  With pleasure the late dreadful valley view,
  And cry, Here Theseus the grand robber slew.
  
  Cephysus' cries to his rescu'd shore,
  The merciless Procrustes is no more.
  
  In peace, Eleusis, Ceres' rites renew,
  Since Theseus' sword the fierce Cercyon slew.
  
  By him the tort'rer Sinis was destroy'd,
  Of strength (but strength to barb'rous use
  employ'd)
  That tops of tallest pines to Earth could bend,
  And thus in pieces wretched captives rend.
  
  Inhuman Scyron now has breath'd his last,
  And now Alcatho's roads securely past;
  By Theseus slain, and thrown into the deep:
  But Earth nor Sea his scatter'd bones wou'd keep,
  Which, after floating long, a rock became,
  Still infamous with Scyron's hated name.
  
  When Fame to count thy acts and years proceeds,
  Thy years appear but cyphers to thy deeds.
  
  For thee, brave youth, as for our common-wealth,
  We pray; and drink, in yours, the publick health.
  
  Your praise the senate, and plebeians sing,
  With your lov'd name the court, and cottage ring.
  
  You make our shepherds and our sailors glad,
  And not a house in this vast city's sad.
  
  But mortal bliss will never come sincere,
  Pleasure may lead, but grief brings up the rear;
  While for his sons' arrival, rev'ling joy
  Aegeus, and all his subjects does employ;
  While they for only costly feasts prepare,
  His neighb'ring monarch, Minos, threatens war:
  Weak in land-forces, nor by sea more strong,
  But pow'rful in a deep resented wrong
  For a son's murder, arm'd with pious rage;
  Yet prudently before he would engage,
  To raise auxiliaries resolv'd to sail,
  And with the pow'rful princes to prevail.
  
  First Anaphe, then proud Astypalaea gains,
  By presents that, and this by threats obtains:
  Low Mycone, Cymolus, chalky soil,
  Tall Cythnos, Scyros, flat Seriphos' isle;
  Paros, with marble cliffs afar display'd;
  Impregnable Sithonia; yet betray'd
  To a weak foe by a gold-admiring maid,
  Who, chang'd into a daw of sable hue,
  Still hoards up gold, and hides it from the view.
  
  But as these islands chearfully combine,
  Others refuse t' embark in his design.
  
  Now leftward with an easy sail he bore,
  And prosp'rous passage to Oenopia's shore;
  Oenopia once, but now Aegina call'd,
  And with his royal mother's name install'd
  By Aeacus, under whose reign did spring
  The Myrmidons, and now their reigning king.
  
  Down to the port, amidst the rabble, run
  The princes of the blood; with Telamon,
  Peleus the next, and Phocus the third son:
  Then Aeacus, altho' opprest with years,
  To ask the cause of their approach appears.
  
  That question does the Gnossian's grief renew,
  And sighs from his afflicted bosom drew;
  Yet after a short solemn respite made,
  The ruler of the hundred cities said:
  Assist our arms, rais'd for a murder'd son,
  In this religious war no risque you'll run:
  Revenge the dead- for who refuse to give
  Rest to their urns, unworthy are to live.
  
  What you request, thus Aeacus replies,
  Not I, but truth and common faith denies;
  Athens and we have long been sworn allies:
  Our leagues are fix'd, confed'rate are our pow'rs,
  And who declare themselves their foes, are ours.
  
  Minos rejoins, Your league shall dearly cost
  (Yet, mindful how much safer 'twas to boast,
  Than there to waste his forces, and his fame,
  Before in field with his grand foe he came),
  Parts without blows- nor long had left the shore,
  E're into port another navy bore,
  With Cephalus, and all his jolly crew;
  Th' Aeacides their old acquaintance knew:
  The princes bid him welcome, and in state
  Conduct the heroe to their palace gate;
  Who entr'ring, seem'd the charming mein to wear,
  As when in youth he paid his visit there.
  
  In his right hand an olive-branch he holds,
  And, salutation past, the chief unfolds
  His embassy from the Athenian state,
  Their mutual friendship, leagues of ancient date;
  Their common danger, ev'ry thing cou'd wake
  Concern, and his address successful make:
  Strength'ning his plea with all the charms of
  sense,
  And those, with all the charms of eloquence.
  
  Then thus the king: Like suitors do you stand
  For that assistance which you may command?
  
  Athenians, all our listed forces use
  (They're such as no bold service will refuse);
  And when y' ave drawn them off, the Gods be
  prais'd,
  Fresh legions can within our isle be rais'd:
  So stock'd with people, that we can prepare
  Both for domestick, and for distant war,
  Ours, or our friends' insulters to chastize.
  
  Long may ye flourish thus, the prince replies.
  
  Strange transport seiz'd me as I pass'd along,
  To meet so many troops, and all so young,
  As if your army did of twins consist;
  Yet amongst them my late acquaintance miss'd:
  Ev'n all that to your palace did resort,
  When first you entertain'd me at your court;
  And cannot guess the cause from whence cou'd spring
  So vast a change- Then thus the sighing king:
  Illustrious guest, to my strange tale attend,
  Of sad beginning, but a joyful end:
  The whole to a vast history wou'd swell,
  I shall but half, and that confus'dly, tell.
  
  That race whom so deserv'dly you admir'd,
  Are all into their silent tombs retir'd:
  They fell; and falling, how they shook my state,
  Thought may conceive, but words can ne'er relate.
  
  The Story of      A dreadful plague from angry Juno came,
  Ants chang'd    To scourge the land, that bore her rival's name;
  to Men       Before her fatal anger was reveal'd,
  And teeming malice lay as yet conceal'd,
  All remedies we try, all med'cines use,
  Which Nature cou'd supply, or art produce;
  Th' unconquer'd foe derides the vain design,
  And art, and Nature foil'd, declare the cause
  divine.
  
  At first we only felt th' oppressive weight
  Of gloomy clouds, then teeming with our fate,
  And lab'ring to discarge unactive heat:
  But ere four moons alternate changes knew,
  With deadly blasts the fatal South-wind blew,
  Infected all the air, and poison'd as it flew.
  
  Our fountains too a dire infection yield,
  For crowds of vipers creep along the field,
  And with polluted gore, and baneful steams,
  Taint all the lakes, and venom all the streams.
  
  The young disease with milder force began,
  And rag'd on birds, and beasts, excusing Man.
  
  The lab'ring oxen fall before the plow,
  Th' unhappy plow-men stare, and wonder how:
  The tabid sheep, with sickly bleatings, pines;
  Its wool decreasing, as its strength declines:
  The warlike steed, by inward foes compell'd,
  Neglects his honours, and deserts the field;
  Unnerv'd, and languid, seeks a base retreat,
  And at the manger groans, but wish'd a nobler fate:
  The stags forget their speed, the boars their rage,
  Nor can the bears the stronger herds engage:
  A gen'ral faintness does invade 'em all,
  And in the woods, and fields, promiscuously they
  fall.
  
  The air receives the stench, and (strange to say)
  The rav'nous birds and beasts avoid the prey:
  Th' offensive bodies rot upon the ground,
  And spread the dire contagion all around.
  
  But now the plague, grown to a larger size,
  Riots on Man, and scorns a meaner prize.
  
  Intestine heats begin the civil war,
  And flushings first the latent flame declare,
  And breath inspir'd, which seem'd like fiery air.
  
  Their black dry tongues are swell'd, and scarce can
  move,
  And short thick sighs from panting lung are drove.
  
  They gape for air, with flatt'ring hopes t' abate
  Their raging flames, but that augments their heat.
  
  No bed, no cov'ring can the wretches bear,
  But on the ground, expos'd to open air,
  They lye, and hope to find a pleasing coolness
  there.
  
  The suff'ring Earth with that oppression curst,
  Returns the heat which they imparted first.
  
  In vain physicians would bestow their aid,
  Vain all their art, and useless all their trade;
  And they, ev'n they, who fleeting life recall,
  Feel the same Pow'rs, and undistinguish'd fall.
  
  If any proves so daring to attend
  His sick companion, or his darling friend,
  Th' officious wretch sucks in contagious breath,
  And with his friend does sympathize in death.
  
  And now the care and hopes of life are past,
  They please their fancies, and indulge their taste;
  At brooks and streams, regardless of their shame,
  Each sex, promiscuous, strives to quench their
  flame;
  Nor do they strive in vain to quench it there,
  For thirst, and life at once extinguish'd are.
  
  Thus in the brooks the dying bodies sink,
  But heedless still the rash survivors drink.
  
  So much uneasy down the wretches hate,
  They fly their beds, to struggle with their fate;
  But if decaying strength forbids to rise,
  The victim crawls and rouls, 'till on the ground he
  lies.
  
  Each shuns his bed, as each wou'd shun his tomb,
  And thinks th' infection only lodg'd at home.
  
  Here one, with fainting steps, does slowly creep
  O'er heaps of dead, and strait augments the heap;
  Another, while his strength and tongue prevail'd,
  Bewails his friend, and falls himself bewail'd:
  This with imploring looks surveys the skies,
  The last dear office of his closing eyes,
  But finds the Heav'ns implacable, and dies.
  
  What now, ah! what employ'd my troubled mind?
  
  But only hopes my subjects' fate to find.
  
  What place soe'er my weeping eyes survey,
  There in lamented heaps the vulgar lay;
  As acorns scatter when the winds prevail,
  Or mellow fruit from shaken branches fall.
  
  You see that dome which rears its front so high:
  'Tis sacred to the monarch of the sky:
  How many there, with unregarded tears,
  And fruitless vows, sent up successless pray'rs?
  
  There fathers for expiring sons implor'd,
  And there the wife bewail'd her gasping lord;
  With pious off'rings they'd appease the skies,
  But they, ere yet th' attoning vapours rise,
  Before the altars fall, themselves a sacrifice:
  They fall, while yet their hands the gums contain,
  The gums surviving, but their off'rers slain.
  
  The destin'd ox, with holy garlands crown'd,
  Prevents the blow, and feels th' expected wound:
  When I my self invok'd the Pow'rs divine,
  To drive the fatal pest from me and mine;
  When now the priest with hands uplifted stood,
  Prepar'd to strike, and shed the sacred blood,
  The Gods themselves the mortal stroke bestow,
  The victim falls, but they impart the blow:
  Scarce was the knife with the pale purple stain'd,
  And no presages cou'd be then obtain'd,
  From putrid entrails, where th' infection reign'd.
  
  Death stalk'd around with such resistless sway,
  The temples of the Gods his force obey,
  And suppliants feel his stroke, while yet they
  pray.
  
  Go now, said he, your deities implore
  For fruitless aid, for I defie their pow'r.
  
  Then with a curst malicious joy survey'd
  The very altars, stain'd with trophies of the dead.
  
  The rest grown mad, and frantick with despair,
  Urge their own fate, and so prevent the fear.
  
  Strange madness that, when Death pursu'd so fast,
  T' anticipate the blow with impious haste.
  
  No decent honours to their urns are paid,
  Nor cou'd the graves receive the num'rous dead;
  For, or they lay unbury'd on the ground,
  Or unadorn'd a needy fun'ral found:
  All rev'rence past, the fainting wretches fight
  For fun'ral piles which were another's right.
  
  Unmourn'd they fall: for, who surviv'd to mourn?
  
  And sires, and mothers unlamented burn:
  Parents, and sons sustain an equal fate,
  And wand'ring ghosts their kindred shadows meet.
  
  The dead a larger space of ground require,
  Nor are the trees sufficient for the fire.
  
  Despairing under grief's oppressive weight,
  And sunk by these tempestuous blasts of Fate,
  O Jove, said I, if common fame says true,
  If e'er Aegina gave those joys to you,
  If e'er you lay enclos'd in her embrace,
  Fond of her charms, and eager to possess;
  O father, if you do not yet disclaim
  Paternal care, nor yet disown the name;
  Grant my petitions, and with speed restore
  My subjects num'rous as they were before,
  Or make me partner of the fate they bore.
  
  I spoke, and glorious lightning shone around,
  And ratling thunder gave a prosp'rous sound;
  So let it be, and may these omens prove
  A pledge, said I, of your returning love.
  
  By chance a rev'rend oak was near the place,
  Sacred to Jove, and of Dodona's race,
  Where frugal ants laid up their winter meat,
  Whose little bodies bear a mighty weight:
  We saw them march along, and hide their store,
  And much admir'd their number, and their pow'r;
  Admir'd at first, but after envy'd more.
  
  Full of amazement, thus to Jove I pray'd,
  O grant, since thus my subjects are decay'd,
  As many subjects to supply the dead.
  
  I pray'd, and strange convulsions mov'd the oak,
  Which murmur'd, tho' by ambient winds unshook:
  My trembling hands, and stiff-erected hair,
  Exprest all tokens of uncommon fear;
  Yet both the earth and sacred oak I kist,
  And scarce cou'd hope, yet still I hop'd the best;
  For wretches, whatsoe'er the Fates divine,
  Expound all omens to their own design.
  
  But now 'twas night, when ev'n distraction wears
  A pleasing look, and dreams beguile our cares,
  Lo! the same oak appears before my eyes,
  Nor alter'd in his shape, nor former size;
  As many ants the num'rous branches bear,
  The same their labour, and their frugal care;
  The branches too a like commotion sound,
  And shook th' industrious creatures on the ground,
  Who, by degrees (what's scarce to be believ'd)
  A nobler form, and larger bulk receiv'd,
  And on the earth walk'd an unusual pace,
  With manly strides, and an erected face-
  Their num'rous legs, and former colour lost,
  The insects cou'd a human figure boast.
  
  I wake, and waking find my cares again,
  And to the unperforming Gods complain,
  And call their promise, and pretences, vain.
  
  Yet in my court I heard the murm'ring voice
  Of strangers, and a mixt uncommon noise:
  But I suspected all was still a dream,
  'Till Telamon to my apartment came,
  Op'ning the door with an impetuous haste,
  O come, said he, and see your faith and hopes
  surpast:
  I follow, and, confus'd with wonder, view
  Those shapes which my presaging slumbers drew:
  I saw, and own'd, and call'd them subjects; they
  Confest my pow'r, submissive to my sway.
  
  To Jove, restorer of my race decay'd,
  My vows were first with due oblations paid,
  I then divide with an impartial hand
  My empty city, and my ruin'd land,
  To give the new-born youth an equal share,
  And call them Myrmidons, from what they were.
  
  You saw their persons, and they still retain
  The thrift of ants, tho' now transform'd to men.
  
  A frugal people, and inur'd to sweat,
  Lab'ring to gain, and keeping what they get.
  
  These, equal both in strength and years, shall join
  Their willing aid, and follow your design,
  With the first southern gale that shall present
  To fill your sails, and favour your intent.
  
  With such discourse they entertain the day;
  The ev'ning past in banquets, sport, and play:
  Then, having crown'd the night with sweet repose,
  Aurora (with the wind at east) arose.
  
  Now Pallas' sons to Cephalus resort,
  And Cephalus with Pallas' sons to court,
  To the king's levee; him sleep's silken chain,
  And pleasing dreams, beyond his hour detain;
  But then the princes of the blood, in state,
  Expect, and meet 'em at the palace gate.
  
  The Story of      To th' inmost courts the Grecian youths were led,
  Cephalus      And plac'd by Phocus on a Tyrian bed;
  and Procris    Who, soon observing Cephalus to hold
  A dart of unknown wood, but arm'd with gold:
  None better loves (said he) the huntsman's sport,
  Or does more often to the woods resort;
  Yet I that jav'lin's stem with wonder view,
  Too brown for box, too smooth a grain for yew.
  
  I cannot guess the tree; but never art
  Did form, or eyes behold so fair a dart!
  The guest then interrupts him- 'Twou'd produce
  Still greater wonder, if you knew its use.
  
  It never fails to strike the game, and then
  Comes bloody back into your hand again.
  
  Then Phocus each particular desires,
  And th' author of the wond'rous gift enquires.
  
  To which the owner thus, with weeping eyes,
  And sorrow for his wife's sad fate, replies,
  This weapon here (o prince!) can you believe
  This dart the cause for which so much I grieve;
  And shall continue to grieve on, 'till Fate
  Afford such wretched life no longer date.
  
  Would I this fatal gift had ne'er enjoy'd,
  This fatal gift my tender wife destroy'd:
  Procris her name, ally'd in charms and blood
  To fair Orythia courted by a God.
  
  Her father seal'd my hopes with rites divine,
  But firmer love before had made her mine.
  
  Men call'd me blest, and blest I was indeed.
  
  The second month our nuptials did succeed;
  When (as upon Hymettus' dewy head,
  For mountain stags my net betimes I spread)
  Aurora spy'd, and ravish'd me away,
  With rev'rence to the Goddess, I must say,
  Against my will, for Procris had my heart,
  Nor wou'd her image from my thoughts depart.
  
  At last, in rage she cry'd, Ingrateful boy
  Go to your Procris, take your fatal joy;
  And so dismiss'd me: musing, as I went,
  What those expressions of the Goddess meant,
  A thousand jealous fears possess me now,
  Lest Procris had prophan'd her nuptial vow:
  Her youth and charms did to my fancy paint
  A lewd adultress, but her life a saint.
  
  Yet I was absent long, the Goddess too
  Taught me how far a woman cou'd be true.
  
  Aurora's treatment much suspicion bred;
  Besides, who truly love, ev'n shadows dread.
  
  I strait impatient for the tryal grew,
  What courtship back'd with richest gifts cou'd do.
  
  Aurora's envy aided my design,
  And lent me features far unlike to mine.
  
  In this disguise to my own house I came,
  But all was chaste, no conscious sign of blame:
  With thousand arts I scarce admittance found,
  And then beheld her weeping on the ground
  For her lost husband; hardly I retain'd
  My purpose, scarce the wish'd embrace refrain'd.
  
  How charming was her grief! Then, Phocus, guess
  What killing beauties waited on her dress.
  
  Her constant answer, when my suit I prest,
  Forbear, my lord's dear image guards this breast;
  Where-e'er he is, whatever cause detains,
  Who-e'er has his, my heart unmov'd remains.
  
  What greater proofs of truth than these cou'd be?
  
  Yet I persist, and urge my destiny.
  
  At length, she found, when my own form return'd,
  Her jealous lover there, whose loss she mourn'd.
  
  Enrag'd with my suspicion, swift as wind,
  She fled at once from me and all mankind;
  And so became, her purpose to retain,
  A nymph, and huntress in Diana's train:
  Forsaken thus, I found my flames encrease,
  I own'd my folly, and I su'd for peace.
  
  It was a fault, but not of guilt, to move
  Such punishment, a fault of too much love.
  
  Thus I retriev'd her to my longing arms,
  And many happy days possess'd her charms.
  
  But with herself she kindly did confer,
  What gifts the Goddess had bestow'd on her;
  The fleetest grey-hound, with this lovely dart,
  And I of both have wonders to impart.
  
  Near Thebes a savage beast, of race unknown,
  Laid waste the field, and bore the vineyards down;
  The swains fled from him, and with one consent
  Our Grecian youth to chase the monster went;
  More swift than light'ning he the toils surpast,
  And in his course spears, men, and trees o'er-cast.
  
  We slipt our dogs, and last my Lelaps too,
  When none of all the mortal race wou'd do:
  He long before was struggling from my hands,
  And, e're we cou'd unloose him, broke his bands.
  
  That minute where he was, we cou'd not find,
  And only saw the dust he left behind.
  
  I climb'd a neighb'ring hill to view the chase,
  While in the plain they held an equal race;
  The savage now seems caught, and now by force
  To quit himself, nor holds the same strait course;
  But running counter, from the foe withdraws,
  And with short turning cheats his gaping jaws:
  Which he retrieves, and still so closely prest,
  You'd fear at ev'ry stretch he were possess'd;
  Yet for the gripe his fangs in vain prepare;
  The game shoots from him, and he chops the air.
  
  To cast my jav'lin then I took my stand;
  But as the thongs were fitting to my hand,
  While to the valley I o'er-look'd the wood,
  Before my eyes two marble statues stood;
  That, as pursu'd appearing at full stretch,
  This barking after, and at point to catch:
  Some God their course did with this wonder grace,
  That neither might be conquer'd in the chase.
  
  A sudden silence here his tongue supprest,
  He here stops short, and fain wou'd wave the rest.
  
  The eager prince then urg'd him to impart,
  The Fortune that attended on the dart.
  
  First then (said he) past joys let me relate,
  For bliss was the foundation of my fate.
  
  No language can those happy hours express,
  Did from our nuptials me, and Procris bless:
  The kindest pair! What more cou'd Heav'n confer?
  
  For she was all to me, and I to her.
  
  Had Jove made love, great Jove had been despis'd;
  And I my Procris more than Venus priz'd:
  Thus while no other joy we did aspire,
  We grew at last one soul, and one desire.
  
  Forth to the woods I went at break of day
  (The constant practice of my youth) for prey:
  Nor yet for servant, horse, or dog did call,
  I found this single dart to serve for all.
  
  With slaughter tir'd, I sought the cooler shade,
  And winds that from the mountains pierc'd the
  glade:
  Come, gentle air (so was I wont to say)
  Come, gentle air, sweet Aura come away.
  
  This always was the burden of my song,
  Come 'swage my flames, sweet Aura come along.
  
  Thou always art most welcome to my breast;
  I faint; approach, thou dearest, kindest guest!
  These blandishments, and more than these, I said
  (By Fate to unsuspected ruin led),
  Thou art my joy, for thy dear sake I love
  Each desart hill, and solitary grove;
  When (faint with labour) I refreshment need,
  For cordials on thy fragrant breath I feed.
  
  At last a wand'ring swain in hearing came,
  And cheated with the sound of Aura's name,
  He thought I some assignation made;
  And to my Procris' ear the news convey'd.
  
  Great love is soonest with suspicion fir'd:
  She swoon'd, and with the tale almost expir'd.
  
  Ah! wretched heart! (she cry'd) ah! faithless man.
  
  And then to curse th' imagin'd nymph began:
  Yet oft she doubts, oft hopes she is deceiv'd,
  And chides herself, that ever she believ'd
  Her lord to such injustice cou'd proceed,
  'Till she her self were witness of the deed.
  
  Next morn I to the woods again repair,
  And, weary with the chase, invoke the air:
  Approach, dear Aura, and my bosom chear:
  At which a mournful sound did strike my ear;
  Yet I proceeded, 'till the thicket by,
  With rustling noise and motion, drew my eye:
  I thought some beast of prey was shelter'd there,
  And to the covert threw my certain spear;
  From whence a tender sigh my soul did wound,
  Ah me! it cry'd, and did like Procris sound.
  
  Procris was there, too well the voice I knew,
  And to the place with headlong horror flew;
  Where I beheld her gasping on the ground,
  In vain attempting from the deadly wound
  To draw the dart, her love's dear fatal gift!
  My guilty arms had scarce the strength to lift
  The beauteous load; my silks, and hair I tore
  (If possible) to stanch the pressing gore;
  For pity beg'd her keep her flitting breath,
  And not to leave me guilty of her death.
  
  While I intreat she fainted fast away,
  And these few words had only strength to say:
  By all the sacred bonds of plighted love,
  By all your rev'rence to the Pow'rs above,
  By all the truth for which you held me dear,
  And last by love, the cause through which I bleed,
  Let Aura never to my bed succeed.
  
  I then perceiv'd the error of our fate,
  And told it her, but found and told too late!
  I felt her lower to my bosom fall,
  And while her eyes had any sight at all,
  On mine she fix'd them; in her pangs still prest
  My hand, and sigh'd her soul into my breast;
  Yet, being undeceiv'd, resign'd her breath
  Methought more chearfully, and smil'd in death.
  
  With such concern the weeping heroe told
  This tale, that none who heard him cou'd with-hold
  From melting into sympathizing tears,
  'Till Aeacus with his two sons appears;
  Whom he commits, with their new-levy'd bands,
  To Fortune's, and so brave a gen'ral's hands.
  
  The End of the Seventh Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
  Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
  And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
  Those who their injur'd deities defend,
  My own divinity affronted stands,
  And calls aloud for justice at my hands;
  Then takes the hint, asham'd to lag behind,
  And on Arachne' bends her vengeful mind;
  One at the loom so excellently skill'd,
  That to the Goddess she refus'd to yield.
  
  The          Low was her birth, and small her native town,
  Transformation   She from her art alone obtain'd renown.
  
  of Arachne     Idmon, her father, made it his employ,
  into a Spider   To give the spungy fleece a purple dye:
  Of vulgar strain her mother, lately dead,
  With her own rank had been content to wed;
  Yet she their daughter, tho' her time was spent
  In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
  Thro' the great towns of Lydia gain'd a name,
  And fill'd the neighb'ring countries with her fame.
  
  Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
  The Nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or
  hill:
  Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
  And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;
  Thither, from fam'd Pactolus' golden stream,
  Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came.
  
  Nor would the work, when finish'd, please so much,
  As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch;
  Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
  Or with quick motion turn'd the spindle round,
  Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
  Pallas her mistress shone in every line.
  
  This the proud maid with scornful air denies,
  And ev'n the Goddess at her work defies;
  Disowns her heav'nly mistress ev'ry hour,
  Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her pow'r.
  
  Let us, she cries, but to a tryal come,
  And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.
  
  The Goddess then a beldame's form put on,
  With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
  Prop'd by a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
  And tott'ring thus begins her old wives' talk.
  
  Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
  The admonitions of the old, and wise;
  For age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears,
  That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
  Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
  And mortals your superior genius own;
  But to the Goddess yield, and humbly meek
  A pardon for your bold presumption seek;
  The Goddess will forgive.
  
  At this the maid,
  With passion fir'd, her gliding shuttle stay'd;
  And, darting vengeance with an angry look,
  To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke.
  
  Thou doating thing, whose idle babling tongue
  But too well shews the plague of living long;
  Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice,
  Your giddy daughter, or your aukward neice;
  Know, I despise your counsel, and am still
  A woman, ever wedded to my will;
  And, if your skilful Goddess better knows,
  Let her accept the tryal I propose.
  
  She does, impatient Pallas strait replies,
  And, cloath'd with heavenly light, sprung from her
  odd disguise.
  
  The Nymphs, and virgins of the plain adore
  The awful Goddess, and confess her pow'r;
  The maid alone stood unappall'd; yet show'd
  A transient blush, that for a moment glow'd,
  Then disappear'd; as purple streaks adorn
  The opening beauties of the rosy morn;
  Till Phoebus rising prevalently bright,
  Allays the tincture with his silver light.
  
  Yet she persists, and obstinately great,
  In hopes of conquest hurries on her fate.
  
  The Goddess now the challenge waves no more,
  Nor, kindly good, advises as before.
  
  Strait to their posts appointed both repair,
  And fix their threaded looms with equal care:
  Around the solid beam the web is ty'd,
  While hollow canes the parting warp divide;
  Thro' which with nimble flight the shuttles play,
  And for the woof prepare a ready way;
  The woof and warp unite, press'd by the toothy
  slay.
  
  Thus both, their mantles button'd to their
  breast,
  Their skilful fingers ply with willing haste,
  And work with pleasure; while they chear the eye
  With glowing purple of the Tyrian dye:
  Or, justly intermixing shades with light,
  Their colourings insensibly unite.
  
  As when a show'r transpierc'd with sunny rays,
  Its mighty arch along the heav'n displays;
  From whence a thousand diff'rent colours rise,
  Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes;
  So like the intermingled shading seems,
  And only differs in the last extreams.
  
  Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,
  And, as each part in just proportion rose,
  Some antique fable in their work disclose.
  
  Pallas in figures wrought the heav'nly Pow'rs,
  And Mars's hill among th' Athenian tow'rs.
  
  On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,
  Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;
  The subject weighty, and well-known to fame,
  From whom the city shou'd receive its name.
  
  Each God by proper features was exprest,
  Jove with majestick mein excell'd the rest.
  
  His three-fork'd mace the dewy sea-God shook,
  And, looking sternly, smote the ragged rock;
  When from the stone leapt forth a spritely steed,
  And Neptune claims the city for the deed.
  
  Herself she blazons, with a glitt'ring spear,
  And crested helm that veil'd her braided hair,
  With shield, and scaly breast-plate, implements of
  war.
  
  Struck with her pointed launce, the teeming Earth
  Seem'd to produce a new surprizing birth;
  When, from the glebe, the pledge of conquest
  sprung,
  A tree pale-green with fairest olives hung.
  
  And then, to let her giddy rival learn
  What just rewards such boldness was to earn,
  Four tryals at each corner had their part,
  Design'd in miniature, and touch'd with art.
  
  Haemus in one, and Rodope of Thrace
  Transform'd to mountains, fill'd the foremost
  place;
  Who claim'd the titles of the Gods above,
  And vainly us'd the epithets of Jove.
  
  Another shew'd, where the Pigmaean dame,
  Profaning Juno's venerable name,
  Turn'd to an airy crane, descends from far,
  And with her Pigmy subjects wages war.
  
  In a third part, the rage of Heav'n's great queen,
  Display'd on proud Antigone, was seen:
  Who with presumptuous boldness dar'd to vye,
  For beauty with the empress of the sky.
  
  Ah! what avails her ancient princely race,
  Her sire a king, and Troy her native place:
  Now, to a noisy stork transform'd, she flies,
  And with her whiten'd pinions cleaves the skies.
  
  And in the last remaining part was drawn
  Poor Cinyras that seem'd to weep in stone;
  Clasping the temple steps, he sadly mourn'd
  His lovely daughters, now to marble turn'd.
  
  With her own tree the finish'd piece is crown'd,
  And wreaths of peaceful olive all the work
  surround.
  
  Arachne drew the fam'd intrigues of Jove,
  Chang'd to a bull to gratify his love;
  How thro' the briny tide all foaming hoar,
  Lovely Europa on his back he bore.
  
  The sea seem'd waving, and the trembling maid
  Shrunk up her tender feet, as if afraid;
  And, looking back on the forsaken strand,
  To her companions wafts her distant hand.
  
  Next she design'd Asteria's fabled rape,
  When Jove assum'd a soaring eagle's shape:
  And shew'd how Leda lay supinely press'd,
  Whilst the soft snowy swan sate hov'ring o'er her
  breast,
  How in a satyr's form the God beguil'd,
  When fair Antiope with twins he fill'd.
  
  Then, like Amphytrion, but a real Jove,
  In fair Alcmena's arms he cool'd his love.
  
  In fluid gold to Danae's heart he came,
  Aegina felt him in a lambent flame.
  
  He took Mnemosyne in shepherd's make,
  And for Deois was a speckled snake.
  
  She made thee, Neptune, like a wanton steer,
  Pacing the meads for love of Arne dear;
  Next like a stream, thy burning flame to slake,
  And like a ram, for fair Bisaltis' sake.
  
  Then Ceres in a steed your vigour try'd,
  Nor cou'd the mare the yellow Goddess hide.
  
  Next, to a fowl transform'd, you won by force
  The snake-hair'd mother of the winged horse;
  And, in a dolphin's fishy form, subdu'd
  Melantho sweet beneath the oozy flood.
  
  All these the maid with lively features drew,
  And open'd proper landskips to the view.
  
  There Phoebus, roving like a country swain,
  Attunes his jolly pipe along the plain;
  For lovely Isse's sake in shepherd's weeds,
  O'er pastures green his bleating flock he feeds,
  There Bacchus, imag'd like the clust'ring grape,
  Melting bedrops Erigone's fair lap;
  And there old Saturn, stung with youthful heat,
  Form'd like a stallion, rushes to the feat.
  
  Fresh flow'rs, which twists of ivy intertwine,
  Mingling a running foliage, close the neat design.
  
  This the bright Goddess passionately mov'd,
  With envy saw, yet inwardly approv'd.
  
  The scene of heav'nly guilt with haste she tore,
  Nor longer the affront with patience bore;
  A boxen shuttle in her hand she took,
  And more than once Arachne's forehead struck.
  
  Th' unhappy maid, impatient of the wrong,
  Down from a beam her injur'd person hung;
  When Pallas, pitying her wretched state,
  At once prevented, and pronounc'd her fate:
  Live; but depend, vile wretch, the Goddess cry'd,
  Doom'd in suspence for ever to be ty'd;
  That all your race, to utmost date of time,
  May feel the vengeance, and detest the crime.
  
  Then, going off, she sprinkled her with juice,
  Which leaves of baneful aconite produce.
  
  Touch'd with the pois'nous drug, her flowing hair
  Fell to the ground, and left her temples bare;
  Her usual features vanish'd from their place,
  Her body lessen'd all, but most her face.
  
  Her slender fingers, hanging on each side
  With many joynts, the use of legs supply'd:
  A spider's bag the rest, from which she gives
  A thread, and still by constant weaving lives.
  
  The Story of      Swift thro' the Phrygian towns the rumour flies,
  Niobe       And the strange news each female tongue employs:
  Niobe, who before she married knew
  The famous nymph, now found the story true;
  Yet, unreclaim'd by poor Arachne's fate,
  Vainly above the Gods assum'd a state.
  
  Her husband's fame, their family's descent,
  Their pow'r, and rich dominion's wide extent,
  Might well have justify'd a decent pride;
  But not on these alone the dame rely'd.
  
  Her lovely progeny, that far excell'd,
  The mother's heart with vain ambition swell'd:
  The happiest mother not unjustly styl'd,
  Had no conceited thoughts her tow'ring fancy
  fill'd.
  
  For once a prophetess with zeal inspir'd,
  Their slow neglect to warm devotion fir'd;
  Thro' ev'ry street of Thebes who ran possess'd,
  And thus in accents wild her charge express'd:
  Haste, haste, ye Theban matrons, and adore,
  With hallow'd rites, Latona's mighty pow'r;
  And, to the heav'nly twins that from her spring,
  With laurel crown'd, your smoaking incense bring.
  
  Strait the great summons ev'ry dame obey'd,
  And due submission to the Goddess paid:
  Graceful, with laurel chaplets dress'd, they came,
  And offer'd incense in the sacred flame.
  
  Mean-while, surrounded with a courtly guard,
  The royal Niobe in state appear'd;
  Attir'd in robes embroider'd o'er with gold,
  And mad with rage, yet lovely to behold:
  Her comely tresses, trembling as she stood,
  Down her fine neck with easy motion flow'd;
  Then, darting round a proud disdainful look,
  In haughty tone her hasty passion broke,
  And thus began: What madness this, to court
  A Goddess, founded meerly on report?
  
  Dare ye a poor pretended Pow'r invoke,
  While yet no altars to my godhead smoke?
  
  Mine, whose immediate lineage stands confess'd
  From Tantalus, the only mortal guest
  That e'er the Gods admitted to their feast.
  
  A sister of the Pleiads gave me birth;
  And Atlas, mightiest mountain upon Earth,
  Who bears the globe of all the stars above,
  My grandsire was, and Atlas sprung from Jove.
  
  The Theban towns my majesty adore,
  And neighb'ring Phrygia trembles at my pow'r:
  Rais'd by my husband's lute, with turrets crown'd,
  Our lofty city stands secur'd around.
  
  Within my court, where-e'er I turn my eyes,
  Unbounded treasures to my prospect rise:
  With these my face I modestly may name,
  As not unworthy of so high a claim;
  Seven are my daughters, of a form divine,
  With seven fair sons, an indefective line.
  
  Go, fools! consider this; and ask the cause
  From which my pride its strong presumption draws;
  Consider this; and then prefer to me
  Caeus the Titan's vagrant progeny;
  To whom, in travel, the whole spacious Earth
  No room afforded for her spurious birth.
  
  Not the least part in Earth, in Heav'n, or seas,
  Would grant your out-law'd Goddess any ease:
  'Till pitying hers, from his own wand'ring case,
  Delos, the floating island, gave a place.
  
  There she a mother was, of two at most;
  Only the seventh part of what I boast.
  
  My joys all are beyond suspicion fix'd;
  With no pollutions of misfortune mix'd;
  Safe on the Basis of my pow'r I stand,
  Above the reach of Fortune's fickle hand.
  
  Lessen she may my inexhausted store,
  And much destroy, yet still must leave me more.
  
  Suppose it possible that some may dye
  Of this my num'rous lovely progeny;
  Still with Latona I might safely vye.
  
  Who, by her scanty breed, scarce fit to name,
  But just escapes the childless woman's shame.
  
  Go then, with speed your laurel'd heads uncrown,
  And leave the silly farce you have begun.
  
  The tim'rous throng their sacred rites forbore,
  And from their heads the verdant laurel tore;
  Their haughty queen they with regret obey'd,
  And still in gentle murmurs softly pray'd.
  
  High, on the top of Cynthus' shady mount,
  With grief the Goddess saw the base affront;
  And, the abuse revolving in her breast,
  The mother her twin-offspring thus addrest.
  
  Lo I, my children, who with comfort knew
  Your God-like birth, and thence my glory drew;
  And thence have claim'd precedency of place
  From all but Juno of the heav'nly race,
  Must now despair, and languish in disgrace.
  
  My godhead question'd, and all rites divine,
  Unless you succour, banish'd from my shrine.
  
  Nay more, the imp of Tantalus has flung
  Reflections with her vile paternal tongue;
  Has dar'd prefer her mortal breed to mine,
  And call'd me childless; which, just fate, may she
  repine!
  When to urge more the Goddess was prepar'd,
  Phoebus in haste replies, Too much we've heard,
  And ev'ry moment's lost, while vengeance is
  defer'd.
  
  Diana spoke the same.
  
  Then both enshroud
  Their heav'nly bodies in a sable cloud;
  And to the Theban tow'rs descending light,
  Thro' the soft yielding air direct their flight.
  
  Without the wall there lies a champian ground
  With even surface, far extending round,
  Beaten and level'd, while it daily feels
  The trampling horse, and chariot's grinding wheels.
  
  Part of proud Niobe's young rival breed,
  Practising there to ride the manag'd steed,
  Their bridles boss'd with gold, were mounted high
  On stately furniture of Tyrian dye.
  
  Of these, Ismenos, who by birth had been
  The first fair issue of the fruitful queen,
  Just as he drew the rein to guide his horse,
  Around the compass of the circling course,
  Sigh'd deeply, and the pangs of smart express'd,
  While the shaft stuck, engor'd within his breast:
  And, the reins dropping from his dying hand,
  He sunk quite down, and tumbled on the sand.
  
  Sipylus next the rattling quiver heard,
  And with full speed for his escape prepar'd;
  As when the pilot from the black'ning skies
  A gath'ring storm of wintry rain descries,
  His sails unfurl'd, and crowded all with wind,
  He strives to leave the threat'ning cloud behind:
  So fled the youth; but an unerring dart
  O'ertook him, quick discharg'd, and sped with art;
  Fix'd in his neck behind, it trembling stood,
  And at his throat display'd the point besmear'd
  with blood
  Prone, as his posture was, he tumbled o'er,
  And bath'd his courser's mane with steaming gore.
  
  Next at young Phaedimus they took their aim,
  And Tantalus who bore his grandsire's name:
  These, when their other exercise was done,
  To try the wrestler's oily sport begun;
  And, straining ev'ry nerve, their skill express'd
  In closest grapple, joining breast to breast:
  When from the bending bow an arrow sent,
  Joyn'd as they were, thro' both their bodies went:
  Both groan'd, and writhing both their limbs with
  pain,
  They fell together bleeding on the plain;
  Then both their languid eye-balls faintly roul,
  And thus together breathe away their soul.
  
  With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight,
  And smote his breast, and sicken'd at the sight;
  Then to their succour ran with eager haste,
  And, fondly griev'd, their stiff'ning limbs
  embrac'd;
  But in the action falls: a thrilling dart,
  By Phoebus guided, pierc'd him to the heart.
  
  This, as they drew it forth, his midriff tore,
  Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore,
  And let the soul gush out in streams of purple
  gore.
  
  But Damasichthon, by a double wound,
  Beardless, and young, lay gasping on the ground.
  
  Fix'd in his sinewy ham, the steely point
  Stuck thro' his knee, and pierc'd the nervous
  joint:
  And, as he stoop'd to tug the painful dart,
  Another struck him in a vital part;
  Shot thro' his wezon, by the wing it hung.
  
  The life-blood forc'd it out, and darting upward
  sprung,
  Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands,
  Lifting in pray'r his unavailing hands;
  And, ignorant from whom his griefs arise,
  Spare me, o all ye heav'nly Pow'rs, he cries:
  Phoebus was touch'd too late, the sounding bow
  Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow;
  Which yet but gently gor'd his tender side,
  So by a slight and easy wound he dy'd.
  
  Swift to the mother's ears the rumour came,
  And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim;
  With anger and surprize inflam'd by turns,
  In furious rage her haughty stomach burns:
  First she disputes th' effects of heav'nly pow'r,
  Then at their daring boldness wonders more;
  For poor Amphion with sore grief distrest,
  Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest,
  Had sheath'd a dagger in his wretched breast.
  
  And she, who toss'd her high disdainful head,
  When thro' the streets in solemn pomp she led
  The throng that from Latona's altar fled,
  Assuming state beyond the proudest queen;
  Was now the miserablest object seen.
  
  Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell,
  And kiss'd an undistinguish'd last farewel.
  
  Then her pale arms advancing to the skies,
  Cruel Latona! triumph now, she cries.
  
  My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench,
  And with my woes your thirsty passion quench;
  Feast your black malice at a price thus dear,
  While the sore pangs of sev'n such deaths I bear.
  
  Triumph, too cruel rival, and display
  Your conqu'ring standard; for you've won the day.
  
  Yet I'll excel; for yet, tho' sev'n are slain,
  Superior still in number I remain.
  
  Scarce had she spoke; the bow-string's twanging
  sound
  Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around;
  Which all, but Niobe alone, confound.
  
  Stunn'd, and obdurate by her load of grief,
  Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief.
  
  Before the fun'ral biers, all weeping sad,
  Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad,
  When one, surpriz'd, and stung with sudden smart,
  In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart:
  But to grim death her blooming youth resigns,
  And o'er her brother's corpse her dying head
  reclines.
  
  This, to asswage her mother's anguish tries,
  And, silenc'd in the pious action, dies;
  Shot by a secret arrow, wing'd with death,
  Her fault'ring lips but only gasp'd for breath.
  
  One, on her dying sister, breathes her last;
  Vainly in flight another's hopes are plac'd:
  This hiding, from her fate a shelter seeks;
  That trembling stands, and fills the air with
  shrieks.
  
  And all in vain; for now all six had found
  Their way to death, each by a diff'rent wound.
  
  The last, with eager care the mother veil'd,
  Behind her spreading mantle close conceal'd,
  And with her body guarded, as a shield.
  
  Only for this, this youngest, I implore,
  Grant me this one request, I ask no more;
  O grant me this! she passionately cries:
  But while she speaks, the destin'd virgin dies.
  
  The          Widow'd, and childless, lamentable state!
  Transformation   A doleful sight, among the dead she sate;
  of Niobe      Harden'd with woes, a statue of despair,
  To ev'ry breath of wind unmov'd her hair;
  Her cheek still red'ning, but its colour dead,
  Faded her eyes, and set within her head.
  
  No more her pliant tongue its motion keeps,
  But stands congeal'd within her frozen lips.
  
  Stagnate, and dull, within her purple veins,
  Its current stop'd, the lifeless blood remains.
  
  Her feet their usual offices refuse,
  Her arms, and neck their graceful gestures lose:
  Action, and life from ev'ry part are gone,
  And ev'n her entrails turn to solid stone;
  Yet still she weeps, and whirl'd by stormy winds,
  Born thro' the air, her native country finds;
  There fix'd, she stands upon a bleaky hill,
  There yet her marble cheeks eternal tears distil.
  
  The Peasants      Then all, reclaim'd by this example, show'd
  of Lycia      A due regard for each peculiar God:
  transform'd to   Both men, and women their devoirs express'd,
  Frogs       And great Latona's awful pow'r confess'd.
  
  Then, tracing instances of older time,
  To suit the nature of the present crime,
  Thus one begins his tale.
  
  - Where Lycia yields
  A golden harvest from its fertile fields,
  Some churlish peasants, in the days of yore,
  Provok'd the Goddess to exert her pow'r.
  
  The thing indeed the meanness of the place
  Has made obscure, surprizing as it was;
  But I my self once happen'd to behold
  This famous lake of which the story's told.
  
  My father then, worn out by length of days,
  Nor able to sustain the tedious ways,
  Me with a guide had sent the plains to roam,
  And drive his well-fed stragling heifers home.
  
  Here, as we saunter'd thro' the verdant meads,
  We spy'd a lake o'er-grown with trembling reeds,
  Whose wavy tops an op'ning scene disclose,
  From which an antique smoaky altar rose.
  
  I, as my susperstitious guide had done,
  Stop'd short, and bless'd my self, and then went
  on;
  Yet I enquir'd to whom the altar stood,
  Faunus, the Naids, or some native God?
  
  No silvan deity, my friend replies,
  Enshrin'd within this hallow'd altar lies.
  
  For this, o youth, to that fam'd Goddess stands,
  Whom, at th' imperial Juno's rough commands,
  Of ev'ry quarter of the Earth bereav'd,
  Delos, the floating isle, at length receiv'd.
  
  Who there, in spite of enemies, brought forth,
  Beneath an olive's shade, her great twin-birth.
  
  Hence too she fled the furious stepdame's pow'r,
  And in her arms a double godhead bore;
  And now the borders of fair Lycia gain'd,
  Just when the summer solstice parch'd the land.
  
  With thirst the Goddess languishing, no more
  Her empty'd breast would yield its milky store;
  When, from below, the smiling valley show'd
  A silver lake that in its bottom flow'd:
  A sort of clowns were reaping, near the bank,
  The bending osier, and the bullrush dank;
  The cresse, and water-lilly, fragrant weed,
  Whose juicy stalk the liquid fountains feed.
  
  The Goddess came, and kneeling on the brink,
  Stoop'd at the fresh repast, prepar'd to drink.
  
  Then thus, being hinder'd by the rabble race,
  In accents mild expostulates the case.
  
  Water I only ask, and sure 'tis hard
  From Nature's common rights to be debar'd:
  This, as the genial sun, and vital air,
  Should flow alike to ev'ry creature's share.
  
  Yet still I ask, and as a favour crave,
  That which, a publick bounty, Nature gave.
  
  Nor do I seek my weary limbs to drench;
  Only, with one cool draught, my thirst I'd quench.
  
  Now from my throat the usual moisture dries,
  And ev'n my voice in broken accents dies:
  One draught as dear as life I should esteem,
  And water, now I thirst, would nectar seem.
  
  Oh! let my little babes your pity move,
  And melt your hearts to charitable love;
  They (as by chance they did) extend to you
  Their little hands, and my request pursue.
  
  Whom would these soft perswasions not subdue,
  Tho' the most rustick, and unmanner'd crew?
  
  Yet they the Goddess's request refuse,
  And with rude words reproachfully abuse:
  Nay more, with spiteful feet the villains trod
  O'er the soft bottom of the marshy flood,
  And blacken'd all the lake with clouds of rising
  mud.
  
  Her thirst by indignation was suppress'd;
  Bent on revenge, the Goddess stood confess'd.
  
  Her suppliant hands uplifting to the skies,
  For a redress, to Heav'n she now applies.
  
  And, May you live, she passionately cry'd,
  Doom'd in that pool for ever to abide.
  
  The Goddess has her wish; for now they chuse
  To plunge, and dive among the watry ooze;
  Sometimes they shew their head above the brim,
  And on the glassy surface spread to swim;
  Often upon the bank their station take,
  Then spring, and leap into the cooly lake.
  
  Still, void of shame, they lead a clam'rous life,
  And, croaking, still scold on in endless strife;
  Compell'd to live beneath the liquid stream,
  Where still they quarrel, and attempt to skream.
  
  Now, from their bloated throat, their voice puts on
  Imperfect murmurs in a hoarser tone;
  Their noisy jaws, with bawling now grown wide,
  An ugly sight! extend on either side:
  Their motly back, streak'd with a list of green,
  Joyn'd to their head, without a neck is seen;
  And, with a belly broad and white, they look
  Meer frogs, and still frequent the muddy brook.
  
  The Fate of      Scarce had the man this famous story told,
  Marsyas      Of vengeance on the Lycians shown of old,
  When strait another pictures to their view
  The Satyr's fate, whom angry Phoebus slew;
  Who, rais'd with high conceit, and puff'd with
  pride,
  At his own pipe the skilful God defy'd.
  
  Why do you tear me from my self, he cries?
  
  Ah cruel! must my skin be made the prize?
  
  This for a silly pipe?
  
  he roaring said,
  Mean-while the skin from off his limbs was flay'd.
  
  All bare, and raw, one large continu'd wound,
  With streams of blood his body bath'd the ground.
  
  The blueish veins their trembling pulse disclos'd,
  The stringy nerves lay naked, and expos'd;
  His guts appear'd, distinctly each express'd,
  With ev'ry shining fibre of his breast.
  
  The Fauns, and Silvans, with the Nymphs that rove
  Among the Satyrs in the shady grove;
  Olympus, known of old, and ev'ry swain
  That fed, or flock, or herd upon the plain,
  Bewail'd the loss; and with their tears that
  flow'd,
  A kindly moisture on the earth bestow'd;
  That soon, conjoyn'd, and in a body rang'd,
  Sprung from the ground, to limpid water chang'd;
  Which, down thro' Phrygia's rocks, a mighty stream,
  Comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name.
  
  The Story of      From these relations strait the people turn
  Pelops       To present truths, and lost Amphion mourn:
  The mother most was blam'd, yet some relate
  That Pelops pity'd, and bewail'd her fate,
  And stript his cloaths, and laid his shoulder bare,
  And made the iv'ry miracle appear.
  
  This shoulder, from the first, was form'd of flesh,
  As lively as the other, and as fresh;
  But, when the youth was by his father slain,
  The Gods restor'd his mangled limbs again;
  Only that place which joins the neck and arm,
  The rest untouch'd, was found to suffer harm:
  The loss of which an iv'ry piece sustain'd;
  And thus the youth his limbs, and life regain'd.
  
  The Story of      To Thebes the neighb'ring princes all repair,
  Tereus, Procne,  And with condolance the misfortune share.
  
  and Philomela   Each bord'ring state in solemn form address'd,
  And each betimes a friendly grief express'd.
  
  Argos, with Sparta's, and Mycenae's towns,
  And Calydon, yet free from fierce Diana's frowns.
  
  Corinth for finest brass well fam'd of old,
  Orthomenos for men of courage bold:
  Cleonae lying in the lowly dale,
  And rich Messene with its fertile vale:
  Pylos, for Nestor's City after fam'd,
  And Troezen, not as yet from Pittheus nam'd.
  
  And those fair cities, which are hem'd around
  By double seas within the Isthmian ground;
  And those, which farther from the sea-coast stand,
  Lodg'd in the bosom of the spacious land.
  
  Who can believe it?
  
  Athens was the last:
  Tho' for politeness fam'd for ages past.
  
  For a strait siege, which then their walls
  enclos'd,
  Such acts of kind humanity oppos'd:
  And thick with ships, from foreign nations bound,
  Sea-ward their city lay invested round.
  
  These, with auxiliar forces led from far,
  Tereus of Thrace, brave, and inur'd to war,
  Had quite defeated, and obtain'd a name,
  The warrior's due, among the sons of Fame.
  
  This, with his wealth, and pow'r, and ancient line,
  From Mars deriv'd, Pandions's thoughts incline
  His daughter Procne with the prince to joyn.
  
  Nor Hymen, nor the Graces here preside,
  Nor Juno to befriend the blooming bride;
  But Fiends with fun'ral brands the process led,
  And Furies waited at the Genial bed:
  And all night long the scrieching owl aloof,
  With baleful notes, sate brooding o'er the roof.
  
  With such ill Omens was the match begun,
  That made them parents of a hopeful son.
  
  Now Thrace congratulates their seeming joy,
  And they, in thankful rites, their minds employ.
  
  If the fair queen's espousals pleas'd before,
  Itys, the new-born prince, now pleases more;
  And each bright day, the birth, and bridal feast,
  Were kept with hallow'd pomp above the rest.
  
  So far true happiness may lye conceal'd,
  When, by false lights, we fancy 'tis reveal'd!
  Now, since their nuptials, had the golden sun
  Five courses round his ample zodiac run;
  When gentle Procne thus her lord address'd,
  And spoke the secret wishes of her breast:
  If I, she said, have ever favour found,
  Let my petition with success be crown'd:
  Let me at Athens my dear sister see,
  Or let her come to Thrace, and visit me.
  
  And, lest my father should her absence mourn,
  Promise that she shall make a quick return.
  
  With thanks I'd own the obligation due
  Only, o Tereus, to the Gods, and you.
  
  Now, ply'd with oar, and sail at his command,
  The nimble gallies reach'd th' Athenian land,
  And anchor'd in the fam'd Piraean bay,
  While Tereus to the palace takes his way;
  The king salutes, and ceremonies past,
  Begins the fatal embassy at last;
  The occasion of his voyage he declares,
  And, with his own, his wife's request prefers:
  Asks leave that, only for a little space,
  Their lovely sister might embark for Thrace.
  
  Thus while he spoke, appear'd the royal maid,
  Bright Philomela, splendidly array'd;
  But most attractive in her charming face,
  And comely person, turn'd with ev'ry grace:
  Like those fair Nymphs, that are describ'd to rove
  Across the glades, and op'nings of the grove;
  Only that these are dress'd for silvan sports,
  And less become the finery of courts.
  
  Tereus beheld the virgin, and admir'd,
  And with the coals of burning lust was fir'd:
  Like crackling stubble, or the summer hay,
  When forked lightnings o'er the meadows play.
  
  Such charms in any breast might kindle love,
  But him the heats of inbred lewdness move;
  To which, tho' Thrace is naturally prone,
  Yet his is still superior, and his own.
  
  Strait her attendants he designs to buy,
  And with large bribes her governess would try:
  Herself with ample gifts resolves to bend,
  And his whole kingdom in th' attempt expend:
  Or, snatch'd away by force of arms, to bear,
  And justify the rape with open war.
  
  The boundless passion boils within his breast,
  And his projecting soul admits no rest.
  
  And now, impatient of the least delay,
  By pleading Procne's cause, he speeds his way:
  The eloquence of love his tongue inspires,
  And, in his wife's, he speaks his own desires;
  Hence all his importunities arise,
  And tears unmanly trickle from his eyes.
  
  Ye Gods! what thick involving darkness blinds
  The stupid faculties of mortal minds!
  Tereus the credit of good-nature gains
  From these his crimes; so well the villain feigns.
  
  And, unsuspecting of his base designs,
  In the request fair Philomela joyns;
  Her snowy arms her aged sire embrace,
  And clasp his neck with an endearing grace:
  Only to see her sister she entreats,
  A seeming blessing, which a curse compleats.
  
  Tereus surveys her with a luscious eye,
  And in his mind forestalls the blissful joy:
  Her circling arms a scene of lust inspire,
  And ev'ry kiss foments the raging fire.
  
  Fondly he wishes for the father's place,
  To feel, and to return the warm embrace;
  Since not the nearest ties of filial blood
  Would damp his flame, and force him to be good.
  
  At length, for both their sakes, the king agrees;
  And Philomela, on her bended knees,
  Thanks him for what her fancy calls success,
  When cruel fate intends her nothing less.
  
  Now Phoebus, hastning to ambrosial rest,
  His fiery steeds drove sloping down the west:
  The sculptur'd gold with sparkling wines was
  fill'd,
  And, with rich meats, each chearful table smil'd.
  
  Plenty, and mirth the royal banquet close,
  Then all retire to sleep, and sweet repose.
  
  But the lewd monarch, tho' withdrawn apart,
  Still feels love's poison rankling in his heart:
  Her face divine is stamp'd within his breast,
  Fancy imagines, and improves the rest:
  And thus, kept waking by intense desire,
  He nourishes his own prevailing fire.
  
  Next day the good old king for Tereus sends,
  And to his charge the virgin recommends;
  His hand with tears th' indulgent father press'd,
  Then spoke, and thus with tenderness address'd.
  
  Since the kind instances of pious love,
  Do all pretence of obstacle remove;
  Since Procne's, and her own, with your request,
  O'er-rule the fears of a paternal breast;
  With you, dear son, my daughter I entrust,
  And by the Gods adjure you to be just;
  By truth, and ev'ry consanguineal tye,
  To watch, and guard her with a father's eye.
  
  And, since the least delay will tedious prove,
  In keeping from my sight the child I love,
  With speed return her, kindly to asswage
  The tedious troubles of my lingring age.
  
  And you, my Philomel, let it suffice,
  To know your sister's banish'd from my eyes;
  If any sense of duty sways your mind,
  Let me from you the shortest absence find.
  
  He wept; then kiss'd his child; and while he
  speaks,
  The tears fall gently down his aged cheeks.
  
  Next, as a pledge of fealty, he demands,
  And, with a solemn charge, conjoyns their hands;
  Then to his daughter, and his grandson sends,
  And by their mouth a blessing recommends;
  While, in a voice with dire forebodings broke,
  Sobbing, and faint, the last farewel was spoke.
  
  Now Philomela, scarce receiv'd on board,
  And in the royal gilded bark secur'd,
  Beheld the dashes of the bending oar,
  The ruffled sea, and the receding shore;
  When strait (his joy impatient of disguise)
  We've gain'd our point, the rough Barbarian cries;
  Now I possess the dear, the blissful hour,
  And ev'ry wish subjected to my pow'r.
  
  Transports of lust his vicious thoughts employ,
  And he forbears, with pain, th' expected joy.
  
  His gloting eyes incessantly survey'd
  The virgin beauties of the lovely maid:
  As when the bold rapacious bird of Jove,
  With crooked talons stooping from above,
  Has snatcht, and carry'd to his lofty nest
  A captive hare, with cruel gripes opprest;
  Secure, with fix'd, and unrelenting eyes,
  He sits, and views the helpless, trembling prize.
  
  Their vessels now had made th' intended land,
  And all with joy descend upon the strand;
  When the false tyrant seiz'd the princely maid,
  And to a lodge in distant woods convey'd;
  Pale, sinking, and distress'd with jealous fears,
  And asking for her sister all in tears.
  
  The letcher, for enjoyment fully bent,
  No longer now conceal'd his base intent;
  But with rude haste the bloomy girl deflow'r'd,
  Tender, defenceless, and with ease o'erpower'd.
  
  Her piercing accents to her sire complain,
  And to her absent sister, but in vain:
  In vain she importunes, with doleful cries,
  Each unattentive godhead of the skies.
  
  She pants and trembles, like the bleating prey,
  From some close-hunted wolf just snatch'd away;
  That still, with fearful horror, looks around,
  And on its flank regards the bleeding wound.
  
  Or, as the tim'rous dove, the danger o'er,
  Beholds her shining plumes besmear'd with gore,
  And, tho' deliver'd from the faulcon's claw,
  Yet shivers, and retains a secret awe.
  
  But when her mind a calm reflection shar'd,
  And all her scatter'd spirits were repair'd:
  Torn, and disorder'd while her tresses hung,
  Her livid hands, like one that mourn'd, she wrung;
  Then thus, with grief o'erwhelm'd her languid eyes,
  Savage, inhumane, cruel wretch! she cries;
  Whom not a parent's strict commands could move,
  Tho' charg'd, and utter'd with the tears of love;
  Nor virgin innocence, nor all that's due
  To the strong contract of the nuptial vow:
  Virtue, by this, in wild confusion's laid,
  And I compell'd to wrong my sister's bed;
  Whilst you, regardless of your marriage oath,
  With stains of incest have defil'd us both.
  
  Tho' I deserv'd some punishment to find,
  This was, ye Gods! too cruel, and unkind.
  
  Yet, villain, to compleat your horrid guilt,
  Stab here, and let my tainted blood be spilt.
  
  Oh happy! had it come, before I knew
  The curs'd embrace of vile perfidious you;
  Then my pale ghost, pure from incestuous love,
  Had wander'd spotless thro' th' Elysian grove.
  
  But, if the Gods above have pow'r to know,
  And judge those actions that are done below;
  Unless the dreaded thunders of the sky,
  Like me, subdu'd, and violated lye;
  Still my revenge shall take its proper time,
  And suit the baseness of your hellish crime.
  
  My self, abandon'd, and devoid of shame,
  Thro' the wide world your actions will proclaim;
  Or tho' I'm prison'd in this lonely den,
  Obscur'd, and bury'd from the sight of men,
  My mournful voice the pitying rocks shall move,
  And my complainings eccho thro' the grove.
  
  Hear me, o Heav'n! and, if a God be there,
  Let him regard me, and accept my pray'r.
  
  Struck with these words, the tyrant's guilty
  breast
  With fear, and anger, was, by turns, possest;
  Now, with remorse his conscience deeply stung,
  He drew the faulchion that beside her hung,
  And first her tender arms behind her bound,
  Then drag'd her by the hair along the ground.
  
  The princess willingly her throat reclin'd,
  And view'd the steel with a contented mind;
  But soon her tongue the girding pinchers strain,
  With anguish, soon she feels the piercing pain:
  Oh father! father! would fain have spoke,
  But the sharp torture her intention broke;
  In vain she tries, for now the blade has cut
  Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root.
  
  The mangled part still quiver'd on the ground,
  Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound:
  And, as a serpent writhes his wounded train,
  Uneasy, panting, and possess'd with pain;
  The piece, while life remain'd, still trembled
  fast,
  And to its mistress pointed to the last.
  
  Yet, after this so damn'd, and black a deed,
  Fame (which I scarce can credit) has agreed,
  That on her rifled charms, still void of shame,
  He frequently indulg'd his lustful flame,
  At last he ventures to his Procne's sight,
  Loaded with guilt, and cloy'd with long delight;
  There, with feign'd grief, and false, dissembled
  sighs,
  Begins a formal narrative of lies;
  Her sister's death he artfully declares,
  Then weeps, and raises credit from his tears.
  
  Her vest, with flow'rs of gold embroider'd o'er,
  With grief distress'd, the mournful matron tore,
  And a beseeming suit of gloomy sable wore.
  
  With cost, an honorary tomb she rais'd,
  And thus th' imaginary ghost appeas'd.
  
  Deluded queen! the fate of her you love,
  Nor grief, nor pity, but revenge should move.
  
  Thro' the twelve signs had pass'd the circling
  sun,
  And round the compass of the Zodiac run;
  What must unhappy Philomela do,
  For ever subject to her keeper's view?
  
  Huge walls of massy stone the lodge surround,
  From her own mouth no way of speaking's found.
  
  But all our wants by wit may be supply'd,
  And art makes up, what fortune has deny'd:
  With skill exact a Phrygian web she strung,
  Fix'd to a loom that in her chamber hung,
  Where in-wrought letters, upon white display'd,
  In purple notes, her wretched case betray'd:
  The piece, when finish'd, secretly she gave
  Into the charge of one poor menial slave;
  And then, with gestures, made him understand,
  It must be safe convey'd to Procne's hand.
  
  The slave, with speed, the queen's apartment
  sought,
  And render'd up his charge, unknowing what he
  brought.
  
  But when the cyphers, figur'd in each fold,
  Her sister's melancholy story told
  (Strange that she could!) with silence, she
  survey'd
  The tragick piece, and without weeping read:
  In such tumultuous haste her passions sprung,
  They choak'd her voice, and quite disarm'd her
  tongue.
  
  No room for female tears; the Furies rise,
  Darting vindictive glances from her eyes;
  And, stung with rage, she bounds from place to
  place,
  While stern revenge sits low'ring in her face.
  
  Now the triennial celebration came,
  Observ'd to Bacchus by each Thracian dame;
  When, in the privacies of night retir'd,
  They act his rites, with sacred rapture fir'd:
  By night, the tinkling cymbals ring around,
  While the shrill notes from Rhodope resound;
  By night, the queen, disguis'd, forsakes the court,
  To mingle in the festival resort.
  
  Leaves of the curling vine her temples shade,
  And, with a circling wreath, adorn her head:
  Adown her back the stag's rough spoils appear,
  Light on her shoulder leans a cornel spear.
  
  Thus, in the fury of the God conceal'd,
  Procne her own mad headstrong passion veil'd;
  Now, with her gang, to the thick wood she flies,
  And with religious yellings fills the skies;
  The fatal lodge, as 'twere by chance, she seeks,
  And, thro' the bolted doors, an entrance breaks;
  From thence, her sister snatching by the hand,
  Mask'd like the ranting Bacchanalian band,
  Within the limits of the court she drew,
  Shading, with ivy green, her outward hue.
  
  But Philomela, conscious of the place,
  Felt new reviving pangs of her disgrace;
  A shiv'ring cold prevail'd in ev'ry part,
  And the chill'd blood ran trembling to her heart.
  
  Soon as the queen a fit retirement found,
  Stript of the garlands that her temples crown'd,
  She strait unveil'd her blushing sister's face,
  And fondly clasp'd her with a close embrace:
  But, in confusion lost, th' unhappy maid,
  With shame dejected, hung her drooping head,
  As guilty of a crime that stain'd her sister's bed.
  
  That speech, that should her injur'd virtue clear,
  And make her spotless innocence appear,
  Is now no more; only her hands, and eyes
  Appeal, in signals, to the conscious skies.
  
  In Procne's breast the rising passions boil,
  And burst in anger with a mad recoil;
  Her sister's ill-tim'd grief, with scorn, she
  blames,
  Then, in these furious words her rage proclaims.
  
  Tears, unavailing, but defer our time,
  The stabbing sword must expiate the crime;
  Or worse, if wit, on bloody vengeance bent,
  A weapon more tormenting can invent.
  
  O sister! I've prepar'd my stubborn heart,
  To act some hellish, and unheard-of part;
  Either the palace to surround with fire,
  And see the villain in the flames expire;
  Or, with a knife, dig out his cursed eyes,
  Or, his false tongue with racking engines seize;
  Or, cut away the part that injur'd you,
  And, thro' a thousand wounds, his guilty soul
  pursue.
  
  Tortures enough my passion has design'd,
  But the variety distracts my mind.
  
  A-while, thus wav'ring, stood the furious dame,
  When Itys fondling to his mother came;
  From him the cruel fatal hint she took,
  She view'd him with a stern remorseless look:
  Ah! but too like thy wicked sire, she said,
  Forming the direful purpose in her head.
  
  At this a sullen grief her voice supprest,
  While silent passions struggle in her breast.
  
  Now, at her lap arriv'd, the flatt'ring boy
  Salutes his parent with a smiling joy:
  About her neck his little arms are thrown,
  And he accosts her in a pratling tone.
  
  Then her tempestuous anger was allay'd,
  And in its full career her vengeance stay'd;
  While tender thoughts, in spite of passion, rise,
  And melting tears disarm her threat'ning eyes.
  
  But when she found the mother's easy heart,
  Too fondly swerving from th' intended part;
  Her injur'd sister's face again she view'd:
  And, as by turns surveying both she stood,
  While this fond boy (she said) can thus express
  The moving accents of his fond address;
  Why stands my sister of her tongue bereft,
  Forlorn, and sad, in speechless silence left?
  
  O Procne, see the fortune of your house!
  Such is your fate, when match'd to such a spouse!
  Conjugal duty, if observ'd to him,
  Would change from virtue, and become a crime;
  For all respect to Tereus must debase
  The noble blood of great Pandion's race.
  
  Strait at these words, with big resentment
  fill'd,
  Furious her look, she flew, and seiz'd her child;
  Like a fell tigress of the savage kind,
  That drags the tender suckling of the hind
  Thro' India's gloomy groves, where Ganges laves
  The shady scene, and rouls his streamy waves.
  
  Now to a close apartment they were come,
  Far off retir'd within the spacious dome;
  When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent,
  Home to his heart a piercing ponyard sent.
  
  Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late,
  Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate;
  Still at his mother's neck he fondly aims,
  And strives to melt her with endearing names;
  Yet still the cruel mother perseveres,
  Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears.
  
  This might suffice; but Philomela too
  Across his throat a shining curtlass drew.
  
  Then both, with knives, dissect each quiv'ring
  part,
  And carve the butcher'd limbs with cruel art;
  Which, whelm'd in boiling cauldrons o'er the fire,
  Or turn'd on spits, in steamy smoak aspire:
  While the long entries, with their slipp'ry floor,
  Run down in purple streams of clotted gore.
  
  Ask'd by his wife to this inhuman feast,
  Tereus unknowingly is made a guest:
  Whilst she her plot the better to disguise,
  Styles it some unknown mystick sacrifice;
  And such the nature of the hallow'd rite,
  The wife her husband only could invite,
  The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarr'd the
  sight.
  
  Tereus, upon a throne of antique state,
  Loftily rais'd, before the banquet sate;
  And glutton like, luxuriously pleas'd,
  With his own flesh his hungry maw appeas'd.
  
  Nay, such a blindness o'er his senses falls,
  That he for Itys to the table calls.
  
  When Procne, now impatient to disclose
  The joy that from her full revenge arose,
  Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind,
  Within your self your Itys you may find.
  
  Still, at this puzzling answer, with surprise,
  Around the room he sends his curious eyes;
  And, as he still inquir'd, and call'd aloud,
  Fierce Philomela, all besmear'd with blood,
  Her hands with murder stain'd, her spreading hair
  Hanging dishevel'd with a ghastly air,
  Stept forth, and flung full in the tyrant's face
  The head of Itys, goary as it was:
  Nor ever so much to use her tongue,
  And with a just reproach to vindicate her wrong.
  
  The Thracian monarch from the table flings,
  While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings;
  His imprecations eccho down to Hell,
  And rouze the snaky Furies from their Stygian cell.
  
  One while he labours to disgorge his breast,
  And free his stomach from the cursed feast;
  Then, weeping o'er his lamentable doom,
  He styles himself his son's sepulchral tomb.
  
  Now, with drawn sabre, and impetuous speed,
  In close pursuit he drives Pandion's breed;
  Whose nimble feet spring with so swift a force
  Across the fields, they seem to wing their course.
  
  And now, on real wings themselves they raise,
  And steer their airy flight by diff'rent ways;
  One to the woodland's shady covert hies,
  Around the smoaky roof the other flies;
  Whose feathers yet the marks of murder stain,
  Where stampt upon her breast, the crimson spots
  remain.
  
  Tereus, through grief, and haste to be reveng'd,
  Shares the like fate, and to a bird is chang'd:
  Fix'd on his head, the crested plumes appear,
  Long is his beak, and sharpen'd like a spear;
  Thus arm'd, his looks his inward mind display,
  And, to a lapwing turn'd, he fans his way.
  
  Exceeding trouble, for his children's fate,
  Shorten'd Pandion's days, and chang'd his date;
  Down to the shades below, with sorrow spent,
  An earlier, unexpected ghost he went.
  
  Boreas in Love     Erechtheus next th' Athenian sceptre sway'd,
  Whose rule the state with joynt consent obey'd;
  So mix'd his justice with his valour flow'd,
  His reign one scene of princely goodness shew'd.
  
  Four hopeful youths, as many females bright,
  Sprung from his loyns, and sooth'd him with
  delight.
  
  Two of these sisters, of a lovelier air,
  Excell'd the rest, tho' all the rest were fair.
  
  Procris, to Cephalus in wedlock ty'd,
  Bless'd the young silvan with a blooming bride:
  For Orithyia Boreas suffer'd pain,
  For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;
  Tereus his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,
  Against the match a main objection stood;
  Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,
  Empty as air and ineffectual prove.
  
  But when he found his soothing flatt'ries fail,
  Nor saw his soft addresses cou'd avail;
  Blust'ring with ire, he quickly has recourse
  To rougher arts, and his own native force.
  
  'Tis well, he said; such usage is my due,
  When thus disguis'd by foreign ways I sue;
  When my stern airs, and fierceness I disclaim,
  And sigh for love, ridiculously tame;
  When soft addresses foolishly I try,
  Nor my own stronger remedies apply.
  
  By force and violence I chiefly live,
  By them the lowring stormy tempests drive;
  In foaming billows raise the hoary deep,
  Writhe knotted oaks, and sandy desarts sweep;
  Congeal the falling flakes of fleecy snow,
  And bruise, with ratling hall, the plains below.
  
  I, and my brother-winds, when joyn'd above,
  Thro' the waste champian of the skies we rove,
  With such a boist'rous full career engage,
  That Heav'n's whole concave thunders at our rage.
  
  While, struck from nitrous clouds, fierce
  lightnings play,
  Dart thro' the storm, and gild the gloomy day.
  
  Or when, in subterraneous caverns pent,
  My breath, against the hollow Earth, is bent,
  The quaking world above, and ghosts below,
  My mighty pow'r, by dear experience, know,
  Tremble with fear, and dread the fatal blow.
  
  This is the only cure to be apply'd,
  Thus to Erechtheus I should be ally'd;
  And thus the scornful virgin should be woo'd,
  Not by intreaty, but by force subdu'd.
  
  Boreas, in passion, spoke these huffing things,
  And, as he spoke, he shook his dreadful wings;
  At which, afar the shiv'ring sea was fan'd,
  And the wide surface of the distant land:
  His dusty mantle o'er the hills he drew,
  And swept the lowly vallies, as he flew;
  Then, with his yellow wings, embrac'd the maid,
  And, wrapt in dusky clouds, far off convey'd.
  
  The sparkling blaze of Love's prevailing fire
  Shone brighter as he flew, and flam'd the higher.
  
  And now the God, possess'd of his delight,
  To northern Thrace pursu'd his airy flight,
  Where the young ravish'd nymph became his bride,
  And soon the luscious sweets of wedlock try'd.
  
  Two lovely twins, th' effect of this embrace,
  Crown their soft labours, and their nuptials grace;
  Who, like their mother, beautiful, and fair,
  Their father's strength, and feather'd pinions
  share:
  Yet these, at first, were wanting, as 'tis said,
  And after, as they grew, their shoulders spread.
  
  Zethes and Calais, the pretty twins,
  Remain'd unfledg'd, while smooth their beardless
  chins;
  But when, in time, the budding silver down
  Shaded their face, and on their cheeks was grown,
  Two sprouting wings upon their shoulders sprung,
  Like those in birds, that veil the callow young.
  
  Then as their age advanc'd, and they began
  From greener youth to ripen into man,
  With Jason's Argonauts they cross'd the seas,
  Embark'd in quest of the fam'd golden fleece;
  There, with the rest, the first frail vessel try'd,
  And boldly ventur'd on the swelling tide.
  
  The End of the Sixth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Tenth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THENCE, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace,
  Hymen departs, thro' air's unmeasur'd space;
  By Orpheus call'd, the nuptial Pow'r attends,
  But with ill-omen'd augury descends;
  Nor chearful look'd the God, nor prosp'rous spoke,
  Nor blaz'd his torch, but wept in hissing smoke.
  
  In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake,
  No rapid motion can its flames awake.
  
  The Story of      With dread these inauspicious signs were view'd,
  Orpheus      And soon a more disastrous end ensu'd;
  and Eurydice    For as the bride, amid the Naiad train,
  Ran joyful, sporting o'er the flow'ry plain,
  A venom'd viper bit her as she pass'd;
  Instant she fell, and sudden breath'd her last.
  
  When long his loss the Thracian had deplor'd,
  Not by superior Pow'rs to be restor'd;
  Inflam'd by love, and urg'd by deep despair,
  He leaves the realms of light, and upper air;
  Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road,
  And tempt the shades in their obscure abode;
  Thro' gliding spectres of th' interr'd to go,
  And phantom people of the world below:
  Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns
  O'er ghosts, and Hell's uncomfortable plains.
  
  Arriv'd, he, tuning to his voice his strings,
  Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings.
  
  Ye Pow'rs, who under Earth your realms extend,
  To whom all mortals must one day descend;
  If here 'tis granted sacred truth to tell:
  I come not curious to explore your Hell;
  Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fir'd)
  How Cerberus at my approach retir'd.
  
  My wife alone I seek; for her lov'd sake
  These terrors I support, this journey take.
  
  She, luckless wandring, or by fate mis-led,
  Chanc'd on a lurking viper's crest to tread;
  The vengeful beast, enflam'd with fury, starts,
  And thro' her heel his deathful venom darts.
  
  Thus was she snatch'd untimely to her tomb;
  Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom.
  
  Long I my loss endeavour'd to sustain,
  And strongly strove, but strove, alas, in vain:
  At length I yielded, won by mighty love;
  Well known is that omnipotence above!
  But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails;
  And yet a hope within my heart prevails.
  
  That here, ev'n here, he has been known of old;
  At least if truth be by tradition told;
  If fame of former rapes belief may find,
  You both by love, and love alone, were join'd.
  
  Now, by the horrors which these realms surround;
  By the vast chaos of these depths profound;
  By the sad silence which eternal reigns
  O'er all the waste of these wide-stretching plains;
  Let me again Eurydice receive,
  Let Fate her quick-spun thread of life re-weave.
  
  All our possessions are but loans from you,
  And soon, or late, you must be paid your due;
  Hither we haste to human-kind's last seat,
  Your endless empire, and our sure retreat.
  
  She too, when ripen'd years she shall attain,
  Must, of avoidless right, be yours again:
  I but the transient use of that require,
  Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire.
  
  But if the destinies refuse my vow,
  And no remission of her doom allow;
  Know, I'm determin'd to return no more;
  So both retain, or both to life restore.
  
  Thus, while the bard melodiously complains,
  And to his lyre accords his vocal strains,
  The very bloodless shades attention keep,
  And silent, seem compassionate to weep;
  Ev'n Tantalus his flood unthirsty views,
  Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues;
  Ixion's wond'ring wheel its whirl suspends,
  And the voracious vulture, charm'd, attends;
  No more the Belides their toil bemoan,
  And Sisiphus reclin'd, sits list'ning on his stone.
  
  Then first ('tis said) by sacred verse subdu'd,
  The Furies felt their cheeks with tears bedew'd:
  Nor could the rigid king, or queen of Hell,
  Th' impulse of pity in their hearts repell.
  
  Now, from a troop of shades that last arriv'd,
  Eurydice was call'd, and stood reviv'd:
  Slow she advanc'd, and halting seem to feel
  The fatal wound, yet painful in her heel.
  
  Thus he obtains the suit so much desir'd,
  On strict observance of the terms requir'd:
  For if, before he reach the realms of air,
  He backward cast his eyes to view the fair,
  The forfeit grant, that instant, void is made,
  And she for ever left a lifeless shade.
  
  Now thro' the noiseless throng their way they
  bend,
  And both with pain the rugged road ascend;
  Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep,
  And thick with vapours from the smoaky deep.
  
  They well-nigh now had pass'd the bounds of night,
  And just approach'd the margin of the light,
  When he, mistrusting lest her steps might stray,
  And gladsome of the glympse of dawning day,
  His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast
  To catch a lover's look, but look'd his last;
  For, instant dying, she again descends,
  While he to empty air his arms extends.
  
  Again she dy'd, nor yet her lord reprov'd;
  What could she say, but that too well he lov'd?
  
  One last farewell she spoke, which scarce he heard;
  So soon she drop'd, so sudden disappear'd.
  
  All stunn'd he stood, when thus his wife he
  view'd
  By second Fate, and double death subdu'd:
  Not more amazement by that wretch was shown,
  Whom Cerberus beholding, turn'd to stone;
  Nor Olenus cou'd more astonish'd look,
  When on himself Lethaea's fault he took,
  His beauteous wife, who too secure had dar'd
  Her face to vye with Goddesses compar'd:
  Once join'd by love, they stand united still,
  Turn'd to contiguous rocks on Ida's hill.
  
  Now to repass the Styx in vain he tries,
  Charon averse, his pressing suit denies.
  
  Sev'n days entire, along th' infernal shores,
  Disconsolate, the bard Eurydice deplores;
  Defil'd with filth his robe, with tears his cheeks,
  No sustenance but grief, and cares, he seeks:
  Of rigid Fate incessant he complains,
  And Hell's inexorable Gods arraigns.
  
  This ended, to high Rhodope he hastes,
  And Haemus' mountain, bleak with northern blasts.
  
  And now his yearly race the circling sun
  Had thrice compleat thro' wat'ry Pisces run,
  Since Orpheus fled the face of womankind,
  And all soft union with the sex declin'd.
  
  Whether his ill success this change had bred,
  Or binding vows made to his former bed;
  Whate'er the cause, in vain the nymphs contest,
  With rival eyes to warm his frozen breast:
  For ev'ry nymph with love his lays inspir'd,
  But ev'ry nymph repuls'd, with grief retir'd.
  
  A hill there was, and on that hill a mead,
  With verdure thick, but destitute of shade.
  
  Where, now, the Muse's son no sooner sings,
  No sooner strikes his sweet resounding strings.
  
  But distant groves the flying sounds receive,
  And list'ning trees their rooted stations leave;
  Themselves transplanting, all around they grow,
  And various shades their various kinds bestow.
  
  Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread,
  While weeping poplars there erect their head.
  
  The foodful Esculus here shoots his leaves,
  That turf soft lime-tree, this, fat beach receives;
  Here, brittle hazels, lawrels here advance,
  And there tough ash to form the heroe's lance;
  Here silver firs with knotless trunks ascend,
  There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend.
  
  That spot admits the hospitable plane,
  On this, the maple grows with clouded grain;
  Here, watry willows are with Lotus seen;
  There, tamarisk, and box for ever green.
  
  With double hue here mirtles grace the ground,
  And laurestines, with purple berries crown'd.
  
  With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind,
  Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwin'd.
  
  Wild Ornus now, the pitch-tree next takes root,
  And Arbutus adorn'd with blushing fruit.
  
  Then easy-bending palms, the victor's prize,
  And pines erect with bristly tops arise.
  
  For Rhea grateful still the pine remains,
  For Atys still some favour she retains;
  He once in human shape her breast had warm'd,
  And now is cherish'd, to a tree transform'd.
  
  The Fable of      Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood,
  Cyparissus     With pointed top, the taper cypress stood;
  A tree, which once a youth, and heav'nly fair,
  Was of that deity the darling care,
  Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings
  To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he
  sings.
  
  For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred,
  Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed;
  In shape and size he all his kind excell'd,
  And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held.
  
  His beamy head, with branches high display'd,
  Afforded to itself an ample shade;
  His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was grac'd
  With silver collars thick with gems enchas'd:
  A silver boss upon his forehead hung,
  And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung.
  
  Frequenting houses, he familiar grew,
  And learnt by custom, Nature to subdue;
  'Till by degrees, of fear, and wildness, broke,
  Ev'n stranger hands his proffer'd neck might
  stroak.
  
  Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd,
  But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best:
  By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
  By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head:
  His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd,
  And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride;
  Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains,
  Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins.
  
  'Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day,
  Thro' glowing Cancer shot his burning ray,
  'Twas then, the fav'rite stag, in cool retreat,
  Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat;
  Along the grass his weary limbs he laid,
  Inhaling freshness from the breezy shade:
  When Cyparissus with his pointed dart,
  Unknowing, pierc'd him to the panting heart.
  
  But when the youth, surpriz'd, his error found,
  And saw him dying of the cruel wound,
  Himself he would have slain thro' desp'rate grief:
  What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief!
  To cease his mourning, he the boy desir'd,
  Or mourn no more than such a loss requir'd.
  
  But he, incessant griev'd: at length address'd
  To the superior Pow'rs a last request;
  Praying, in expiation of his crime,
  Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.
  
  And now, of blood exhausted he appears,
  Drain'd by a torrent of continual tears;
  The fleshy colour in his body fades,
  And a green tincture all his limbs invades;
  From his fair head, where curling locks late hung,
  A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung,
  Which stiffning by degrees, its stem extends,
  'Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.
  
  Apollo sad look'd on, and sighing, cry'd,
  Then, be for ever, what thy pray'r imply'd:
  Bemoan'd by me, in others grief excite;
  And still preside at ev'ry fun'ral rite.
  
  Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade
  Of verdant trees, which harmony had made,
  Encircled sate, with his own triumphs crown'd,
  Of listning birds, and savages around.
  
  Again the trembling strings he dext'rous tries,
  Again from discord makes soft musick rise.
  
  Then tunes his voice: O Muse, from whom I sprung,
  Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song.
  
  To Jove my grateful voice I oft have rais'd,
  Oft his almighty pow'r with pleasure prais'd.
  
  I sung the giants in a solemn strain,
  Blasted, and thunder-struck on Phlegra's plain.
  
  Now be my lyre in softer accents mov'd,
  To sing of blooming boys by Gods belov'd;
  And to relate what virgins, void of shame,
  Have suffer'd vengeance for a lawless flame.
  
  The King of Gods once felt the burning joy,
  And sigh'd for lovely Ganimede of Troy:
  Long was he puzzled to assume a shape
  Most fit, and expeditious for the rape;
  A bird's was proper, yet he scorns to wear
  Any but that which might his thunder bear.
  
  Down with his masquerading wings he flies,
  And bears the little Trojan to the skies;
  Where now, in robes of heav'nly purple drest,
  He serves the nectar at th' Almighty's feast,
  To slighted Juno an unwelcome guest.
  
  Hyacinthus       Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd
  transform'd    A place among the Gods, had Fate been kind:
  into a Flower   Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry rains
  Are past, and vernal breezes sooth the plains,
  From the green turf a purple flow'r you rise,
  And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies.
  
  You when alive were Phoebus' darling boy;
  In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy:
  Their God the Delphic priests consult in vain;
  Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's plain:
  His hands the use of bow and harp forget,
  And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net;
  O'er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game;
  Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame.
  
  The mid-day sun now shone with equal light
  Between the past, and the succeeding night;
  They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling oyl, essay
  To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play:
  A well-pois'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw,
  It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
  It reach'd the mark, a most surprizing length;
  Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength.
  
  Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand
  Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;
  But the curst orb, which met a stony soil,
  Flew in his face with violent recoil.
  
  Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear,
  The boy with pain, the am'rous God with fear.
  
  He ran, and rais'd him bleeding from the ground,
  Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound:
  Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;
  The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.
  
  As in a water'd garden's blooming walk,
  When some rude hand has bruis'd its tender stalk,
  A fading lilly droops its languid head,
  And bends to earth, its life, and beauty fled:
  So Hyacinth, with head reclin'd, decays,
  And, sickning, now no more his charms displays.
  
  O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd,
  Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!
  Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;
  And to my guilty hand my grief I owe.
  
  Yet from my self I might the fault remove,
  Unless to sport, and play, a fault should prove,
  Unless it too were call'd a fault to love.
  
  Oh cou'd I for thee, or but with thee, dye!
  But cruel Fates to me that pow'r deny.
  
  Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;
  Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell;
  And to a flow'r transform'd, unheard-of yet,
  Stamp'd on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat.
  
  The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow,
  When, joyn'd to thee, a mighty chief shall grow,
  And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show.
  
  While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal'd,
  Behold, the blood which stain'd the verdant field,
  Is blood no longer; but a flow'r full blown,
  Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone.
  
  A lilly's form it took; its purple hue
  Was all that made a diff'rence to the view,
  Nor stop'd he here; the God upon its leaves
  The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;
  And to this hour the mournful purple wears
  Ai, Ai, inscrib'd in funeral characters.
  
  Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam'd
  For virtue, of their Hyacinth asham'd;
  But still with pompous woe, and solemn state,
  The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate
  The          Enquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground
  Transformations  With veins of every metal does abound,
  of the Cerastae  If she to her Propoetides wou'd show,
  and Propoetides  The honour Sparta does to him allow?
  
  Nor more, she'd say, such wretches wou'd we grace,
  Than those whose crooked horns deform'd their face,
  From thence Cerastae call'd, an impious race:
  Before whose gates a rev'rend altar stood,
  To Jove inscrib'd, the hospitable God:
  This had some stranger seen with gore besmear'd,
  The blood of lambs, and bulls it had appear'd:
  Their slaughter'd guests it was; nor flock nor
  herd.
  
  Venus these barb'rous sacrifices view'd
  With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursu'd:
  At first, to punish such nefarious crimes,
  Their towns she meant to leave, her once-lov'd
  climes:
  But why, said she, for their offence shou'd I
  My dear delightful plains, and cities fly?
  
  No, let the impious people, who have sinn'd,
  A punishment in death, or exile, find:
  If death, or exile too severe be thought,
  Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault.
  
  While next her mind a proper form employs,
  Admonish'd by their horns, she fix'd her choice.
  
  Their former crest remains upon their heads,
  And their strong limbs an ox's shape invades.
  
  The blasphemous Propoetides deny'd
  Worship of Venus, and her pow'r defy'd:
  But soon that pow'r they felt, the first that sold
  Their lewd embraces to the world for gold.
  
  Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,
  A small transition changes them to stone.
  
  The Story of      Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life,
  Pygmalion and   Abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife:
  the Statue     So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed,
  Well pleas'd to want a consort of his bed.
  
  Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,
  In sculpture exercis'd his happy skill;
  And carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair,
  As Nature could not with his art compare,
  Were she to work; but in her own defence
  Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.
  
  Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires,
  Adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires.
  
  A very virgin in her face was seen,
  And had she mov'd, a living maid had been:
  One wou'd have thought she cou'd have stirr'd, but
  strove
  With modesty, and was asham'd to move.
  
  Art hid with art, so well perform'd the cheat,
  It caught the carver with his own deceit:
  He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore,
  And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
  The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
  Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
  
  Fir'd with this thought, at once he strain'd the
  breast,
  And on the lips a burning kiss impress'd.
  
  'Tis true, the harden'd breast resists the gripe,
  And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:
  But when, retiring back, he look'd again,
  To think it iv'ry, was a thought too mean:
  So wou'd believe she kiss'd, and courting more,
  Again embrac'd her naked body o'er;
  And straining hard the statue, was afraid
  His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid:
  Explor'd her limb by limb, and fear'd to find
  So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind:
  With flatt'ry now he seeks her mind to move,
  And now with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love),
  He furnishes her closet first; and fills
  The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;
  Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,
  And all the sparkling stones of various hue:
  And parrots, imitating human tongue,
  And singing-birds in silver cages hung:
  And ev'ry fragrant flow'r, and od'rous green,
  Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:
  Rich fashionable robes her person deck,
  Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:
  Her taper'd fingers too with rings are grac'd,
  And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender
  waste.
  
  Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd,
  Beauteous she shew'd, but naked shew'd the best.
  
  Then, from the floor, he rais'd a royal bed,
  With cov'rings of Sydonian purple spread:
  The solemn rites perform'd, he calls her bride,
  With blandishments invites her to his side;
  And as she were with vital sense possess'd,
  Her head did on a plumy pillow rest.
  
  The feast of Venus came, a solemn day,
  To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;
  With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,
  Slaughter'd before the sacred altars, bled.
  
  Pygmalion off'ring, first approach'd the shrine,
  And then with pray'rs implor'd the Pow'rs divine:
  Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,
  If all we can require, be yours to grant;
  Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said,
  But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd,
  Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid.
  
  The golden Goddess, present at the pray'r,
  Well knew he meant th' inanimated fair,
  And gave the sign of granting his desire;
  For thrice in chearful flames ascends the fire.
  
  The youth, returning to his mistress, hies,
  And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,
  And beating breast, by the dear statue lies.
  
  He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss,
  And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss;
  He thought them warm before: nor longer stays,
  But next his hand on her hard bosom lays:
  Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
  It seem'd, the breast beneath his fingers bent;
  He felt again, his fingers made a print;
  'Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the
  dint:
  The pleasing task he fails not to renew;
  Soft, and more soft at ev'ry touch it grew;
  Like pliant wax, when chasing hands reduce
  The former mass to form, and frame for use.
  
  He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
  And tries his argument of sense again,
  Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein.
  
  Convinc'd, o'erjoy'd, his studied thanks, and
  praise,
  To her, who made the miracle, he pays:
  Then lips to lips he join'd; now freed from fear,
  He found the savour of the kiss sincere:
  At this the waken'd image op'd her eyes,
  And view'd at once the light, and lover with
  surprize.
  
  The Goddess, present at the match she made,
  So bless'd the bed, such fruitfulness convey'd,
  That ere ten months had sharpen'd either horn,
  To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born;
  Paphos his name, who grown to manhood, wall'd
  The city Paphos, from the founder call'd.
  
  The Story of      Nor him alone produc'd the fruitful queen;
  of Cinyras and   But Cinyras, who like his sire had been
  Myrrha       A happy prince, had he not been a sire.
  
  Daughters, and fathers, from my song retire;
  I sing of horror; and could I prevail,
  You shou'd not hear, or not believe my tale.
  
  Yet if the pleasure of my song be such,
  That you will hear, and credit me too much,
  Attentive listen to the last event,
  And, with the sin, believe the punishment:
  Since Nature cou'd behold so dire a crime,
  I gratulate at least my native clime,
  That such a land, which such a monster bore,
  So far is distant from our Thracian shore.
  
  Let Araby extol her happy coast,
  Her cinamon, and sweet Amomum boast,
  Her fragrant flow'rs, her trees with precious
  tears,
  Her second harvests, and her double years;
  How can the land be call'd so bless'd, that Myrrha
  bears?
  
  Nor all her od'rous tears can cleanse her crime;
  Her Plant alone deforms the happy clime:
  Cupid denies to have inflam'd thy heart,
  Disowns thy love, and vindicates his dart:
  Some Fury gave thee those infernal pains,
  And shot her venom'd vipers in thy veins.
  
  To hate thy sire, had merited a curse;
  But such an impious love deserv'd a worse.
  
  The neighb'ring monarchs, by thy beauty led,
  Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed:
  The world is at thy choice; except but one,
  Except but him, thou canst not chuse, alone.
  
  She knew it too, the miserable maid,
  Ere impious love her better thoughts betray'd,
  And thus within her secret soul she said:
  Ah Myrrha! whither wou'd thy wishes tend?
  
  Ye Gods, ye sacred laws, my soul defend
  From such a crime as all mankind detest,
  And never lodg'd before in human breast!
  But is it sin?
  
  Or makes my mind alone
  Th' imagin'd sin?
  
  For Nature makes it none.
  
  What tyrant then these envious laws began,
  Made not for any other beast, but Man!
  The father-bull his daughter may bestride,
  The horse may make his mother-mare a bride;
  What piety forbids the lusty ram,
  Or more salacious goat, to rut their dam?
  
  The hen is free to wed the chick she bore,
  And make a husband, whom she hatch'd before.
  
  All creatures else are of a happier kind,
  Whom nor ill-natur'd laws from pleasure bind,
  Nor thoughts of sin disturb their peace of mind.
  
  But Man a slave of his own making lives;
  The fool denies himself what Nature gives:
  Too-busie senates, with an over-care,
  To make us better than our kind can bear,
  Have dash'd a spice of envy in the laws,
  And straining up too high, have spoil'd the cause.
  
  Yet some wise nations break their cruel chains,
  And own no laws, but those which love ordains;
  Where happy daughters with their sires are join'd,
  And piety is doubly paid in kind.
  
  O that I had been born in such a clime,
  Not here, where 'tis the country makes the crime!
  But whither wou'd my impious fancy stray?
  
  Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts away!
  His worth deserves to kindle my desires,
  But with the love, that daughters bear to sires.
  
  Then had not Cinyras my father been,
  What hinder'd Myrrha's hopes to be his queen?
  
  But the perverseness of my fate is such,
  That he's not mine, because he's mine too much:
  Our kindred-blood debars a better tie;
  He might be nearer, were he not so nigh.
  
  Eyes, and their objects, never must unite;
  Some distance is requir'd to help the sight:
  Fain wou'd I travel to some foreign shore,
  Never to see my native country more,
  So might I to my self my self restore;
  So might my mind these impious thoughts remove,
  And ceasing to behold, might cease to love.
  
  But stay I must, to feed my famish'd sight,
  To talk, to kiss, and more, if more I might:
  More, impious maid! What more canst thou design?
  
  To make a monstrous mixture in thy line,
  And break all statutes human and divine!
  Can'st thou be call'd (to save thy wretched life)
  Thy mother's rival, and thy father's wife?
  
  Confound so many sacred names in one,
  Thy brother's mother! Sister to thy son!
  And fear'st thou not to see th' infernal bands,
  Their heads with snakes; with torches arm'd their
  hands
  Full at thy face th' avenging brands to bear,
  And shake the serpents from their hissing hair;
  But thou in time th' increasing ill controul,
  Nor first debauch the body by the soul;
  Secure the sacred quiet of thy mind,
  And keep the sanctions Nature has design'd.
  
  Suppose I shou'd attempt, th' attempt were vain,
  No thoughts like mine, his sinless soul profane;
  Observant of the right: and o that he
  Cou'd cure my madness, or be mad like me!
  Thus she: but Cinyras, who daily sees
  A crowd of noble suitors at his knees,
  Among so many, knew not whom to chuse,
  Irresolute to grant, or to refuse.
  
  But having told their names, enquir'd of her
  Who pleas'd her best, and whom she would prefer.
  
  The blushing maid stood silent with surprize,
  And on her father fix'd her ardent eyes,
  And looking sigh'd, and as she sigh'd, began
  Round tears to shed, that scalded as they ran.
  
  The tender sire, who saw her blush, and cry,
  Ascrib'd it all to maiden modesty,
  And dry'd the falling drops, and yet more kind,
  He stroak'd her cheeks, and holy kisses join'd.
  
  She felt a secret venom fire her blood,
  And found more pleasure, than a daughter shou'd;
  And, ask'd again what lover of the crew
  She lik'd the best, she answer'd, One like you.
  
  Mistaking what she meant, her pious will
  He prais'd, and bid her so continue still:
  The word of pious heard, she blush'd with shame
  Of secret guilt, and cou'd not bear the name.
  
  'Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close
  Our eyes, and sooth our cares with soft repose;
  But no repose cou'd wretched Myrrha find,
  Her body rouling, as she roul'd her mind:
  Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin,
  And wishes all her wishes o'er again:
  Now she despairs, and now resolves to try;
  Wou'd not, and wou'd again, she knows not why;
  Stops, and returns; makes, and retracts the vow;
  Fain wou'd begin, but understands not how.
  
  As when a pine is hew'd upon the plains,
  And the last mortal stroke alone remains,
  Lab'ring in pangs of death, and threatning all,
  This way, and that she nods, consid'ring where to
  fall:
  So Myrrha's mind, impell'd on either side,
  Takes ev'ry bent, but cannot long abide;
  Irresolute on which she shou'd relie,
  At last, unfix'd in all, is only fix'd to die.
  
  On that sad thought she rests, resolv'd on death,
  She rises, and prepares to choak her breath:
  Then while about the beam her zone she ties,
  Dear Cinyras farewell, she softly cries;
  For thee I die, and only wish to be
  Not hated, when thou know'st die I for thee:
  Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause:
  This said, about her neck the noose she draws.
  
  The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard,
  Though not the words, the murmurs over-heard;
  And sighs, and hollow sounds: surpriz'd with
  fright,
  She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a
  light;
  Unlocks the door, and entring out of breath,
  The dying saw, and instruments of death;
  She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling
  haste,
  And in her arms her fainting charge embrac'd:
  Next (for she now had leisure for her tears),
  She weeping ask'd, in these her blooming years,
  What unforeseen misfortune caus'd her care,
  To loath her life, and languish in despair!
  The maid, with down-cast eyes, and mute with grief
  For death unfinish'd, and ill-tim'd relief,
  Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame press'd
  The more to know, and bar'd her wither'd breast,
  Adjur'd her by the kindly food she drew
  From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew.
  
  Sad Myrrha sigh'd, and turn'd her eyes aside:
  The nurse still urg'd, and wou'd not be deny'd:
  Nor only promis'd secresie, but pray'd
  She might have leave to give her offer'd aid.
  
  Good-will, she said, my want of strength supplies,
  And diligence shall give what age denies:
  If strong desires thy mind to fury move,
  With charms and med'cines I can cure thy love:
  If envious eyes their hurtuful rays have cast,
  More pow'rful verse shall free thee from the blast:
  If Heav'n offended sends thee this disease,
  Offended Heav'n with pray'rs we can appease.
  
  What then remains, that can these cares procure?
  
  Thy house is flourishing, thy fortune sure:
  Thy careful mother yet in health survives,
  And, to thy comfort, thy kind father lives.
  
  The virgin started at her father's name,
  And sigh'd profoundly, conscious of the shame
  Nor yet the nurse her impious love divin'd,
  But yet surmis'd that love disturb'd her mind:
  Thus thinking, she pursu'd her point, and laid,
  And lull'd within her lap the mourning maid;
  Then softly sooth'd her thus; I guess your grief:
  You love, my child; your love shall find relief.
  
  My long-experienc'd age shall be your guide;
  Rely on that, and lay distrust aside.
  
  No breath of air shall on the secret blow,
  Nor shall (what most you fear) your father know.
  
  Struck once again, as with a thunder-clap,
  The guilty virgin bounded from her lap,
  And threw her body prostrate on the bed.
  
  And, to conceal her blushes, hid her head;
  There silent lay, and warn'd her with her hand
  To go: but she receiv'd not the command;
  Remaining still importunate to know:
  Then Myrrha thus: Or ask no more, or go;
  I pr'ythee go, or staying spare my shame;
  What thou would'st hear, is impious ev'n to name.
  
  At this, on high the beldame holds her hands,
  And trembling both with age, and terror stands;
  Adjures, and falling at her feet intreats,
  Sooths her with blandishments, and frights with
  threats,
  To tell the crime intended, or disclose
  What part of it she knew, if she no farther knows.
  
  And last, if conscious to her counsel made,
  Confirms anew the promise of her aid.
  
  Now Myrrha rais'd her head; but soon oppress'd
  With shame, reclin'd it on her nurse's breast;
  Bath'd it with tears, and strove to have confess'd:
  Twice she began, and stopp'd; again she try'd;
  The falt'ring tongue its office still deny'd.
  
  At last her veil before her face she spread,
  And drew a long preluding sigh, and said,
  O happy mother, in thy marriage-bed!
  Then groan'd, and ceas'd.
  
  The good old woman shook,
  Stiff were her eyes, and ghastly was her look:
  Her hoary hair upright with horror stood,
  Made (to her grief) more knowing than she wou'd.
  
  Much she reproach'd, and many things she said,
  To cure the madness of th' unhappy maid,
  In vain: for Myrrha stood convict of ill;
  Her reason vanquish'd, but unchang'd her will:
  Perverse of mind, unable to reply;
  She stood resolv'd, or to possess, or die.
  
  At length the fondness of a nurse prevail'd
  Against her better sense, and virtue fail'd:
  Enjoy, my child, since such is thy desire,
  Thy love, she said; she durst not say, thy sire:
  Live, though unhappy, live on any terms;
  Then with a second oath her faith confirms.
  
  The solemn feast of Ceres now was near,
  When long white linnen stoles the matrons wear;
  Rank'd in procession walk the pious train,
  Off'ring first-fruits, and spikes of yellow grain:
  For nine long nights the nuptial-bed they shun,
  And sanctifying harvest, lie alone.
  
  Mix'd with the crowd, the queen forsook her lord,
  And Ceres' pow'r with secret rites ador'd:
  The royal couch, now vacant for a time,
  The crafty crone, officious in her crime,
  The first occasion took: the king she found
  Easie with wine, and deep in pleasures drown'd,
  Prepar'd for love: the beldame blew the flame,
  Confess'd the passion, but conceal'd the name.
  
  Her form she prais'd; the monarch ask'd her years;
  And she reply'd, The same thy Myrrha bears.
  
  Wine, and commended beauty fir'd his thought;
  Impatient, he commands her to be brought.
  
  Pleas'd with her charge perform'd, she hies her
  home,
  And gratulates the nymph, the task was overcome.
  
  Myrrha was joy'd the welcome news to hear;
  But clog'd with guilt, the joy was unsincere:
  So various, so discordant is the mind,
  That in our will a diff'rent will we find.
  
  Ill she presag'd, and yet pursu'd her lust;
  For guilty pleasures give a double gust.
  
  'Twas depth of night: Arctophylax had driv'n
  His lazy wain half round the northern Heav'n,
  When Myrrha hasten'd to the crime desir'd:
  The moon beheld her first, and first retir'd:
  The stars amaz'd, ran backward from the sight,
  And (shrunk within their sockets) lost their light.
  
  Icarius first withdraws his holy flame:
  The virgin sign, in Heav'n the second name,
  Slides down the belt, and from her station flies,
  And night with sable clouds involves the skies.
  
  Bold Myrrha still pursues her black intent;
  She stumbled thrice (an omen of th' event);
  Thrice shriek'd the fun'ral owl, yet on she went,
  Secure of shame, because secure of sight;
  Ev'n bashful sins are impudent by night.
  
  Link'd hand in hand, th' accomplice, and the dame,
  Their way exploring, to the chamber came:
  The door was ope; they blindly grope their way,
  Where dark in bed th' expecting monarch lay.
  
  Thus far her courage held, but here forsakes;
  Her faint knees knock at ev'ry step she makes.
  
  The nearer to her crime, the more within
  She feels remorse, and horror of her sin;
  Repents too late her criminal desire,
  And wishes, that unknown she could retire.
  
  Her lingring thus, the nurse (who fear'd delay
  The fatal secret might at length betray)
  Pull'd forward, to compleat the work begun,
  And said to Cinyras, Receive thy own.
  
  Thus saying, she deliver'd kind to kind,
  Accurs'd, and their devoted bodies join'd.
  
  The sire, unknowing of the crime, admits
  His bowels, and prophanes the hallow'd sheets;
  He found she trembled, but believ'd she strove
  With maiden modesty against her love,
  And sought with flatt'ring words vain fancies to
  remove.
  
  Perhaps he said, My daughter, cease thy fears
  (Because the title suited with her years);
  And, Father, she might whisper him again,
  That names might not be wanting to the sin.
  
  Full of her sire, she left th' incestuous bed,
  And carry'd in her womb the crime she bred.
  
  Another, and another night she came;
  For frequent sin had left no sense of shame:
  'Till Cinyras desir'd to see her face,
  Whose body he had held in close embrace,
  And brought a taper; the revealer, light,
  Expos'd both crime, and criminal to sight.
  
  Grief, rage, amazement, could no speech afford,
  But from the sheath he drew th' avenging sword:
  The guilty fled: the benefit of night,
  That favour'd first the sin, secur'd the flight.
  
  Long wand'ring thro' the spacious fields, she bent
  Her voyage to th' Arabian continent;
  Then pass'd the region which Panchaea join'd,
  And flying, left the palmy plains behind.
  
  Nine times the moon had mew'd her horns; at length
  With travel weary, unsupply'd with strength,
  And with the burden of her womb oppress'd,
  Sabaean fields afford her needful rest:
  There, loathing life, and yet of death afraid,
  In anguish of her spirit, thus she pray'd:
  Ye Pow'rs, if any so propitious are
  T' accept my penitence, and hear my pray'r;
  Your judgments, I confess, are justly sent;
  Great sins deserve as great a punishment:
  Yet since my life the living will profane,
  And since my death the happy dead will stain,
  A middle state your mercy may bestow,
  Betwixt the realms above, and those below:
  Some other form to wretched Myrrha give,
  Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live.
  
  The pray'rs of penitents are never vain;
  At least she did her last request obtain:
  For while she spoke, the ground began to rise,
  And gather'd round her feet, her legs, and thighs;
  Her toes in roots descend, and spreading wide,
  A firm foundation for the trunk provide:
  Her solid bones convert to solid wood,
  To pith her marrow, and to sap her blood:
  Her arms are boughs, her fingers change their kind,
  Her tender skin is harden'd into rind.
  
  And now the rising tree her womb invests,
  Now shooting upwards still, invades her breasts,
  And shades the neck; when weary with delay,
  She sunk her head within, and met it half the way.
  
  And tho' with outward shape she lost her sense,
  With bitter tears she wept her last offence;
  And still she weeps, nor sheds her tears in vain;
  For still the precious drops her name retain.
  
  Mean-time the mis-begotten infant grows,
  And ripe for birth, distends with deadly throes
  The swelling rind, with unavailing strife,
  To leave the wooden womb, and pushes into life.
  
  The mother-tree, as if oppress'd with pain,
  Writhes here, and there, to break the bark, in
  vain;
  And, like a lab'ring woman, wou'd have pray'd,
  But wants a voice to call Lucina's aid:
  The bending bole sends out a hollow sound,
  And trickling tears fall thicker on the ground.
  
  The mild Lucina came uncall'd, and stood
  Beside the struggling boughs, and heard the
  groaning wood;
  Then reach'd her midwife-hand to speed the throes,
  And spoke the pow'rful spells, that babes to birth
  disclose.
  
  The bark divides, the living load to free,
  And safe delivers the convulsive tree.
  
  The ready nymphs receive the crying child,
  And wash him in the tears the parent plant
  distill'd.
  
  They swath'd him with their scarfs; beneath him
  spread
  The ground with herbs; with roses rais'd his head.
  
  The lovely babe was born with ev'ry grace,
  Ev'n envy must have prais'd so fair a face:
  Such was his form, as painters when they show
  Their utmost art, on naked loves bestow:
  And that their arms no diff'rence might betray,
  Give him a bow, or his from Cupid take away.
  
  Time glides along with undiscover'd haste,
  The future but a length behind the past;
  So swift are years.
  
  The babe, whom just before
  His grandsire got, and whom his sister bore;
  The drop, the thing, which late the tree inclos'd,
  And late the yawning bark to life expos'd;
  A babe, a boy, a beauteous youth appears,
  And lovelier than himself at riper years.
  
  Now to the queen of love he gave desires,
  And, with her pains, reveng'd his mother's fires.
  
  The Story of      For Cytherea's lips while Cupid prest,
  Venus and     He with a heedless arrow raz'd her breast,
  Adonis       The Goddess felt it, and with fury stung,
  The wanton mischief from her bosom flung:
  Yet thought at first the danger slight, but found
  The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound.
  
  Fir'd with a mortal beauty, she disdains
  To haunt th' Idalian mount, or Phrygian plains.
  
  She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines,
  Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines:
  Ev'n Heav'n itself with all its sweets unsought,
  Adonis far a sweeter Heav'n is thought.
  
  On him she hangs, and fonds with ev'ry art,
  And never, never knows from him to part.
  
  She, whose soft limbs had only been display'd
  On rosie beds beneath the myrtle shade,
  Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace,
  And add more charms to an unrival'd face,
  Now buskin'd, like the virgin huntress, goes
  Thro' woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain-snows
  With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer
  The panting hounds, that chace the flying deer.
  
  She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares,
  But fearless beasts, and dang'rous prey forbears,
  Hunts not the grinning wolf, or foamy boar,
  And trembles at the lion's hungry roar.
  
  Thee too, Adonis, with a lover's care
  She warns, if warn'd thou wou'dst avoid the snare,
  To furious animals advance not nigh,
  Fly those that follow, follow those that fly;
  'Tis chance alone must the survivors save,
  Whene'er brave spirits will attempt the brave.
  
  O! lovely youth! in harmless sports delight;
  Provoke not beasts, which, arm'd by Nature, fight.
  
  For me, if not thy self, vouchsafe to fear;
  Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear.
  
  Boars know not bow to spare a blooming age;
  No sparkling eyes can sooth the lion's rage.
  
  Not all thy charms a savage breast can move,
  Which have so deeply touch'd the queen of love.
  
  When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring,
  In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring.
  
  The daring hunters lions rouz'd devour,
  Vast is their fury, and as vast their pow'r:
  Curst be their tawny race! If thou would'st hear
  What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear:
  The wond'rous tale I will to thee unfold,
  How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old.
  
  But by long toils I faint: see! wide-display'd,
  A grateful poplar courts us with a shade.
  
  The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows,
  We may secure delightfully repose.
  
  With her Adonis here be Venus blest;
  And swift at once the grass and him she prest.
  
  Then sweetly smiling, with a raptur'd mind,
  On his lov'd bosom she her head reclin'd,
  And thus began; but mindful still of bliss,
  Seal'd the soft accents with a softer kiss.
  
  Perhaps thou may'st have heard a virgin's name,
  Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o'ercame.
  
  Wondrous! that female weakness should outdo
  A manly strength; the wonder yet is true.
  
  'Twas doubtful, if her triumphs in the field
  Did to her form's triumphant glories yield;
  Whether her face could with more ease decoy
  A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy.
  
  For once Apollo she implor'd to show
  If courteous Fates a consort would allow:
  A consort brings thy ruin, he reply'd;
  O! learn to want the pleasures of a bride!
  Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost,
  And Atalanta living shall be lost.
  
  With such a rueful Fate th' affrighted maid
  Sought green recesses in the wood-land glade.
  
  Nor sighing suiters her resolves could move,
  She bad them show their speed, to show their love.
  
  He only, who could conquer in the race,
  Might hope the conquer'd virgin to embrace;
  While he, whose tardy feet had lagg'd behind,
  Was doom'd the sad reward of death to find.
  
  Tho' great the prize, yet rigid the decree,
  But blind with beauty, who can rigour see?
  
  Ev'n on these laws the fair they rashly sought,
  And danger in excess of love forgot.
  
  There sat Hippomenes, prepar'd to blame
  In lovers such extravagance of flame.
  
  And must, he said, the blessing of a wife
  Be dearly purchas'd by a risk of life?
  
  But when he saw the wonders of her face,
  And her limbs naked, springing to the race,
  Her limbs, as exquisitely turn'd, as mine,
  Or if a woman thou, might vie with thine,
  With lifted hands, he cry'd, forgive the tongue
  Which durst, ye youths, your well-tim'd courage
  wrong.
  
  I knew not that the nymph, for whom you strove,
  Deserv'd th' unbounded transports of your love.
  
  He saw, admir'd, and thus her spotless frame
  He prais'd, and praising, kindled his own flame.
  
  A rival now to all the youths who run,
  Envious, he fears they should not be undone.
  
  But why (reflects he) idly thus is shown
  The fate of others, yet untry'd my own?
  
  The coward must not on love's aid depend;
  The God was ever to the bold a friend.
  
  Mean-time the virgin flies, or seems to fly,
  Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky:
  Still more and more the youth her charms admires.
  
  The race itself t' exalt her charms conspires.
  
  The golden pinions, which her feet adorn,
  In wanton flutt'rings by the winds are born.
  
  Down from her head, the long, fair tresses flow,
  And sport with lovely negligence below.
  
  The waving ribbands, which her buskins tie,
  Her snowy skin with waving purple die;
  As crimson veils in palaces display'd,
  To the white marble lend a blushing shade.
  
  Nor long he gaz'd, yet while he gaz'd, she gain'd
  The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain'd.
  
  The vanquish'd sigh, and, as the law decreed,
  Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed.
  
  Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid,
  And fix'd his eyes full on the beauteous maid.
  
  Where is (he cry'd) the mighty conquest won,
  TO distance those, who want the nerves to run?
  
  Here prove superior strength, nor shall it be
  Thy loss of glory, if excell'd by me.
  
  High my descent, near Neptune I aspire,
  For Neptune was grand-parent to my sire.
  
  From that great God the fourth my self I trace,
  Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race.
  
  Thou from Hippomenes, o'ercome, may'st claim
  An envy'd triumph, and a deathless fame.
  
  While thus the youth the virgin pow'r defies,
  Silent she views him still with softer eyes.
  
  Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin,
  If 'tis not happier now to lose, than win.
  
  What God, a foe to beauty, would destroy
  The promis'd ripeness of this blooming boy?
  
  With his life's danger does he seek my bed?
  
  Scarce am I half so greatly worth, she said.
  
  Nor has his beauty mov'd my breast to love,
  And yet, I own, such beauty well might move:
  'Tis not his charms, 'tis pity would engage
  My soul to spare the greenness of his age.
  
  What, that heroick conrage fires his breast,
  And shines thro' brave disdain of Fate confest?
  
  What, that his patronage by close degrees
  Springs from th' imperial ruler of the seas?
  
  Then add the love, which bids him undertake
  The race, and dare to perish for my sake.
  
  Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware!
  Fly, timely fly from a too barb'rous fair.
  
  At pleasure chuse; thy love will be repaid
  By a less foolish, and more beauteous maid.
  
  But why this tenderness, before unknown?
  
  Why beats, and pants my breast for him alone?
  
  His eyes have seen his num'rous rivals yield;
  Let him too share the rigour of the field,
  Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts,
  And thus with ruin insolently sports.
  
  Yet for what crime shall he his death receive?
  
  Is it a crime with me to wish to live?
  
  Shall his kind passion his destruction prove?
  
  Is this the fatal recompence of love?
  
  So fair a youth, destroy'd, would conquest shame,
  Aud nymphs eternally detest my fame.
  
  Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid?
  
  Did I the fond adventurer persuade?
  
  Alas! I wish thou would'st the course decline,
  Or that my swiftness was excell'd by thine.
  
  See! what a virgin's bloom adorns the boy!
  Why wilt thou run, and why thy self destroy?
  
  Hippomenes! O that I ne'er had been
  By those bright eyes unfortunately seen!
  Ah! tempt not thus a swift, untimely Fate;
  Thy life is worthy of the longest date.
  
  Were I less wretched, did the galling chain
  Of rigid Gods not my free choice restrain,
  By thee alone I could with joy be led
  To taste the raptures of a nuptial bed.
  
  Thus she disclos'd the woman's secret heart,
  Young, innocent, and new to Cupid's dart.
  
  Her thoughts, her words, her actions wildly rove,
  With love she burns, yet knows not that 'tis love.
  
  Her royal sire now with the murm'ring crowd
  Demands the race impatiently aloud.
  
  Hippomenes then with true fervour pray'd,
  My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid.
  
  By her sweet pow'r I felt this am'rous fire,
  Still may she succour, whom she did inspire.
  
  A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care,
  Wafted to Heav'n the lover's tender pray'r.
  
  Pity, I own, soon gain'd the wish'd consent,
  And all th' assistance he implor'd I lent.
  
  The Cyprian lands, tho' rich, in richness yield
  To that, surnam'd the Tamasenian field.
  
  That field of old was added to my shrine,
  And its choice products consecrated mine.
  
  A tree there stands, full glorious to behold,
  Gold are the leafs, the crackling branches gold.
  
  It chanc'd, three apples in my hand I bore,
  Which newly from the tree I sportive tore;
  Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought
  The fruit, and when, and how to use it, taught.
  
  The signal sounding by the king's command,
  Both start at once, and sweep th' imprinted sand.
  
  So swiftly mov'd their feet, they might with ease,
  Scarce moisten'd, skim along the glassy seas;
  Or with a wondrous levity be born
  O'er yellow harvests of unbending corn.
  
  Now fav'ring peals resound from ev'ry part,
  Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart.
  
  Hippomenes! (they cry'd) thy life preserve,
  Intensely labour, and stretch ev'ry nerve.
  
  Base fear alone can baffle thy design,
  Shoot boldly onward, and the goal is thine.
  
  'Tis doubtful whether shouts, like these, convey'd
  More pleasures to the youth, or to the maid.
  
  When a long distance oft she could have gain'd,
  She check'd her swiftness, and her feet restrain'd:
  She sigh'd, and dwelt, and languish'd on his face,
  Then with unwilling speed pursu'd the race.
  
  O'er-spent with heat, his breath he faintly drew,
  Parch'd was his mouth, nor yet the goal in view,
  And the first apple on the plain he threw.
  
  The nymph stop'd sudden at th' unusual sight,
  Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright.
  
  Aside she starts, the wonder to behold,
  And eager stoops to catch the rouling gold.
  
  Th' observant youth past by, and scour'd along,
  While peals of joy rung from th' applauding throng.
  
  Unkindly she corrects the short delay,
  And to redeem the time fleets swift away,
  Swift, as the lightning, or the northern wind,
  And far she leaves the panting youth behind.
  
  Again he strives the flying nymph to hold
  With the temptation of the second gold:
  The bright temptation fruitlessly was tost,
  So soon, alas! she won the distance lost.
  
  Now but a little interval of space
  Remain'd for the decision of the race.
  
  Fair author of the precious gift, he said,
  Be thou, O Goddess, author of my aid!
  Then of the shining fruit the last he drew,
  And with his full-collected vigour threw:
  The virgin still the longer to detain,
  Threw not directly, but a-cross the plain.
  
  She seem'd a-while perplex'd in dubious thought,
  If the far-distant apple should be sought:
  I lur'd her backward mind to seize the bait,
  And to the massie gold gave double weight.
  
  My favour to my votary was show'd,
  Her speed I lessen'd, and encreas'd her load.
  
  But lest, tho' long, the rapid race be run,
  Before my longer, tedious tale is done,
  The youth the goal, and so the virgin won.
  
  Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see
  His grateful thanks pour'd out for victory?
  
  His pious incense on my altars laid?
  
  But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid.
  
  Enrag'd I vow'd, that with the youth the fair,
  For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share;
  That future lovers might my pow'r revere,
  And, from their sad examples, learn to fear.
  
  The silent fanes, the sanctify'd abodes,
  Of Cybele, great mother of the Gods,
  Rais'd by Echion in a lonely wood,
  And full of brown, religious horror stood.
  
  By a long painful journey faint, they chose!
  Their weary limbs here secret to repose.
  
  But soon my pow'r inflam'd the lustful boy,
  Careless of rest he sought untimely joy.
  
  A hallow'd gloomy cave, with moss o'er-grown,
  The temple join'd, of native pumice-stone,
  Where antique images by priests were kept.
  
  And wooden deities securely slept.
  
  Thither the rash Hippomenes retires,
  And gives a loose to all his wild desires,
  And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires.
  
  The sacred statues trembled with surprize,
  The tow'ry Goddess, blushing, veil'd her eyes;
  And the lewd pair to Stygian sounds had sent,
  But unrevengeful seem'd that punishment,
  A heavier doom such black prophaneness draws,
  Their taper figures turn to crooked paws.
  
  No more their necks the smoothness can retain,
  Now cover'd sudden with a yellow mane.
  
  Arms change to legs: each finds the hard'ning
  breast
  Of rage unknown, and wond'rous strength possest.
  
  Their alter'd looks with fury grim appear,
  And on the ground their brushing tails they hear.
  
  They haunt the woods: their voices, which before
  Were musically sweet, now hoarsly roar.
  
  Hence lions, dreadful to the lab'ring swains,
  Are tam'd by Cybele, and curb'd with reins,
  And humbly draw her car along the plains.
  
  But thou, Adonis, my delightful care,
  Of these, and beasts, as fierce as these, beware!
  The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun,
  For by rash prowess should'st thou be undone,
  A double ruin is contain'd in one.
  
  Thus cautious Venus school'd her fav'rite boy;
  But youthful heat all cautions will destroy.
  
  His sprightly soul beyond grave counsels flies,
  While with yok'd swans the Goddess cuts the skies.
  
  His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind,
  Lodg'd in thick coverts chanc'd a boar to find.
  
  The callow hero show'd a manly heart,
  And pierc'd the savage with a side-long dart.
  
  The flying savage, wounded, turn'd again,
  Wrench'd out the gory dart, and foam'd with pain.
  
  The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,
  And now recall'd the lore, which Venus taught;
  But now too late to fly the boar he strove,
  Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove,
  On the discolour'd grass Adonis lay,
  The monster trampling o'er his beauteous prey.
  
  Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view,
  Heard from afar his groans, and own'd them true,
  And turn'd her snowy swans, and backward flew.
  
  But as she saw him gasp his latest breath,
  And quiv'ring agonize in pangs of death,
  Down with swift flight she plung'd, nor rage
  forbore,
  At once her garments, and her hair she tore.
  
  With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast,
  The Fates upbraided, and her love confest.
  
  Nor shall they yet (she cry'd) the whole devour
  With uncontroul'd, inexorable pow'r:
  For thee, lost youth, my tears, and restless pain
  Shall in immortal monuments remain,
  With solemn pomp in annual rites return'd,
  Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn'd,
  Could Pluto's queen with jealous fury storm,
  And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform?
  
  Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise,
  And in a flow'r bid her fall'n heroe rise?
  
  Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows,
  The scented blood in little bubbles rose:
  Little as rainy drops, which flutt'ring fly,
  Born by the winds, along a low'ring sky.
  
  Short time ensu'd, 'till where the blood was shed,
  A flow'r began to rear its purple head:
  Such, as on Punick apples is reveal'd,
  Or in the filmy rind but half conceal'd.
  
  Still here the Fate of lovely forms we see,
  So sudden fades the sweet Anemonie.
  
  The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey,
  Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away.
  
  The winds forbid the flow'rs to flourish long,
  Which owe to winds their names in Grecian song.
  
  The End of the Tenth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Third Read Poem Log in to favourite

  WHEN now Agenor had his daughter lost,
  He sent his son to search on ev'ry coast;
  And sternly bid him to his arms restore
  The darling maid, or see his face no more,
  But live an exile in a foreign clime;
  Thus was the father pious to a crime.
  
  The Story of      The restless youth search'd all the world around;
  of Cadmus     But how can Jove in his amours be found?
  
  When, tir'd at length with unsuccessful toil,
  To shun his angry sire and native soil,
  He goes a suppliant to the Delphick dome;
  There asks the God what new appointed home
  Should end his wand'rings, and his toils relieve.
  
  The Delphick oracles this answer give.
  
  "Behold among the fields a lonely cow,
  Unworn with yokes, unbroken to the plow;
  Mark well the place where first she lays her down,
  There measure out thy walls, and build thy town,
  And from thy guide Boeotia call the land,
  In which the destin'd walls and town shall stand.
  
  "
  No sooner had he left the dark abode,
  Big with the promise of the Delphick God,
  When in the fields the fatal cow he view'd,
  Nor gall'd with yokes, nor worn with servitude:
  Her gently at a distance he pursu'd;
  And as he walk'd aloof, in silence pray'd
  To the great Pow'r whose counsels he obey'd.
  
  Her way thro' flow'ry Panope she took,
  And now, Cephisus, cross'd thy silver brook;
  When to the Heav'ns her spacious front she rais'd,
  And bellow'd thrice, then backward turning gaz'd
  On those behind, 'till on the destin'd place
  She stoop'd, and couch'd amid the rising grass.
  
  Cadmus salutes the soil, and gladly hails
  The new-found mountains, and the nameless vales,
  And thanks the Gods, and turns about his eye
  To see his new dominions round him lye;
  Then sends his servants to a neighb'ring grove
  For living streams, a sacrifice to Jove.
  
  O'er the wide plain there rose a shady wood
  Of aged trees; in its dark bosom stood
  A bushy thicket, pathless and unworn,
  O'er-run with brambles, and perplex'd with thorn:
  Amidst the brake a hollow den was found,
  With rocks and shelving arches vaulted round.
  
  Deep in the dreary den, conceal'd from day,
  Sacred to Mars, a mighty dragon lay,
  Bloated with poison to a monstrous size;
  Fire broke in flashes when he glanc'd his eyes:
  His tow'ring crest was glorious to behold,
  His shoulders and his sides were scal'd with gold;
  Three tongues he brandish'd when he charg'd his
  foes;
  His teeth stood jaggy in three dreadful rowes.
  
  The Tyrians in the den for water sought,
  And with their urns explor'd the hollow vault:
  From side to side their empty urns rebound,
  And rowse the sleeping serpent with the sound.
  
  Strait he bestirs him, and is seen to rise;
  And now with dreadful hissings fills the skies,
  And darts his forky tongues, and rowles his glaring
  eyes.
  
  The Tyrians drop their vessels in the fright,
  All pale and trembling at the hideous sight.
  
  Spire above spire uprear'd in air he stood,
  And gazing round him over-look'd the wood:
  Then floating on the ground in circles rowl'd;
  Then leap'd upon them in a mighty fold.
  
  Of such a bulk, and such a monstrous size
  The serpent in the polar circle lyes,
  That stretches over half the northern skies.
  
  In vain the Tyrians on their arms rely,
  In vain attempt to fight, in vain to fly:
  All their endeavours and their hopes are vain;
  Some die entangled in the winding train;
  Some are devour'd, or feel a loathsom death,
  Swoln up with blasts of pestilential breath.
  
  And now the scorching sun was mounted high,
  In all its lustre, to the noon-day sky;
  When, anxious for his friends, and fill'd with
  cares,
  To search the woods th' impatient chief prepares.
  
  A lion's hide around his loins he wore,
  The well poiz'd javelin to the field he bore,
  Inur'd to blood; the far-destroying dart;
  And, the best weapon, an undaunted heart.
  
  Soon as the youth approach'd the fatal place,
  He saw his servants breathless on the grass;
  The scaly foe amid their corps he view'd,
  Basking at ease, and feasting in their blood.
  
  "Such friends," he cries, "deserv'd a longer date;
  But Cadmus will revenge or share their fate.
  
  "
  Then heav'd a stone, and rising to the throw,
  He sent it in a whirlwind at the foe:
  A tow'r, assaulted by so rude a stroke,
  With all its lofty battlements had shook;
  But nothing here th' unwieldy rock avails,
  Rebounding harmless from the plaited scales,
  That, firmly join'd, preserv'd him from a wound,
  With native armour crusted all around.
  
  With more success, the dart unerring flew,
  Which at his back the raging warriour threw;
  Amid the plaited scales it took its course,
  And in the spinal marrow spent its force.
  
  The monster hiss'd aloud, and rag'd in vain,
  And writh'd his body to and fro with pain;
  He bit the dart, and wrench'd the wood away;
  The point still buried in the marrow lay.
  
  And now his rage, increasing with his pain,
  Reddens his eyes, and beats in ev'ry vein;
  Churn'd in his teeth the foamy venom rose,
  Whilst from his mouth a blast of vapours flows,
  Such as th' infernal Stygian waters cast.
  
  The plants around him wither in the blast.
  
  Now in a maze of rings he lies enrowl'd,
  Now all unravel'd, and without a fold;
  Now, like a torrent, with a mighty force
  Bears down the forest in his boist'rous course.
  
  Cadmus gave back, and on the lion's spoil
  Sustain'd the shock, then forc'd him to recoil;
  The pointed jav'lin warded off his rage:
  Mad with his pains, and furious to engage,
  The serpent champs the steel, and bites the spear,
  'Till blood and venom all the point besmear.
  
  But still the hurt he yet receiv'd was slight;
  For, whilst the champion with redoubled might
  Strikes home the jav'lin, his retiring foe
  Shrinks from the wound, and disappoints the blow.
  
  The dauntless heroe still pursues his stroke,
  And presses forward, 'till a knotty oak
  Retards his foe, and stops him in the rear;
  Full in his throat he plung'd the fatal spear,
  That in th' extended neck a passage found,
  And pierc'd the solid timber through the wound.
  
  Fix'd to the reeling trunk, with many a stroke
  Of his huge tail he lash'd the sturdy oak;
  'Till spent with toil, and lab'ring hard for
  breath,
  He now lay twisting in the pangs of death.
  
  Cadmus beheld him wallow in a flood
  Of swimming poison, intermix'd with blood;
  When suddenly a speech was heard from high
  (The speech was heard, nor was the speaker nigh),
  "Why dost thou thus with secret pleasure see,
  Insulting man! what thou thy self shalt be?
  
  "
  Astonish'd at the voice, he stood amaz'd,
  And all around with inward horror gaz'd:
  When Pallas swift descending from the skies,
  Pallas, the guardian of the bold and wise,
  Bids him plow up the field, and scatter round
  The dragon's teeth o'er all the furrow'd ground;
  Then tells the youth how to his wond'ring eyes
  Embattled armies from the field should rise.
  
  He sows the teeth at Pallas's command,
  And flings the future people from his hand.
  
  The clods grow warm, and crumble where he sows;
  And now the pointed spears advance in rows;
  Now nodding plumes appear, and shining crests,
  Now the broad shoulders and the rising breasts;
  O'er all the field the breathing harvest swarms,
  A growing host, a crop of men and arms.
  
  So through the parting stage a figure rears
  Its body up, and limb by limb appears
  By just degrees; 'till all the man arise,
  And in his full proportion strikes the eyes.
  
  Cadmus surpriz'd, and startled at the sight
  Of his new foes, prepar'd himself for fight:
  When one cry'd out, "Forbear, fond man, forbear
  To mingle in a blind promiscuous war.
  
  "
  This said, he struck his brother to the ground,
  Himself expiring by another's wound;
  Nor did the third his conquest long survive,
  Dying ere scarce he had begun to live.
  
  The dire example ran through all the field,
  'Till heaps of brothers were by brothers kill'd;
  The furrows swam in blood: and only five
  Of all the vast increase were left alive.
  
  Echion one, at Pallas's command,
  Let fall the guiltless weapon from his hand,
  And with the rest a peaceful treaty makes,
  Whom Cadmus as his friends and partners takes;
  So founds a city on the promis'd earth,
  And gives his new Boeotian empire birth.
  
  Here Cadmus reign'd; and now one would have
  guess'd
  The royal founder in his exile blest:
  Long did he live within his new abodes,
  Ally'd by marriage to the deathless Gods;
  And, in a fruitful wife's embraces old,
  A long increase of children's children told:
  But no frail man, however great or high,
  Can be concluded blest before he die.
  
  Actaeon was the first of all his race,
  Who griev'd his grandsire in his borrow'd face;
  Condemn'd by stern Diana to bemoan
  The branching horns, and visage not his own;
  To shun his once lov'd dogs, to bound away,
  And from their huntsman to become their prey,
  And yet consider why the change was wrought,
  You'll find it his misfortune, not his fault;
  Or, if a fault, it was the fault of chance:
  For how can guilt proceed from ignorance?
  
  The          In a fair chace a shady mountain stood,
  Transformation   Well stor'd with game, and mark'd with trails of
  of Actaeon         blood;
  into a Stag    Here did the huntsmen, 'till the heat of day,
  Pursue the stag, and load themselves with rey:
  When thus Actaeon calling to the rest:
  "My friends," said he, "our sport is at the best,
  The sun is high advanc'd, and downward sheds
  His burning beams directly on our heads;
  Then by consent abstain from further spoils,
  Call off the dogs, and gather up the toils,
  And ere to-morrow's sun begins his race,
  Take the cool morning to renew the chace.
  
  "
  They all consent, and in a chearful train
  The jolly huntsmen, loaden with the slain,
  Return in triumph from the sultry plain.
  
  Down in a vale with pine and cypress clad,
  Refresh'd with gentle winds, and brown with shade,
  The chaste Diana's private haunt, there stood
  Full in the centre of the darksome wood
  A spacious grotto, all around o'er-grown
  With hoary moss, and arch'd with pumice-stone.
  
  From out its rocky clefts the waters flow,
  And trickling swell into a lake below.
  
  Nature had ev'ry where so plaid her part,
  That ev'ry where she seem'd to vie with art.
  
  Here the bright Goddess, toil'd and chaf'd with
  heat,
  Was wont to bathe her in the cool retreat.
  
  Here did she now with all her train resort,
  Panting with heat, and breathless from the sport;
  Her armour-bearer laid her bow aside,
  Some loos'd her sandals, some her veil unty'd;
  Each busy nymph her proper part undrest;
  While Crocale, more handy than the rest,
  Gather'd her flowing hair, and in a noose
  Bound it together, whilst her own hung loose.
  
  Five of the more ignoble sort by turns
  Fetch up the water, and unlade the urns.
  
  Now all undrest the shining Goddess stood,
  When young Actaeon, wilder'd in the wood,
  To the cool grott by his hard fate betray'd,
  The fountains fill'd with naked nymphs survey'd.
  
  The frighted virgins shriek'd at the surprize
  (The forest echo'd with their piercing cries).
  
  Then in a huddle round their Goddess prest:
  She, proudly eminent above the rest,
  With blushes glow'd; such blushes as adorn
  The ruddy welkin, or the purple morn;
  And tho' the crowding nymphs her body hide,
  Half backward shrunk, and view'd him from a side.
  
  Surpriz'd, at first she would have snatch'd her
  bow,
  But sees the circling waters round her flow;
  These in the hollow of her hand she took,
  And dash'd 'em in his face, while thus she spoke:
  "Tell, if thou can'st, the wond'rous sight
  disclos'd,
  A Goddess naked to thy view expos'd.
  
  "
  This said, the man begun to disappear
  By slow degrees, and ended in a deer.
  
  A rising horn on either brow he wears,
  And stretches out his neck, and pricks his ears;
  Rough is his skin, with sudden hairs o'er-grown,
  His bosom pants with fears before unknown:
  Transform'd at length, he flies away in haste,
  And wonders why he flies away so fast.
  
  But as by chance, within a neighb'ring brook,
  He saw his branching horns and alter'd look.
  
  Wretched Actaeon! in a doleful tone
  He try'd to speak, but only gave a groan;
  And as he wept, within the watry glass
  He saw the big round drops, with silent pace,
  Run trickling down a savage hairy face.
  
  What should he do?
  
  Or seek his old abodes,
  Or herd among the deer, and sculk in woods!
  Here shame dissuades him, there his fear prevails,
  And each by turns his aking heart assails.
  
  As he thus ponders, he behind him spies
  His op'ning hounds, and now he hears their cries:
  A gen'rous pack, or to maintain the chace,
  Or snuff the vapour from the scented grass.
  
  He bounded off with fear, and swiftly ran
  O'er craggy mountains, and the flow'ry plain;
  Through brakes and thickets forc'd his way, and
  flew
  Through many a ring, where once he did pursue.
  
  In vain he oft endeavour'd to proclaim
  His new misfortune, and to tell his name;
  Nor voice nor words the brutal tongue supplies;
  From shouting men, and horns, and dogs he flies,
  Deafen'd and stunn'd with their promiscuous cries.
  
  When now the fleetest of the pack, that prest
  Close at his heels, and sprung before the rest,
  Had fasten'd on him, straight another pair,
  Hung on his wounded haunch, and held him there,
  'Till all the pack came up, and ev'ry hound
  Tore the sad huntsman grov'ling on the ground,
  Who now appear'd but one continu'd wound.
  
  With dropping tears his bitter fate he moans,
  And fills the mountain with his dying groans.
  
  His servants with a piteous look he spies,
  And turns about his supplicating eyes.
  
  His servants, ignorant of what had chanc'd,
  With eager haste and joyful shouts advanc'd,
  And call'd their lord Actaeon to the game.
  
  He shook his head in answer to the name;
  He heard, but wish'd he had indeed been gone,
  Or only to have stood a looker-on.
  
  But to his grief he finds himself too near,
  And feels his rav'nous dogs with fury tear
  Their wretched master panting in a deer.
  
  The Birth of      Actaeon's suff'rings, and Diana's rage,
  Bacchus      Did all the thoughts of men and Gods engage;
  Some call'd the evils which Diana wrought,
  Too great, and disproportion'd to the fault:
  Others again, esteem'd Actaeon's woes
  Fit for a virgin Goddess to impose.
  
  The hearers into diff'rent parts divide,
  And reasons are produc'd on either side.
  
  Juno alone, of all that heard the news,
  Nor would condemn the Goddess, nor excuse:
  She heeded not the justice of the deed,
  But joy'd to see the race of Cadmus bleed;
  For still she kept Europa in her mind,
  And, for her sake, detested all her kind.
  
  Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard
  How Semele, to Jove's embrace preferr'd,
  Was now grown big with an immortal load,
  And carry'd in her womb a future God.
  
  Thus terribly incens'd, the Goddess broke
  To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke.
  
  "Are my reproaches of so small a force?
  
  'Tis time I then pursue another course:
  It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die,
  If I'm indeed the mistress of the sky,
  If rightly styl'd among the Pow'rs above
  The wife and sister of the thund'ring Jove
  (And none can sure a sister's right deny);
  It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die.
  
  She boasts an honour I can hardly claim,
  Pregnant she rises to a mother's name;
  While proud and vain she triumphs in her Jove,
  And shows the glorious tokens of his love:
  But if I'm still the mistress of the skies,
  By her own lover the fond beauty dies.
  
  "
  This said, descending in a yellow cloud,
  Before the gates of Semele she stood.
  
  Old Beroe's decrepit shape she wears,
  Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs;
  Whilst in her trembling gait she totters on,
  And learns to tattle in the nurse's tone.
  
  The Goddess, thus disguis'd in age, beguil'd
  With pleasing stories her false foster-child.
  
  Much did she talk of love, and when she came
  To mention to the nymph her lover's name,
  Fetching a sigh, and holding down her head,
  "'Tis well," says she, "if all be true that's said.
  
  But trust me, child, I'm much inclin'd to fear
  Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter:
  Many an honest well-designing maid
  Has been by these pretended Gods betray'd,
  But if he be indeed the thund'ring Jove,
  Bid him, when next he courts the rites of love,
  Descend triumphant from th' etherial sky,
  In all the pomp of his divinity,
  Encompass'd round by those celestial charms,
  With which he fills th' immortal Juno's arms.
  
  "
  Th' unwary nymph, ensnar'd with what she said,
  Desir'd of Jove, when next he sought her bed,
  To grant a certain gift which she would chuse;
  "Fear not," reply'd the God, "that I'll refuse
  Whate'er you ask: may Styx confirm my voice,
  Chuse what you will, and you shall have your
  choice.
  
  "
  "Then," says the nymph, "when next you seek my
  arms,
  May you descend in those celestial charms,
  With which your Juno's bosom you enflame,
  And fill with transport Heav'n's immortal dame.
  
  "
  The God surpriz'd would fain have stopp'd her
  voice,
  But he had sworn, and she had made her choice.
  
  To keep his promise he ascends, and shrowds
  His awful brow in whirl-winds and in clouds;
  Whilst all around, in terrible array,
  His thunders rattle, and his light'nings play.
  
  And yet, the dazling lustre to abate,
  He set not out in all his pomp and state,
  Clad in the mildest light'ning of the skies,
  And arm'd with thunder of the smallest size:
  Not those huge bolts, by which the giants slain
  Lay overthrown on the Phlegrean plain.
  
  'Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight;
  They call it thunder of a second-rate,
  For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove's command
  Temper'd the bolt, and turn'd it to his hand,
  Work'd up less flame and fury in its make,
  And quench'd it sooner in the standing lake.
  
  Thus dreadfully adorn'd, with horror bright,
  Th' illustrious God, descending from his height,
  Came rushing on her in a storm of light.
  
  The mortal dame, too feeble to engage
  The lightning's flashes, and the thunder's rage,
  Consum'd amidst the glories she desir'd,
  And in the terrible embrace expir'd.
  
  But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb,
  Jove took him smoaking from the blasted womb:
  And, if on ancient tales we may rely,
  Inclos'd th' abortive infant in his thigh.
  
  Here when the babe had all his time fulfill'd,
  Ino first took him for her foster-child;
  Then the Niseans, in their dark abode,
  Nurs'd secretly with milk the thriving God.
  
  The          'Twas now, while these transactions past on
  Transformation       Earth,
  of Tiresias    And Bacchus thus procur'd a second birth,
  When Jove, dispos'd to lay aside the weight
  Of publick empire and the cares of state,
  As to his queen in nectar bowls he quaff'd,
  "In troth," says he, and as he spoke he laugh'd,
  "The sense of pleasure in the male is far
  More dull and dead, than what you females share.
  
  "
  Juno the truth of what was said deny'd;
  Tiresias therefore must the cause decide,
  For he the pleasure of each sex had try'd.
  
  It happen'd once, within a shady wood,
  Two twisted snakes he in conjunction view'd,
  When with his staff their slimy folds he broke,
  And lost his manhood at the fatal stroke.
  
  But, after seven revolving years, he view'd
  The self-same serpents in the self-same wood:
  "And if," says he, "such virtue in you lye,
  That he who dares your slimy folds untie
  Must change his kind, a second stroke I'll try.
  
  "
  Again he struck the snakes, and stood again
  New-sex'd, and strait recover'd into man.
  
  Him therefore both the deities create
  The sov'raign umpire, in their grand debate;
  And he declar'd for Jove: when Juno fir'd,
  More than so trivial an affair requir'd,
  Depriv'd him, in her fury, of his sight,
  And left him groping round in sudden night.
  
  But Jove (for so it is in Heav'n decreed,
  That no one God repeal another's deed)
  Irradiates all his soul with inward light,
  And with the prophet's art relieves the want of
  sight.
  
  The          Fam'd far and near for knowing things to come,
  Transformation   From him th' enquiring nations sought their doom;
  of Echo      The fair Liriope his answers try'd,
  And first th' unerring prophet justify'd.
  
  This nymph the God Cephisus had abus'd,
  With all his winding waters circumfus'd,
  And on the Nereid got a lovely boy,
  Whom the soft maids ev'n then beheld with joy.
  
  The tender dame, sollicitous to know
  Whether her child should reach old age or no,
  Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies,
  "If e'er he knows himself he surely dies.
  
  "
  Long liv'd the dubious mother in suspence,
  'Till time unriddled all the prophet's sense.
  
  Narcissus now his sixteenth year began,
  Just turn'd of boy, and on the verge of man;
  Many a friend the blooming youth caress'd,
  Many a love-sick maid her flame confess'd:
  Such was his pride, in vain the friend caress'd,
  The love-sick maid in vain her flame confess'd.
  
  Once, in the woods, as he pursu'd the chace,
  The babbling Echo had descry'd his face;
  She, who in others' words her silence breaks,
  Nor speaks her self but when another speaks.
  
  Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft,
  Of wonted speech; for tho' her voice was left,
  Juno a curse did on her tongue impose,
  To sport with ev'ry sentence in the close.
  
  Full often when the Goddess might have caught
  Jove and her rivals in the very fault,
  This nymph with subtle stories would delay
  Her coming, 'till the lovers slip'd away.
  
  The Goddess found out the deceit in time,
  And then she cry'd, "That tongue, for this thy
  crime,
  Which could so many subtle tales produce,
  Shall be hereafter but of little use.
  
  "
  Hence 'tis she prattles in a fainter tone,
  With mimick sounds, and accents not her own.
  
  This love-sick virgin, over-joy'd to find
  The boy alone, still follow'd him behind:
  When glowing warmly at her near approach,
  As sulphur blazes at the taper's touch,
  She long'd her hidden passion to reveal,
  And tell her pains, but had not words to tell:
  She can't begin, but waits for the rebound,
  To catch his voice, and to return the sound.
  
  The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus move,
  Still dash'd with blushes for her slighted love,
  Liv'd in the shady covert of the woods,
  In solitary caves and dark abodes;
  Where pining wander'd the rejected fair,
  'Till harrass'd out, and worn away with care,
  The sounding skeleton, of blood bereft,
  Besides her bones and voice had nothing left.
  
  Her bones are petrify'd, her voice is found
  In vaults, where still it doubles ev'ry sound.
  
  The Story of      Thus did the nymphs in vain caress the boy,
  Narcissus     He still was lovely, but he still was coy;
  When one fair virgin of the slighted train
  Thus pray'd the Gods, provok'd by his disdain,
  "Oh may he love like me, and love like me in vain!"
  Rhamnusia pity'd the neglected fair,
  And with just vengeance answer'd to her pray'r.
  
  There stands a fountain in a darksom wood,
  Nor stain'd with falling leaves nor rising mud;
  Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
  Unsully'd by the touch of men or beasts;
  High bow'rs of shady trees above it grow,
  And rising grass and chearful greens below.
  
  Pleas'd with the form and coolness of the place,
  And over-heated by the morning chace,
  Narcissus on the grassie verdure lyes:
  But whilst within the chrystal fount he tries
  To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise.
  
  For as his own bright image he survey'd,
  He fell in love with the fantastick shade;
  And o'er the fair resemblance hung unmov'd,
  Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he lov'd.
  
  The well-turn'd neck and shoulders he descries,
  The spacious forehead, and the sparkling eyes;
  The hands that Bacchus might not scorn to show,
  And hair that round Apollo's head might flow;
  With all the purple youthfulness of face,
  That gently blushes in the wat'ry glass.
  
  By his own flames consum'd the lover lyes,
  And gives himself the wound by which he dies.
  
  To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
  Oft catching at the beauteous shade he dips
  His arms, as often from himself he slips.
  
  Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
  With eager clasps, but loves he knows not who.
  
  What could, fond youth, this helpless passion
  move?
  
  What kindled in thee this unpity'd love?
  
  Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
  With thee the colour'd shadow comes and goes,
  Its empty being on thy self relies;
  Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies.
  
  Still o'er the fountain's wat'ry gleam he stood,
  Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food;
  Still view'd his face, and languish'd as he view'd.
  
  At length he rais'd his head, and thus began
  To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain.
  
  "You trees," says he, "and thou surrounding grove,
  Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,
  Tell me, if e'er within your shades did lye
  A youth so tortur'd, so perplex'd as I?
  
  I, who before me see the charming fair,
  Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not
  there:
  In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost:
  And yet no bulwark'd town, nor distant coast,
  Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,
  No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.
  
  A shallow water hinders my embrace;
  And yet the lovely mimick wears a face
  That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join
  My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
  
  Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint,
  Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
  
  My charms an easy conquest have obtain'd
  O'er other hearts, by thee alone disdain'd.
  
  But why should I despair?
  
  I'm sure he burns
  With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
  
  When-e'er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,
  And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his.
  
  His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,
  He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps.
  
  When e'er I speak, his moving lips appear
  To utter something, which I cannot hear.
  
  "Ah wretched me! I now begin too late
  To find out all the long-perplex'd deceit;
  It is my self I love, my self I see;
  The gay delusion is a part of me.
  
  I kindle up the fires by which I burn,
  And my own beauties from the well return.
  
  Whom should I court?
  
  how utter my complaint?
  
  Enjoyment but produces my restraint,
  And too much plenty makes me die for want.
  
  How gladly would I from my self remove!
  And at a distance set the thing I love.
  
  My breast is warm'd with such unusual fire,
  I wish him absent whom I most desire.
  
  And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh;
  In all the pride of blooming youth I die.
  
  Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.
  
  Oh might the visionary youth survive,
  I should with joy my latest breath resign!
  But oh! I see his fate involv'd in mine.
  
  "
  This said, the weeping youth again return'd
  To the clear fountain, where again he burn'd;
  His tears defac'd the surface of the well,
  With circle after circle, as they fell:
  And now the lovely face but half appears,
  O'er-run with wrinkles, and deform'd with tears.
  
  "Ah whither," cries Narcissus, "dost thou fly?
  
  Let me still feed the flame by which I die;
  Let me still see, tho' I'm no further blest.
  
  "
  Then rends his garment off, and beats his breast:
  His naked bosom redden'd with the blow,
  In such a blush as purple clusters show,
  Ere yet the sun's autumnal heats refine
  Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine.
  
  The glowing beauties of his breast he spies,
  And with a new redoubled passion dies.
  
  As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run,
  And trickle into drops before the sun;
  So melts the youth, and languishes away,
  His beauty withers, and his limbs decay;
  And none of those attractive charms remain,
  To which the slighted Echo su'd in vain.
  
  She saw him in his present misery,
  Whom, spight of all her wrongs, she griev'd to see.
  
  She answer'd sadly to the lover's moan,
  Sigh'd back his sighs, and groan'd to ev'ry groan:
  "Ah youth! belov'd in vain," Narcissus cries;
  "Ah youth! belov'd in vain," the nymph replies.
  
  "Farewel," says he; the parting sound scarce fell
  From his faint lips, but she reply'd, "farewel.
  
  "
  Then on th' wholsome earth he gasping lyes,
  'Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes.
  
  To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires,
  And in the Stygian waves it self admires.
  
  For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn,
  Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn;
  And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn:
  When, looking for his corps, they only found
  A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crown'd.
  
  The Story of      This sad event gave blind Tiresias fame,
  Pentheus      Through Greece establish'd in a prophet's name.
  
  Th' unhallow'd Pentheus only durst deride
  The cheated people, and their eyeless guide.
  
  To whom the prophet in his fury said,
  Shaking the hoary honours of his head:
  "'Twere well, presumptuous man, 'twere well for
  thee
  If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like me:
  For the time comes, nay, 'tis already here,
  When the young God's solemnities appear:
  Which, if thou dost not with just rites adorn,
  Thy impious carcass, into pieces torn,
  Shall strew the woods, and hang on ev'ry thorn.
  
  Then, then, remember what I now foretel,
  And own the blind Tiresias saw too well.
  
  "
  Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides his skill;
  But time did all the prophet's threats fulfil.
  
  For now through prostrate Greece young Bacchus
  rode,
  Whilst howling matrons celebrate the God:
  All ranks and sexes to his Orgies ran,
  To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train.
  
  When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express'd:
  "What madness, Thebans, has your souls possess'd?
  
  Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout,
  And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout,
  Thus quell your courage; can the weak alarm
  Of women's yells those stubborn souls disarm,
  Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e'er could fright,
  Nor the loud din and horror of a fight?
  
  And you, our sires, who left your old abodes,
  And fix'd in foreign earth your country Gods;
  Will you without a stroak your city yield,
  And poorly quit an undisputed field?
  
  But you, whose youth and vigour should inspire
  Heroick warmth, and kindle martial fire,
  Whom burnish'd arms and crested helmets grace,
  Not flow'ry garlands and a painted face;
  Remember him to whom you stand ally'd:
  The serpent for his well of waters dy'd.
  
  He fought the strong; do you his courage show,
  And gain a conquest o'er a feeble foe.
  
  If Thebes must fall, oh might the fates afford
  A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword.
  
  Then might the Thebans perish with renown:
  But now a beardless victor sacks the town;
  Whom nor the prancing steed, nor pond'rous shield,
  Nor the hack'd helmet, nor the dusty field,
  But the soft joys of luxury and ease,
  The purple vests, and flow'ry garlands please.
  
  Stand then aside, I'll make the counterfeit
  Renounce his god-head, and confess the cheat.
  
  Acrisius from the Grecian walls repell'd
  This boasted pow'r; why then should Pentheus yield?
  
  Go quickly drag th' impostor boy to me;
  I'll try the force of his divinity.
  
  "
  Thus did th' audacious wretch those rites profane;
  His friends dissuade th' audacious wretch in vain:
  In vain his grandsire urg'd him to give o'er
  His impious threats; the wretch but raves the more.
  
  So have I seen a river gently glide,
  In a smooth course, and inoffensive tide;
  But if with dams its current we restrain,
  It bears down all, and foams along the plain.
  
  But now his servants came besmear'd with blood,
  Sent by their haughty prince to seize the God;
  The God they found not in the frantick throng,
  But dragg'd a zealous votary along.
  
  The Mariners      Him Pentheus view'd with fury in his look,
  transform'd to   And scarce with-held his hands, whilst thus he
  Dolphins          spoke:
  "Vile slave! whom speedy vengeance shall pursue,
  And terrify thy base seditious crew:
  Thy country and thy parentage reveal,
  And, why thou joinest in these mad Orgies, tell.
  
  "
  The captive views him with undaunted eyes,
  And, arm'd with inward innocence, replies,
  "From high Meonia's rocky shores I came,
  Of poor descent, Acoetes is my name:
  My sire was meanly born; no oxen plow'd
  His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures low'd.
  
  His whole estate within the waters lay;
  With lines and hooks he caught the finny prey,
  His art was all his livelyhood; which he
  Thus with his dying lips bequeath'd to me:
  In streams, my boy, and rivers take thy chance;
  There swims, said he, thy whole inheritance.
  
  Long did I live on this poor legacy;
  'Till tir'd with rocks, and my old native sky,
  To arts of navigation I inclin'd;
  Observ'd the turns and changes of the wind,
  Learn'd the fit havens, and began to note
  The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat,
  The bright Taygete, and the shining Bears,
  With all the sailor's catalogue of stars.
  
  "Once, as by chance for Delos I design'd,
  My vessel, driv'n by a strong gust of wind,
  Moor'd in a Chian Creek; a-shore I went,
  And all the following night in Chios spent.
  
  When morning rose, I sent my mates to bring
  Supplies of water from a neighb'ring spring,
  Whilst I the motion of the winds explor'd;
  Then summon'd in my crew, and went aboard.
  
  Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy
  Brought to the shore a soft and lovely boy,
  With more than female sweetness in his look,
  Whom straggling in the neighb'ring fields he took.
  
  With fumes of wine the little captive glows,
  And nods with sleep, and staggers as he goes.
  
  "I view'd him nicely, and began to trace
  Each heav'nly feature, each immortal grace,
  And saw divinity in all his face,
  I know not who, said I, this God should be;
  But that he is a God I plainly see:
  And thou, who-e'er thou art, excuse the force
  These men have us'd; and oh befriend our course!
  Pray not for us, the nimble Dictys cry'd,
  Dictys, that could the main-top mast bestride,
  And down the ropes with active vigour slide.
  
  To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke,
  Who over-look'd the oars, and tim'd the stroke;
  The same the pilot, and the same the rest;
  Such impious avarice their souls possest.
  
  Nay, Heav'n forbid that I should bear away
  Within my vessel so divine a prey,
  Said I; and stood to hinder their intent:
  When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent
  From Tuscany, to suffer banishment,
  With his clench'd fist had struck me over-board,
  Had not my hands in falling grasp'd a cord.
  
  "His base confederates the fact approve;
  When Bacchus (for 'twas he) begun to move,
  Wak'd by the noise and clamours which they rais'd;
  And shook his drowsie limbs, and round him gaz'd:
  What means this noise?
  
  he cries; am I betray'd?
  
  Ah, whither, whither must I be convey'd?
  
  Fear not, said Proreus, child, but tell us where
  You wish to land, and trust our friendly care.
  
  To Naxos then direct your course, said he;
  Naxos a hospitable port shall be
  To each of you, a joyful home to me.
  
  By ev'ry God, that rules the sea or sky,
  The perjur'd villains promise to comply,
  And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship.
  
  With eager joy I launch into the deep;
  And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos stand.
  
  They whisper oft, and beckon with the hand,
  And give me signs, all anxious for their prey,
  To tack about, and steer another way.
  
  Then let some other to my post succeed,
  Said I, I'm guiltless of so foul a deed.
  
  What, says Ethalion, must the ship's whole crew
  Follow your humour, and depend on you?
  
  And strait himself he seated at the prore,
  And tack'd about, and sought another shore.
  
  "The beauteous youth now found himself betray'd,
  And from the deck the rising waves survey'd,
  And seem'd to weep, and as he wept he said:
  And do you thus my easy faith beguile?
  
  Thus do you bear me to my native isle?
  
  Will such a multitude of men employ
  Their strength against a weak defenceless boy?
  
  "In vain did I the God-like youth deplore,
  The more I begg'd, they thwarted me the more.
  
  And now by all the Gods in Heav'n that hear
  This solemn oath, by Bacchus' self, I swear,
  The mighty miracle that did ensue,
  Although it seems beyond belief, is true.
  
  The vessel, fix'd and rooted in the flood,
  Unmov'd by all the beating billows stood.
  
  In vain the mariners would plow the main
  With sails unfurl'd, and strike their oars in vain;
  Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves,
  And climbs the mast, and hides the cords in leaves:
  The sails are cover'd with a chearful green,
  And berries in the fruitful canvass seen.
  
  Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears
  Its verdant head, and a new Spring appears.
  
  "The God we now behold with open'd eyes;
  A herd of spotted panthers round him lyes
  In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread
  On his fair brows, and dangle on his head.
  
  And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his spear,
  My mates surpriz'd with madness or with fear,
  Leap'd over board; first perjur'd Madon found
  Rough scales and fins his stiff'ning sides
  surround;
  Ah what, cries one, has thus transform'd thy look?
  
  Strait his own mouth grew wider as he spoke;
  And now himself he views with like surprize.
  
  Still at his oar th' industrious Libys plies;
  But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks in,
  And by degrees is fashion'd to a fin.
  
  Another, as he catches at a cord,
  Misses his arms, and, tumbling over-board,
  With his broad fins and forky tail he laves
  The rising surge, and flounces in the waves.
  
  Thus all my crew transform'd around the ship,
  Or dive below, or on the surface leap,
  And spout the waves, and wanton in the deep.
  
  Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey,
  A shole of nineteen dolphins round her play.
  
  I only in my proper shape appear,
  Speechless with wonder, and half dead with fear,
  'Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more.
  
  With him I landed on the Chian shore,
  And him shall ever gratefully adore.
  
  "
  "This forging slave," says Pentheus, "would
  prevail
  O'er our just fury by a far-fetch'd tale:
  Go, let him feel the whips, the swords, the fire,
  And in the tortures of the rack expire.
  
  "
  Th' officious servants hurry him away,
  And the poor captive in a dungeon lay.
  
  But, whilst the whips and tortures are prepar'd,
  The gates fly open, of themselves unbarr'd;
  At liberty th' unfetter'd captive stands,
  And flings the loosen'd shackles from his hands.
  
  The Death of      But Pentheus, grown more furious than before,
  Pentheus      Resolv'd to send his messengers no more,
  But went himself to the distracted throng,
  Where high Cithaeron echo'd with their song.
  
  And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground,
  And snorts and trembles at the trumpet's sound;
  Transported thus he heard the frantick rout,
  And rav'd and madden'd at the distant shout.
  
  A spacious circuit on the hill there stood.
  
  Level and wide, and skirted round with wood;
  Here the rash Pentheus, with unhallow'd eyes,
  The howling dames and mystick Orgies spies.
  
  His mother sternly view'd him where he stood,
  And kindled into madness as she view'd:
  Her leafy jav'lin at her son she cast,
  And cries, "The boar that lays our country waste!
  The boar, my sisters! Aim the fatal dart,
  And strike the brindled monster to the heart.
  
  "
  Pentheus astonish'd heard the dismal sound,
  And sees the yelling matrons gath'ring round;
  He sees, and weeps at his approaching fate,
  And begs for mercy, and repents too late.
  
  "Help, help! my aunt Autonoe," he cry'd;
  "Remember, how your own Actaeon dy'd.
  
  "
  Deaf to his cries, the frantick matron crops
  One stretch'd-out arm, the other Ino lops.
  
  In vain does Pentheus to his mother sue,
  And the raw bleeding stumps presents to view:
  His mother howl'd; and, heedless of his pray'r,
  Her trembling hand she twisted in his hair,
  "And this," she cry'd, "shall be Agave's share,"
  When from the neck his struggling head she tore,
  And in her hands the ghastly visage bore.
  
  With pleasure all the hideous trunk survey;
  Then pull'd and tore the mangled limbs away,
  As starting in the pangs of death it lay,
  Soon as the wood its leafy honours casts,
  Blown off and scatter'd by autumnal blasts,
  With such a sudden death lay Pentheus slain,
  And in a thousand pieces strow'd the plain.
  
  By so distinguishing a judgment aw'd,
  The Thebans tremble, and confess the God.
  
  The End of the Third Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  THE chiefs were set; the soldiers crown'd the
  field:
  To these the master of the seven-fold shield
  Upstarted fierce: and kindled with disdain.
  
  Eager to speak, unable to contain
  His boiling rage, he rowl'd his eyes around
  The shore, and Graecian gallies hall'd a-ground.
  
  The        Then stretching out his hands, O Jove, he cry'd,
  Speeches of    Must then our cause before the fleet be try'd?
  
  Ajax and      And dares Ulysses for the prize contend,
  Ulysses      In sight of what he durst not once defend?
  
  But basely fled that memorable day,
  When I from Hector's hands redeem'd the flaming
  prey.
  
  So much 'tis safer at the noisie bar
  With words to flourish, than ingage in war.
  
  By diff'rent methods we maintain our right,
  Nor am I made to talk, nor he to fight.
  
  In bloody fields I labour to be great;
  His arms are a smooth tongue, and soft deceit:
  Nor need I speak my deeds, for those you see,
  The sun, and day are witnesses for me.
  
  Let him who fights unseen, relate his own,
  And vouch the silent stars, and conscious moon.
  
  Great is the prize demanded, I confess,
  But such an abject rival makes it less;
  That gift, those honours, he but hop'd to gain,
  Can leave no room for Ajax to be vain:
  Losing he wins, because his name will be
  Ennobled by defeat, who durst contend with me.
  
  Were my known valour question'd, yet my blood
  Without that plea wou'd make my title good:
  My sire was Telamon, whose arms, employ'd
  With Hercules, these Trojan walls destroy'd;
  And who before with Jason sent from Greece,
  In the first ship brought home the golden fleece.
  
  Great Telamon from Aeacus derives
  His birth (th' inquisitor of guilty lives
  In shades below; where Sisyphus, whose son
  This thief is thought, rouls up the restless heavy
  stone),
  Just Aeacus, the king of Gods above
  Begot: thus Ajax is the third from Jove.
  
  Nor shou'd I seek advantage from my line,
  Unless (Achilles) it was mix'd with thine:
  As next of kin, Achilles' arms I claim;
  This fellow wou'd ingraft a foreign name
  Upon our stock, and the Sisyphian seed
  By fraud, and theft asserts his father's breed:
  Then must I lose these arms, because I came
  To fight uncall'd, a voluntary name,
  Nor shunn'd the cause, but offer'd you my aid?
  
  While he long lurking was to war betray'd:
  Forc'd to the field he came, but in the reer;
  And feign'd distraction to conceal his fear:
  'Till one more cunning caught him in the snare
  (Ill for himself); and dragg'd him into war.
  
  Now let a hero's arms a coward vest,
  And he who shunn'd all honours, gain the best:
  And let me stand excluded from my right,
  Robb'd of my kinsman's arms, who first appear'd in
  fight,
  Better for us, at home had he remain'd,
  Had it been true the madness which he feign'd,
  Or so believ'd; the less had been our shame,
  The less his counsell'd crime, which brands the
  Grecian name;
  Nor Philoctetes had been left inclos'd
  In a bare isle, to wants and pains expos'd,
  Where to the rocks, with solitary groans,
  His suff'rings, and our baseness he bemoans:
  And wishes (so may Heav'n his wish fulfill)
  The due reward to him, who caus'd his ill.
  
  Now he, with us to Troy's destruction sworn,
  Our brother of the war, by whom are born
  Alcides' arrows, pent in narrow bounds,
  With cold and hunger pinch'd, and pain'd with
  wounds,
  To find him food and cloathing, must employ
  Against the birds the shafts due to the fate of
  Troy.
  
  Yet still he lives, and lives from treason free,
  Because he left Ulysses' company;
  Poor Palamede might wish, so void of aid,
  Rather to have been left, than so to death
  betray'd.
  
  The coward bore the man immortal spight,
  Who sham'd him out of madness into fight:
  Nor daring otherwise to vent his hate,
  Accus'd him first of treason to the state;
  And then for proof produc'd the golden store,
  Himself had hidden in his tent before:
  Thus of two champions he depriv'd our host,
  By exile one, and one by treason lost.
  
  Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends,
  A formidable man, but to his friends:
  Great, for what greatness is in words, and sound,
  Ev'n faithful Nestor less in both is found:
  But that he might without a rival reign,
  He left this faithful Nestor on the plain;
  Forsook his friend ev'n at his utmost need,
  Who tir'd, and tardy with his wounded steed,
  Cry'd out for aid, and call'd him by his name;
  But cowardice has neither ears nor shame;
  Thus fled the good old man, bereft of aid,
  And, for as much as lay in him, betray'd:
  That this is not a fable forg'd by me,
  Like one of his, an Ulyssean lie,
  I vouch ev'n Diomede, who tho' his friend,
  Cannot that act excuse, much less defend:
  He call'd him back aloud, and tax'd his fear;
  And sure enough he heard, but durst not hear.
  
  The Gods with equal eyes on mortal look,
  He justly was forsaken, who forsook:
  Wanted that succour, he refus'd to lend,
  Found ev'ry fellow such another friend:
  No wonder, if he roar'd that all might hear;
  His elocution was increas'd by fear:
  I heard, I ran, I found him out of breath,
  Pale, trembling, and half dead with fear of death.
  
  Though he had judg'd himself by his own laws,
  And stood condemn'd, I help'd the common cause:
  With my broad buckler hid him from the foe
  (Ev'n the shield trembled as he lay below);
  And from impending Fate the coward freed:
  Good Heav'n forgive me for so bad a deed!
  If still he will persist, and urge the strife,
  First let him give me back his forfeit life:
  Let him return to that opprobrious field;
  Again creep under my protecting shield:
  Let him lie wounded, let the foe be near,
  And let his quiv'ring heart confess his fear;
  There put him in the very jaws of Fate;
  And let him plead his cause in that estate:
  And yet when snatch'd from death, when from below
  My lifted shield I loos'd, and let him go;
  Good Heav'ns, how light he rose, with what a bound
  He sprung from earth, forgetful of his wound;
  How fresh, how eager then his feet to ply;
  Who had not strength to stand, had speed to fly!
  Hector came on, and brought the Gods along;
  Fear seiz'd alike the feeble, and the strong:
  Each Greek was an Ulysses; such a dread
  Th' approach, and ev'n the sound of Hector bred:
  Him, flesh'd with slaughter, and with conquest
  crown'd,
  I met, and over-turn'd him to the ground;
  When after, matchless as he deem'd in might,
  He challeng'd all our host to single fight;
  All eyes were fix'd on me: the lots were thrown;
  But for your champion I was wish'd alone:
  Your vows were heard; we fought, and neither yield;
  Yet I return'd unvanquish'd from the field.
  
  With Jove to friend, th' insulting Trojan came,
  And menac'd us with force, our fleet with flame.
  
  Was it the strength of this tongue-valiant lord,
  In that black hour, that sav'd you from the sword?
  
  Or was my breast expos'd alone, to brave
  A thousand swords, a thousand ships to save?
  
  The hopes of your return! And can you yield,
  For a sav'd fleet, less than a single shield?
  
  Think it no boast, o Grecians, if I deem
  These arms want Ajax, more than Ajax them:
  Or, I with them an equal honour share;
  They honour'd to be worn, and I to wear.
  
  Will he compare my courage with his sleight?
  
  As well he may compare the day with night.
  
  Night is indeed the province of his reign:
  Yet all his dark exploits no more contain
  Than a spy taken, and a sleeper slain;
  A priest made pris'ner, Pallas made a prey:
  But none of all these actions done by day:
  Nor ought of these was done, and Diomede away.
  
  If on such petty merits you confer
  So vast a prize, let each his portion share;
  Make a just dividend; and if not all,
  The greater part to Diomede will fall.
  
  But why for Ithacus such arms as those,
  Who naked, and by night invades his foes?
  
  The glitt'ring helm by moonlight will proclaim
  The latent robber, and prevent his game:
  Nor cou'd he hold his tott'ring head upright
  Beneath that morion, or sustain the weight;
  Nor that right arm cou'd toss the beamy lance;
  Much less the left that ampler shield advance;
  Pond'rous with precious weight, and rough with cost
  Of the round world in rising gold emboss'd.
  
  That orb would ill become his hand to wield,
  And look as for the gold he stole the shield;
  Which, shou'd your error on the wretch bestow,
  It would not frighten, but allure the foe:
  Why asks he, what avails him not in fight,
  And wou'd but cumber, and retard his flight,
  In which his only excellence is plac'd?
  
  You give him death, that intercept his haste.
  
  Add, that his own is yet a maiden-shield,
  Nor the least dint has suffer'd in the field,
  Guiltless of fight: mine batter'd, hew'd, and
  bor'd,
  Worn out of service, must forsake his lord,
  What farther need of words our right to scan?
  
  My arguments are deeds, let action speak the man.
  
  Since from a champion's arms the strife arose,
  Go cast the glorious prize amid the foes;
  Then send us to redeem both arms, and shield,
  And let him wear, who wins 'em in the field.
  
  He said: a murmur from a multitude,
  Or somewhat like a stifled shout, ensu'd:
  'Till from his seat arose Laertes' son,
  Look'd down a while, and paus'd, e'er he begun;
  Then, to th' expecting audience, rais'd his look,
  And not without prepar'd attention spoke:
  Soft was his tone, and sober was his face;
  Action his words, and words his action grace.
  
  If Heav'n, my lords, had heard our common pray'r,
  These arms had caus'd no quarrel for an heir;
  Still great Achilles had his own possess'd,
  And we with great Achilles had been bless'd;
  But since hard Fate, and Heav'n's severe decree,
  Have ravish'd him away from you, and me
  (At this he sigh'd, and wip'd his eyes, and drew,
  Or seem'd to draw, some drops of kindly dew),
  Who better can succeed Achilles lost,
  Than he, who gave Achilles to your hoast?
  
  This only I request, that neither he
  May gain, by being what he seems to be,
  A stupid thing; nor I may lose the prize,
  By having sense, which Heav'n to him denies:
  Since great or small, the talent I enjoy'd
  Was ever in the common cause employ'd;
  Nor let my wit, and wonted eloquence,
  Which often has been us'd in your defense,
  And in my own, this only time be brought
  To bear against my self, and deem'd a fault.
  
  Make not a crime, where Nature made it none;
  For ev'ry man may freely use his own.
  
  The deeds of long-descended ancestors
  Are but by grace of imputation ours,
  Theirs in effect; but since he draws his line
  From Jove, and seems to plead a right divine;
  From Jove, like him, I claim my pedigree,
  And am descended in the same degree:
  My sire Laertes was Arcesius' heir,
  Arcesius was the son of Jupiter:
  No parricide, no banish'd man, is known
  In all my line: let him excuse his own.
  
  Hermes ennobles too my mother's side,
  By both my parents to the Gods ally'd.
  
  But not because that on the female part
  My blood is better, dare I claim desert,
  Or that my sire from parricide is free;
  But judge by merit betwixt him, and me:
  The prize be to the best; provided yet
  That Ajax for a while his kin forget,
  And his great sire, and greater uncle's name,
  To fortifie by them his feeble claim:
  Be kindred and relation laid aside,
  And honour's cause by laws of honour try'd:
  For if he plead proximity of blood;
  That empty title is with ease withstood.
  
  Peleus, the hero's sire, more nigh than he,
  And Pyrrhus, his undoubted progeny,
  Inherit first these trophies of the field;
  To Scyros, or to Pthia, send the shield:
  And Teucer has an uncle's right; yet he
  Waves his pretensions, nor contends with me.
  
  Then since the cause on pure desert is plac'd,
  Whence shall I take my rise, what reckon last?
  
  I not presume on ev'ry act to dwell,
  But take these few, in order as they fell.
  
  Thetis, who knew the Fates, apply'd her care
  To keep Achilles in disguise from war;
  And 'till the threatning influence was past,
  A woman's habit on the hero cast:
  All eyes were cozen'd by the borrow'd vest,
  And Ajax (never wiser than the rest)
  Found no Pelides there: at length I came
  With proffer'd wares to this pretended dame;
  She, not discover'd by her mien, or voice,
  Betray'd her manhood by her manly choice;
  And while on female toys her fellows look,
  Grasp'd in her warlike hand, a javelin shook;
  Whom, by this act reveal'd, I thus bespoke:
  O Goddess-born! resist not Heav'n's decree,
  The fall of Ilium is reserv'd for thee;
  Then seiz'd him, and produc'd in open light,
  Sent blushing to the field the fatal knight.
  
  Mine then are all his actions of the war;
  Great Telephus was conquer'd by my spear,
  And after cur'd: to me the Thebans owe,
  Lesbos, and Tenedos, their overthrow;
  Syros and Cylla: not on all to dwell,
  By me Lyrnesus, and strong Chrysa fell:
  And since I sent the man who Hector slew,
  To me the noble Hector's death is due:
  Those arms I put into his living hand,
  Those arms, Pelides dead, I now demand.
  
  When Greece was injur'd in the Spartan prince,
  And met at Aulis to avenge th' offence,
  'Twas a dead calm, or adverse blasts, that reign'd,
  And in the port the wind-bound fleet detain'd:
  Bad signs were seen, and oracles severe
  Were daily thunder'd in our gen'ral's ear;
  That by his daughter's blood we must appease
  Diana's kindled wrath, and free the seas.
  
  Affection, int'rest, fame, his heart assail'd:
  But soon the father o'er the king prevail'd:
  Bold, on himself he took the pious crime,
  As angry with the Gods, as they with him.
  
  No subject cou'd sustain their sov'reign's look,
  'Till this hard enterprize I undertook:
  I only durst th' imperial pow'r controul,
  And undermin'd the parent in his soul;
  Forc'd him t' exert the king for common good,
  And pay our ransom with his daughter's blood.
  
  Never was cause more difficult to plead,
  Than where the judge against himself decreed:
  Yet this I won by dint of argument;
  The wrongs his injur'd brother underwent,
  And his own office, sham'd him to consent.
  
  'Tis harder yet to move the mother's mind,
  And to this heavy task was I design'd:
  Reasons against her love I knew were vain;
  I circumvented whom I could not gain:
  Had Ajax been employ'd, our slacken'd sails
  Had still at Aulis waited happy gales.
  
  Arriv'd at Troy, your choice was fix'd on me,
  A fearless envoy, fit for a bold embassy:
  Secure, I enter'd through the hostile court,
  Glitt'ring with steel, and crowded with resort:
  There, in the midst of arms, I plead our cause,
  Urge the foul rape, and violated laws;
  Accuse the foes, as authors of the strife,
  Reproach the ravisher, demand the wife.
  
  Priam, Antenor, and the wiser few,
  I mov'd; but Paris, and his lawless crew
  Scarce held their hands, and lifted swords; but
  stood
  In act to quench their impious thirst of blood:
  This Menelaus knows; expos'd to share
  With me the rough preludium of the war.
  
  Endless it were to tell, what I have done,
  In arms, or council, since the siege begun:
  The first encounter's past, the foe repell'd,
  They skulk'd within the town, we kept the field.
  
  War seem'd asleep for nine long years; at length
  Both sides resolv'd to push, we try'd our strength
  Now what did Ajax, while our arms took breath,
  Vers'd only in the gross mechanick trade of death?
  
  If you require my deeds, with ambush'd arms
  I trapp'd the foe, or tir'd with false alarms;
  Secur'd the ships, drew lines along the plain,
  The fainting chear'd, chastis'd the rebel-train,
  Provided forage, our spent arms renew'd;
  Employ'd at home, or sent abroad, the common cause
  pursu'd.
  
  The king, deluded in a dream by Jove,
  Despair'd to take the town, and order'd to remove.
  
  What subject durst arraign the Pow'r supream,
  Producing Jove to justifie his dream?
  
  Ajax might wish the soldiers to retain
  From shameful flight, but wishes were in vain:
  As wanting of effect had been his words,
  Such as of course his thundring tongue affords.
  
  But did this boaster threaten, did he pray,
  Or by his own example urge their stay?
  
  None, none of these: but ran himself away.
  
  I saw him run, and was asham'd to see;
  Who ply'd his feet so fast to get aboard, as he?
  
  Then speeding through the place, I made a stand,
  And loudly cry'd, O base degenerate band,
  To leave a town already in your hand!
  After so long expence of blood, for fame,
  To bring home nothing, but perpetual shame!
  These words, or what I have forgotten since
  (For grief inspir'd me then with eloquence),
  Reduc'd their minds; they leave the crowded port,
  And to their late forsaken camp resort:
  Dismay'd the council met: this man was there,
  But mute, and not recover'd of his fear:
  Thersites tax'd the king, and loudly rail'd,
  But his wide opening mouth with blows I seal'd.
  
  Then, rising, I excite their souls to fame,
  And kindle sleeping virtue into flame.
  
  From thence, whatever he perform'd in fight
  Is justly mine, who drew him back from flight.
  
  Which of the Grecian chiefs consorts with thee?
  
  But Diomede desires my company,
  And still communicates his praise with me.
  
  As guided by a God, secure he goes,
  Arm'd with my fellowship, amid the foes:
  And sure no little merit I may boast,
  Whom such a man selects from such an hoast;
  Unforc'd by lots I went without affright,
  To dare with him the dangers of the night:
  On the same errand sent, we met the spy
  Of Hector, double-tongu'd, and us'd to lie;
  Him I dispatch'd, but not 'till undermin'd,
  I drew him first to tell, what treach'rous Troy
  design'd:
  My task perform'd, with praise I had retir'd,
  But not content with this, to greater praise
  aspir'd:
  Invaded Rhesus, and his Thracian crew,
  And him, and his, in their own strength I slew;
  Return'd a victor, all my vows compleat,
  With the king's chariot, in his royal seat:
  Refuse me now his arms, whose fiery steeds
  Were promis'd to the spy for his nocturnal deeds:
  Yet let dull Ajax bear away my right,
  When all his days out-balance this one night.
  
  Nor fought I darkling still: the sun beheld
  With slaughter'd Lycians when I strew'd the field:
  You saw, and counted as I pass'd along,
  Alastor, Chromius, Ceranos the strong,
  Alcander, Prytanis, and Halius,
  Noemon, Charopes, and Ennomus;
  Coon, Chersidamas; and five beside,
  Men of obscure descent, but courage try'd:
  All these this hand laid breathless on the ground;
  Nor want I proofs of many a manly wound:
  All honest, all before: believe not me;
  Words may deceive, but credit what you see.
  
  At this he bar'd his breast, and show'd his
  scars,
  As of a furrow'd field, well plow'd with wars;
  Nor is this part unexercis'd, said he;
  That gyant-bulk of his from wounds is free:
  Safe in his shield he fears no foe to try,
  And better manages his blood, than I:
  But this avails me not; our boaster strove
  Not with our foes alone, but partial Jove,
  To save the fleet: this I confess is true
  (Nor will I take from any man his due):
  But thus assuming all, he robs from you.
  
  Some part of honour to your share will fall,
  He did the best indeed, but did not all.
  
  Patroclus in Achilles' arms, and thought
  The chief he seem'd, with equal ardour fought;
  Preserv'd the fleet, repell'd the raging fire,
  And forc'd the fearful Trojans to retire.
  
  But Ajax boasts, that he was only thought
  A match for Hector, who the combat sought:
  Sure he forgets the king, the chiefs, and me:
  All were as eager for the fight, as he:
  He but the ninth, and not by publick voice,
  Or ours preferr'd, was only Fortune's choice:
  They fought; nor can our hero boast th' event,
  For Hector from the field unwounded went.
  
  Why am I forc'd to name that fatal day,
  That snatch'd the prop and pride of Greece away?
  
  I saw Pelides sink, with pious grief,
  And ran in vain, alas! to his relief;
  For the brave soul was fled: full of my friend
  I rush'd amid the war, his relicks to defend:
  Nor ceas'd my toil, 'till I redeem'd the prey,
  And, loaded with Achilles, march'd away:
  Those arms, which on these shoulders then I bore,
  'Tis just you to these shoulders should restore.
  
  You see I want not nerves, who cou'd sustain
  The pond'rous ruins of so great a man:
  Or if in others equal force you find,
  None is endu'd with a more grateful mind.
  
  Did Thetis then, ambitious in her care,
  These arms thus labour'd for her son prepare;
  That Ajax after him the heav'nly gift shou'd wear!
  For that dull soul to stare with stupid eyes,
  On the learn'd unintelligible prize!
  What are to him the sculptures of the shield,
  Heav'n's planets, Earth, and Ocean's watry field?
  
  The Pleiads, Hyads; less, and greater Bear,
  Undipp'd in seas; Orion's angry star;
  Two diff'ring cities, grav'd on either hand;
  Would he wear arms he cannot understand?
  
  Beside, what wise objections he prepares
  Against my late accession to the wars?
  
  Does not the fool perceive his argument
  Is with more force against Achilles bent?
  
  For if dissembling be so great a crime,
  The fault is common, and the same in him:
  And if he taxes both of long delay,
  My guilt is less, who sooner came away.
  
  His pious mother, anxious for his life,
  Detain'd her son; and me, my pious wife.
  
  To them the blossoms of our youth were due,
  Our riper manhood we reserv'd for you.
  
  But grant me guilty, 'tis not much my care,
  When with so great a man my guilt I share:
  My wit to war the matchless hero brought,
  But by this fool I never had been caught.
  
  Nor need I wonder, that on me he threw
  Such foul aspersions, when he spares not you:
  If Palamede unjustly fell by me,
  Your honour suffer'd in th' unjust decree:
  I but accus'd, you doom'd: and yet he dy'd,
  Convinc'd of treason, and was fairly try'd:
  You heard not he was false; your eyes beheld
  The traytor manifest; the bribe reveal'd.
  
  That Philoctetes is on Lemnos left,
  Wounded, forlorn, of human aid bereft,
  Is not my crime, or not my crime alone;
  Defend your justice, for the fact's your own:
  'Tis true, th' advice was mine; that staying there
  He might his weary limbs with rest repair,
  From a long voyage free, and from a longer war.
  
  He took the counsl, and he lives at least;
  Th' event declares I counsell'd for the best:
  Though faith is all in ministers of state;
  For who can promise to be fortunate?
  
  Now since his arrows are the Fate of Troy,
  Do not my wit, or weak address, employ;
  Send Ajax there, with his persuasive sense,
  To mollifie the man, and draw him thence:
  But Xanthus shall run backward; Ida stand
  A leafless mountain; and the Grecian band
  Shall fight for Troy; if, when my councils fail,
  The wit of heavy Ajax can prevail.
  
  Hard Philoctetes, exercise thy spleen
  Against thy fellows, and the king of men;
  Curse my devoted head, above the rest,
  And wish in arms to meet me breast to breast:
  Yet I the dang'rous task will undertake,
  And either die my self, or bring thee back.
  
  Nor doubt the same success, as when before
  The Phrygian prophet to these tents I bore,
  Surpriz'd by night, and forc'd him to declare
  In what was plac'd the fortune of the war,
  Heav'n's dark decrees, and answers to display,
  And how to take the town, and where the secret lay:
  Yet this I compass'd, and from Troy convey'd
  The fatal image of their guardian-maid;
  That work was mine; for Pallas, though our friend,
  Yet while she was in Troy, did Troy defend.
  
  Now what has Ajax done, or what design'd?
  
  A noisie nothing, and an empty wind.
  
  If he be what he promises in show,
  Why was I sent, and why fear'd he to go?
  
  Our boasting champion thought the task not light
  To pass the guards, commit himself to night;
  Not only through a hostile town to pass,
  But scale, with steep ascent, the sacred place;
  With wand'ring steps to search the cittadel,
  And from the priests their patroness to steal:
  Then through surrounding foes to force my way,
  And bear in triumph home the heavn'ly prey;
  Which had I not, Ajax in vain had held,
  Before that monst'rous bulk, his sev'nfold shield.
  
  That night to conquer Troy I might be said,
  When Troy was liable to conquest made.
  
  Why point'st thou to my partner of the war?
  
  Tydides had indeed a worthy share
  In all my toil, and praise; but when thy might
  Our ships protected, did'st thou singly fight?
  
  All join'd, and thou of many wert but one;
  I ask'd no friend, nor had, but him alone:
  Who, had he not been well assur'd, that art,
  And conduct were of war the better part,
  And more avail'd than strength, my valiant friend
  Had urg'd a better right, than Ajax can pretend:
  As good at least Eurypilus may claim,
  And the more mod'rate Ajax of the name:
  The Cretan king, and his brave charioteer,
  And Menelaus bold with sword, and spear:
  All these had been my rivals in the shield,
  And yet all these to my pretensions yield.
  
  Thy boist'rous hands are then of use, when I
  With this directing head those hands apply.
  
  Brawn without brain is thine: my prudent care
  Foresees, provides, administers the war:
  Thy province is to fight; but when shall be
  The time to fight, the king consults with me:
  No dram of judgment with thy force is join'd:
  Thy body is of profit, and my mind.
  
  By how much more the ship her safety owes
  To him who steers, than him that only rows;
  By how much more the captain merits praise,
  Than he who fights, and fighting but obeys;
  By so much greater is my worth than thine,
  Who canst but execute, what I design.
  
  What gain'st thou, brutal man, if I confess
  Thy strength superior, when thy wit is less?
  
  Mind is the man: I claim my whole desert,
  From the mind's vigour, and th' immortal part.
  
  But you, o Grecian chiefs, reward my care,
  Be grateful to your watchman of the war:
  For all my labours in so long a space,
  Sure I may plead a title to your grace:
  Enter the town, I then unbarr'd the gates,
  When I remov'd their tutelary Fates.
  
  By all our common hopes, if hopes they be
  Which I have now reduc'd to certainty;
  By falling Troy, by yonder tott'ring tow'rs,
  And by their taken Gods, which now are ours;
  Or if there yet a farther task remains,
  To be perform'd by prudence, or by pains;
  If yet some desp'rate action rests behind,
  That asks high conduct, and a dauntless mind;
  If ought be wanting to the Trojan doom,
  Which none but I can manage, and o'ercome,
  Award, those arms I ask, by your decree:
  Or give to this, what you refuse to me.
  
  He ceas'd: and ceasing with respect he bow'd,
  And with his hand at once the fatal statue show'd.
  
  Heav'n, air and ocean rung, with loud applause,
  And by the gen'ral vote he gain'd his cause.
  
  Thus conduct won the prize, when courage fail'd,
  And eloquence o'er brutal force prevail'd.
  
  The Death of      He who cou'd often, and alone, withstand
  Ajax        The foe, the fire, and Jove's own partial hand,
  Now cannot his unmaster'd grief sustain,
  But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain;
  Then snatching out his fauchion, Thou, said he,
  Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee.
  
  O often try'd, and ever-trusty sword,
  Now do thy last kind office to thy lord:
  'Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show
  None but himself, himself cou'd overthrow:
  He said, and with so good a will to die,
  Did to his breast the fatal point apply,
  It found his heart, a way 'till then unknown,
  Where never weapon enter'd, but his own.
  
  No hands cou'd force it thence, so fix'd it stood,
  'Till out it rush'd, expell'd by streams of
  spouting blood.
  
  The fruitful blood produc'd a flow'r, which grew
  On a green stem; and of a purple hue:
  Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew:
  Inscrib'd in both, the letters are the same,
  But those express the grief, and these the name.
  
  The Story of      The victor with full sails for Lemnos stood
  Polyxena and    (Once stain'd by matrons with their husbands'
  Hecuba         blood),
  Thence great Alcides' fatal shafts to bear,
  Assign'd to Philoctetes' secret care.
  
  These with their guardian to the Greeks convey'd,
  Their ten years' toil with wish'd success repaid.
  
  With Troy old Priam falls: his queen survives;
  'Till all her woes compleat, transform'd she
  grieves
  In borrow'd sounds, nor with an human face,
  Barking tremendous o'er the plains of Thrace.
  
  Still Ilium's flames their pointed columns raise,
  And the red Hellespont reflects the blaze.
  
  Shed on Jove's altar are the poor remains
  Of blood, which trickl'd from old Priam's veins.
  
  Cassandra lifts her hands to Heav'n in vain,
  Drag'd by her sacred hair; the trembling train
  Of matrons to their burning temples fly:
  There to their Gods for kind protection cry;
  And to their statues cling 'till forc'd away,
  The victor Greeks bear off th' invidious prey.
  
  From those high tow'rs Astyanax is thrown,
  Whence he was wont with pleasure to look down.
  
  When oft his mother with a fond delight
  Pointed to view his father's rage in fight,
  To win renown, and guard his country's right.
  
  The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales
  Sing in the shrowds, and court the spreading sails.
  
  Farewel, dear Troy, the captive matrons cry;
  Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native sky.
  
  Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand,
  And quit the smoking ruines of the land.
  
  Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears;
  Found weeping o'er her children's sepulchres:
  Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd sons,
  Whilst yet she graspt their tombs, and kist their
  mouldring bones.
  
  Yet Hector's ashes from his urn she bore,
  And in her bosom the sad relique wore:
  Then scatter'd on his tomb her hoary hairs,
  A poor oblation mingled with her tears.
  
  Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian plains,
  Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns.
  
  King Priam to his care commits his son,
  Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun.
  
  A wise precaution! had not gold, consign'd
  For the child's use, debauch'd the tyrant's mind.
  
  When sinking Troy to its last period drew,
  With impious hands his royal charge he slew;
  Then in the sea the lifeless coarse is thrown;
  As with the body he the guilt could drown.
  
  The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore,
  'Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor.
  
  Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden view
  Disclos'd Achilles, great as when he drew
  The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain,
  As when he sought Briseis to regain;
  When stern debate, and rash injurious strife
  Unsheath'd his sword, to reach Atrides' life.
  
  And will ye go?
  
  he said.
  
  Is then the name
  Of the once great Achilles lost to fame?
  
  Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue
  In vain for honours to my Manes due.
  
  For this just end, Polyxena I doom
  With victim-rites to grace my slighted tomb.
  
  The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey'd,
  And to the tomb led the devoted maid
  Snatch'd from her mother, who with pious care
  Cherish'd this last relief of her despair.
  
  Superior to her sex, the fearless maid,
  Approach'd the altar, and around survey'd
  The cruel rites, and consecrated knife,
  Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life,
  Then as with stern amaze intent he stood,
  "Now strike," she said; "now spill my genr'ous
  blood;
  Deep in my breast, or throat, your dagger sheath,
  Whilst thus I stand prepar'd to meet my death.
  
  For life on terms of slav'ry I despise:
  Yet sure no God approves this sacrifice.
  
  O cou'd I but conceal this dire event
  From my sad mother, I should dye content.
  
  Yet should she not with tears my death deplore,
  Since her own wretched life demands them more.
  
  But let not the rude touch of man pollute
  A virgin-victim; 'tis a modest suit.
  
  It best will please, whoe'er demands my blood,
  That I untainted reach the Stygian flood.
  
  Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard;
  To Priam's daughter pay this last regard;
  'Tis Priam's daughter, not a captive, sues;
  Do not the rites of sepulture refuse.
  
  To my afflicted mother, I implore,
  Free without ransom my dead corpse restore:
  Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold;
  But be her tears the price, if I am sold:
  Time was she could have ransom'd me with gold".
  
  Thus as she pray'd, one common shower of tears
  Burst forth, and stream'd from ev'ry eye but hers.
  
  Ev'n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse
  Plung'd in her heart the steel's resistless force.
  
  Her slacken'd limbs sunk gently to the ground,
  Dauntless her looks, unalter'd by the wound.
  
  And as she fell, she strove with decent pride
  To hide, what suits a virgin's care to hide.
  
  The Trojan matrons the pale corpse receive,
  And the whole slaughter'd race of Priam grieve,
  Sad they recount the long disastrous tale;
  Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail;
  Thy widow'd mother too, who flourish'd late
  The royal pride of Asia's happier state:
  A captive lot now to Ulysses born;
  Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn,
  Were she not Hector's mother: Hector's fame
  Scarce can a master for his mother claim!
  With strict embrace the lifeless coarse she view'd;
  And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew'd,
  With which she lately mourn'd so many dead;
  Tears for her country, sons, and husband shed.
  
  With the thick gushing stream she bath'd the wound;
  Kiss'd her pale lips; then weltring on the ground,
  With wonted rage her frantick bosom tore;
  Sweeping her hair amidst the clotted gore;
  Whilst her sad accents thus her loss deplore.
  
  "Behold a mother's last dear pledge of woe!
  Yes, 'tis the last I have to suffer now.
  
  Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown:
  Already in thy Fate, I feel my own.
  
  'Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed
  One should unslaughter'd fall, even thou must
  bleed:
  And yet I hop'd thy sex had been thy guard;
  But neither has thy tender sex been spar'd.
  
  The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate
  Thy brothers fell, urg'd thy untimely fate!
  The same Achilles, whose destructive rage
  Laid waste my realms, has robb'd my childless age.
  
  When Paris' shafts with Phoebus' certain aid
  At length had pierc'd this dreaded chief, I said,
  Secure of future ills, he can no more:
  But see, he still pursues me as before.
  
  With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn;
  And his yet murd'ring ghost my wretched house must
  mourn.
  
  This tyrant's lust of slaughter I have fed
  With large supplies from my too-fruitful bed.
  
  Troy's tow'rs lye waste; and the wide ruin ends
  The publick woe; but me fresh woe attends.
  
  Troy still survives to me; to none but me;
  And from its ills I never must be free.
  
  I, who so late had power, and wealth, and ease,
  Bless'd with my husband, and a large encrease,
  Must now in poverty an exile mourn;
  Ev'n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn:
  Giv'n to Penelope, who proud of spoil,
  Allots me to the loom's ungrateful toil;
  Points to her dames, and crys with scorning mien:
  See Hector's mother, and great Priam's queen!
  And thou, my child, sole hope of all that's lost,
  Thou now art slain, to sooth this hostile ghost.
  
  Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe!
  Then what am I, who still survive this woe?
  
  Say, cruel Gods! for what new scenes of death
  Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath?
  
  Troy fal'n, to whom could Priam happy seem?
  
  Yet was he so; and happy must I deem
  His death; for O! my child, he saw not thine,
  When he his life did with his Troy resign.
  
  Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace;
  And thou shalt sleep amidst thy kingly race.
  
  Alas! my child, such fortune does not wait
  Our suffering house in this abandon'd state.
  
  A foreign grave, and thy poor mother's tears
  Are all the honours that attend thy herse.
  
  All now is lost!- Yet no; one comfort more
  Of life remains, my much-lov'd Polydore.
  
  My youngest hope: here on this coast he lives,
  Nurs'd by the guardian-king, he still survives.
  
  Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood,
  And wash away these stains of guiltless blood.
  
  "
  Streit to the shore her feeble steps repair
  With limping pace, and torn dishevell'd hair
  Silver'd with age.
  
  "Give me an urn," she cry'd,
  "To bear back water from this swelling tide":
  When on the banks her son in ghastly hue
  Transfix'd with Thracian arrows strikes her view.
  
  The matrons shriek'd; her big-swoln grief surpast
  The pow'r of utterance; she stood aghast;
  She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief;
  Excess of woe suppress'd the rising grief.
  
  Lifeless as stone, on Earth she fix'd her eyes;
  And then look'd up to Heav'n with wild surprise.
  
  Now she contemplates o'er with sad delight
  Her son's pale visage; then her aking sight
  Dwells on his wounds: she varys thus by turns,
  Wild as the mother-lion, when among
  The haunts of prey she seeks her ravish'd young:
  Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace,
  And by the print directs her anxious chase.
  
  So Hecuba with mingled grief, and rage
  Pursues the king, regardless of her age.
  
  She greets the murd'rer with dissembled joy
  Of secret treasure hoarded for her boy.
  
  The specious tale th' unwary king betray'd.
  
  Fir'd with the hopes of prey: "Give quick," he said
  With soft enticing speech, "the promis'd store:
  Whate'er you give, you give to Polydore.
  
  Your son, by the immortal Gods I swear,
  Shall this with all your former bounty share.
  
  "
  She stands attentive to his soothing lyes,
  And darts avenging horrour from her eyes.
  
  Then full resentment fires her boyling blood:
  She springs upon him, 'midst the captive crowd
  (Her thirst of vengeance want of strength
  supplies):
  Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes:
  Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues,
  And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrews.
  
  The Thracians, fir'd, at this inhuman scene,
  With darts, and stones assail the frantick queen.
  
  She snarls, and growls, nor in an human tone;
  Then bites impatient at the bounding stone;
  Extends her jaws, as she her voice would raise
  To keen invectives in her wonted phrase;
  But barks, and thence the yelping brute betrays.
  
  Still a sad monument the place remains,
  And from this monstrous change its name obtains:
  Where she, in long remembrance of her ills,
  With plaintive howlings the wide desart fills.
  
  Greeks, Trojans, friends, and foes, and Gods
  above
  Her num'rous wrongs to just compassion move.
  
  Ev'n Juno's self forgets her ancient hate,
  And owns, she had deserv'd a milder fate.
  
  The Funeral of     Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was
  Memnon       To Troy, and those that lov'd the Trojan cause,
  Nor Troy, nor Hecuba can now bemoan,
  But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own.
  
  Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain,
  She saw extended on the Phrygian plain:
  She saw, and strait the purple beams, that grace
  The rosie morning, vanish'd from her face;
  A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades,
  And veils the lowring skies with mournful shades.
  
  But when his limbs upon the pile were laid,
  The last kind duty that by friends is paid,
  His mother to the skies directs her flight,
  Nor cou'd sustain to view the doleful sight:
  But frantick, with her loose neglected hair,
  Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there.
  
  O king of Heav'n, o father of the skies,
  The weeping Goddess passionately cries,
  Tho' I the meanest of immortals am,
  And fewest temples celebrate my fame,
  Yet still a Goddess, I presume to come
  Within the verge of your etherial dome:
  Yet still may plead some merit, if my light
  With purple dawn controuls the Pow'rs of night;
  If from a female hand that virtue springs,
  Which to the Gods, and men such pleasure brings.
  
  Yet I nor honours seek, nor rites divine,
  Nor for more altars, or more fanes repine;
  Oh! that such trifles were the only cause,
  From whence Aurora's mind its anguish draws!
  For Memnon lost, my dearest only child,
  With weightier grief my heavy heart is fill'd;
  My warrior son! that liv'd but half his time,
  Nipt in the bud, and blasted in his prime;
  Who for his uncle early took the field,
  And by Achilles' fatal spear was kill'd.
  
  To whom but Jove shou'd I for succour come?
  
  For Jove alone cou'd fix his cruel doom.
  
  O sov'reign of the Gods accept my pray'r,
  Grant my request, and sooth a mother's care;
  On the deceas'd some solemn boon bestow,
  To expiate the loss, and ease my woe.
  
  Jove, with a nod, comply'd with her desire;
  Around the body flam'd the fun'ral fire;
  The pile decreas'd, that lately seem'd so high,
  And sheets of smoak roll'd upward to the sky:
  As humid vapours from a marshy bog,
  Rise by degrees, condensing into fog,
  That intercept the sun's enliv'ning ray,
  And with a cloud infect the chearful day.
  
  The sooty ashes wafted by the air,
  Whirl round, and thicken in a body there;
  Then take a form, which their own heat, and fire
  With active life, and energy inspire.
  
  Its lightness makes it seem to fly, and soon
  It skims on real wings, that are its own;
  A real bird, it beats the breezy wind,
  Mix'd with a thousand sisters of the kind,
  That, from the same formation newly sprung,
  Up-born aloft on plumy pinions hung.
  
  Thrice round the pile advanc'd the circling throng.
  
  Thrice, with their wings, a whizzing consort rung.
  
  In the fourth flight their squadron they divide,
  Rank'd in two diff'rent troops, on either side:
  Then two, and two, inspir'd with martial rage,
  From either troop in equal pairs engage.
  
  Each combatant with beak, and pounces press'd,
  In wrathful ire, his adversary's breast;
  Each falls a victim, to preserve the fame
  Of that great hero, whence their being came.
  
  From him their courage, and their name they take,
  And, as they liv'd, they dye for Memnon's sake.
  
  Punctual to time, with each revolving year,
  In fresh array the champion birds appear;
  Again, prepar'd with vengeful minds, they come
  To bleed, in honour of the souldier's tomb.
  
  Therefore in others it appear'd not strange,
  To grieve for Hecuba's unhappy change:
  But poor Aurora had enough to do
  With her own loss, to mind another's woe;
  Who still in tears, her tender nature shews,
  Besprinkling all the world with pearly dews.
  
  The Voyage of     Troy thus destroy'd, 'twas still deny'd by Fate,
  Aeneas       The hopes of Troy should perish with the state.
  
  His sire, the son of Cytherea bore,
  And household-Gods from burning Ilium's shore,
  The pious prince (a double duty paid)
  Each sacred burthen thro' the flames convey'd.
  
  With young Ascanius, and this only prize,
  Of heaps of wealth, he from Antandros flies;
  But struck with horror, left the Thracian shore,
  Stain'd with the blood of murder'd Polydore.
  
  The Delian isle receives the banish'd train,
  Driv'n by kind gales, and favour'd by the main.
  
  Here pious Anius, priest, and monarch reign'd,
  And either charge, with equal care sustain'd,
  His subjects rul'd, to Phoebus homage pay'd,
  His God obeying, and by those obey'd.
  
  The priest displays his hospitable gate,
  And shows the riches of his church, and state
  The sacred shrubs, which eas'd Latona's pain,
  The palm, and olive, and the votive fane.
  
  Here grateful flames with fuming incense fed,
  And mingled wine, ambrosial odours shed;
  Of slaughter'd steers the crackling entrails
  burn'd:
  And then the strangers to the court return'd.
  
  On beds of tap'stry plac'd aloft, they dine
  With Ceres' gift, and flowing bowls of wine;
  When thus Anchises spoke, amidst the feast:
  Say, mitred monarch, Phoebus' chosen priest,
  Or (e'er from Troy by cruel Fate expell'd)
  When first mine eyes these sacred walls beheld,
  A son, and twice two daughters crown'd thy bliss?
  
  Or errs my mem'ry, and I judge amiss?
  
  The royal prophet shook his hoary head,
  With snowy fillets bound, and sighing, said:
  Thy mem'ry errs not, prince; thou saw'st me then,
  The happy father of so large a train;
  Behold me now (such turns of chance befall
  The race of man!), almost bereft of all.
  
  For (ah!) what comfort can my son bestow,
  What help afford, to mitigate my woe!
  While far from hence, in Andros' isle he reigns,
  (From him so nam'd) and there my place sustains.
  
  Him Delius praescience gave; the twice-born God
  A boon more wond'rous on the maids bestow'd.
  
  Whate'er they touch'd, he gave them to transmute
  (A gift past credit, and above their suit)
  To Ceres, Bacchus, and Minerva's fruit.
  
  How great their value, and how rich their use,
  Whose only touch such treasures could produce!
  The dire destroyer of the Trojan reign,
  Fierce Agamemnon, such a prize to gain
  (A proof we also were design'd by Fate
  To feel the tempest, that o'erturn'd your state),
  With force superior, and a ruffian crew,
  From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew:
  And sternly bad them use the grant divine,
  To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine.
  
  Each, as they could, escap'd: two strove to gain
  Euboea's isle, and two their brother's reign.
  
  The soldier follows, and demands the dames;
  If held by force, immediate war proclaims.
  
  Fear conquer'd Nature in their brother's mind,
  And gave them up to punishment assign'd.
  
  Forgive the deed; nor Hector's arm was there,
  Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war;
  Whose only force upheld your Ilium's tow'rs,
  For ten long years, against the Grecian pow'rs.
  
  Prepar'd to bind their captive arms in bands,
  To Heav'n they rear'd their yet unfetter'd hands,
  Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray'd;
  The gift's great author gave immediate aid;
  If such destruction of their human frame
  By ways so wond'rous, may deserve the name;
  Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate
  Exact, the manner of their alter'd state;
  But this in gen'ral of my loss I knew,
  Transform'd to doves, on milky plumes they flew,
  Such as on Ida's mount thy consort's chariot drew.
  
  With such discourse, they entertain'd the feast;
  Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest.
  
  The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine,
  Th' inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine;
  The mystick Pow'r commands them to explore
  Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore.
  
  Attending to the sea, the gen'rous prince
  Dismiss'd his guests with rich munificence,
  In old Anchises' hand a sceptre plac'd,
  A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac'd,
  His sire, a cup; which from th' Aonian coast,
  Ismenian Therses sent his royal host.
  
  Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent,
  And carv'd thereon this ample argument.
  
  A town with sev'n distinguish'd gates was shown,
  Which spoke its name, and made the city known;
  Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames,
  The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames,
  Who bar'd their breasts, and gave their hair to
  flow,
  The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe.
  
  Their fountains dry'd, the weeping Naiads mourn'd,
  The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn'd,
  No herbage cloath'd the ground, a ragged flock
  Of goats half-famish'd, lick'd the naked rock,
  Of manly courage, and with mind serene,
  Orion's daughters in the town were seen;
  One heav'd her chest to meet the lifted knife,
  One plung'd the poyniard thro' the seat of life,
  Their country's victims; mourns the rescu'd state,
  The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate.
  
  To save the failure of th' illustrious line,
  From the pale ashes rose, of form divine,
  Two gen'rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls,
  Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother's falls.
  
  These burnish'd figures form'd of antique mold,
  Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold;
  A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was
  roll'd.
  
  Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express'd;
  A fuming censer for the royal priest,
  A chalice, and a crown of princely cost,
  With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss'd.
  
  Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood,
  Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer's blood;
  But Heav'n forbids, and pestilential Jove
  From noxious skies, the wand'ring navy drove.
  
  Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore,
  And sought the destin'd land, Ausonia's shore;
  But toss'd by storms at either Strophas lay,
  'Till scar'd by Harpies from the faithless bay.
  
  Then passing onward with a prosp'rous wind,
  Left sly Ulysses' spacious realms behind;
  Ambracia's state, in former ages known.
  
  The strife of Gods, the judge transform'd to stone
  They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown'd,
  Who Caesar's arms with naval conquest crown'd;
  Next pass'd Dodona, wont of old to boast
  Her vocal forest; and Chaonia's coast,
  Where king Molossus' sons on wings aspir'd,
  And saw secure the harmless fewel fir'd.
  
  Now to Phaeacia's happy isle they came,
  For fertile orchards known to early fame;
  Epirus past, they next beheld with joy
  A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy;
  Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway'd,
  Who show'd their fate and mystick truths display'd.
  
  By him confirm'd Sicilia's isle they reach'd,
  Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch'd,
  Pachynos to the stormy south is plac'd,
  On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west,
  Peloro's cliffs the northern bear survey,
  Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea.
  
  By this they steer, and favour'd by the tide,
  Secure by night in Zancle's harbour ride.
  
  Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore,
  And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar:
  This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown'd;
  And rav'nous dogs the womb of that surround,
  In face a virgin; and (if ought be true
  By bards recorded) once a virgin too.
  
  A train of youths in vain desir'd her bed;
  By sea-nymphs lov'd, to nymphs of seas she fled;
  The maid to these, with female pride, display'd
  Their baffled courtship, and their love betray'd.
  
  When Galatea thus bespoke the fair
  (But first she sigh'd), while Scylla comb'd her
  hair:
  You, lovely maid, a gen'rous race pursues,
  Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse;
  To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous train
  Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main,
  My native seas could scarce a refuge prove,
  To shun the fury of the Cyclops' love,
  Tears choak'd her utt'rance here; the pity'ng
  maid
  With marble fingers wip'd them off, and said:
  My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know,
  (For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow.
  
  The maid's intreaties o'er the nymph prevail,
  Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale.
  
  The Story of      Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn,
  Acis,       From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born,
  Polyphemus     Was both his parents' pleasure; but, to me
  and Galatea    Was all that love could make a lover be.
  
  The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join:
  I was his only joy, and he was mine.
  
  Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen;
  And doubtful down began to shade his chin:
  When Polyphemus first disturb'd our joy;
  And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the boy.
  
  Ask not which passion in my soul was high'r,
  My last aversion, or my first desire:
  Nor this the greater was, nor that the less;
  Both were alike, for both were in excess.
  
  Thee, Venus, thee both Heav'n, and Earth obey;
  Immense thy pow'r, and boundless is thy sway.
  
  The Cyclops, who defy'd th' aetherial throne,
  And thought no thunder louder than his own,
  The terror of the woods, and wilder far
  Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are,
  Th' inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts
  On mangl'd members of his butcher'd guests,
  Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire,
  And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire.
  
  Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care,
  Assum'd the softness of a lover's air;
  And comb'd, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair.
  
  Now with a crooked scythe his beard he sleeks;
  And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks:
  Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try
  His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye.
  
  His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost;
  And ships securely sail along the coast.
  
  The prophet Telemus (arriv'd by chance
  Where Aetna's summets to the seas advance,
  Who mark'd the tracts of every bird that flew,
  And sure presages from their flying drew)
  Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses' hand
  In his broad eye shou'd thrust a flaming brand.
  
  The giant, with a scornful grin, reply'd,
  Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy'd;
  Already love his flaming brand has tost;
  Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost,
  Thus, warn'd in vain, with stalking pace he strode,
  And stamp'd the margin of the briny flood
  With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen
  The cool retirement of his gloomy den.
  
  A promontory, sharp'ning by degrees,
  Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas:
  On either side, below, the water flows;
  This airy walk the giant lover chose.
  
  Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled,
  Their shepherd follow'd, and securely fed.
  
  A pine so burly, and of length so vast,
  That sailing ships requir'd it for a mast,
  He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide:
  But laid it by, his whistle while he try'd.
  
  A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth,
  Scarce made a pipe, proportion'd to his mouth:
  Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around,
  And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound.
  
  I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow,
  Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below;
  On Acis' bosom I my head reclin'd:
  And still preserve the poem in my mind.
  
  Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far
  Than falling snows, and rising lillies are;
  More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright:
  Erect as alders, and of equal height:
  More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin,
  Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen,
  Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade;
  Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade:
  More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains;
  And softer to the touch, than down of swans;
  Or curds new turn'd; and sweeter to the taste
  Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste:
  More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray
  Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they.
  
  Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke
  Than bullocks, unreclaim'd, to bear the yoke,
  And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak:
  Like sliding streams, impossible to hold;
  Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold.
  
  More warping, than the willow, to decline
  My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine;
  Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain:
  Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain.
  
  More violent, than is the rising flood;
  And the prais'd peacock is not half so proud.
  
  Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are,
  And more outragious, than a mother-bear:
  Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make;
  And more revengeful, than a trodden snake.
  
  In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind,
  Or driven tempests, or the driving wind.
  
  All other faults, with patience I can bear;
  But swiftness is the vice I only fear.
  
  Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun
  My love, but to my wish'd embraces run:
  Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my stay;
  And much repent of your unwise delay.
  
  My palace, in the living rock, is made
  By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing shade:
  Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade.
  
  My garden fill'd with fruits you may behold,
  And grapes in clusters, imitating gold;
  Some blushing bunches of a purple hue:
  And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you.
  
  Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand,
  Proud to be gather'd by so white a hand.
  
  Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide;
  And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side:
  Not those of common kinds; but such alone,
  As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown:
  Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food,
  Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood;
  The laden boughs for you alone shall bear;
  And yours shall be the product of the year.
  
  The flocks you see, are all my own; beside
  The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide;
  And those that folded in the caves abide.
  
  Ask not the numbers of my growing store;
  Who knows how many, knows he has no more.
  
  Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me,
  But judge your self, and pass your own decree:
  Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight
  Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight;
  In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye;
  Apart from kids, that call with human cry.
  
  New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv'd
  For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv'd.
  
  Nor are these household dainties all my store:
  The fields, and forests will afford us more;
  The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar.
  
  All sorts of ven'son; and of birds the best;
  A pair of turtles taken from the nest.
  
  I walk'd the mountains, and two cubs I found
  (Whose dam had left 'em on the naked ground),
  So like, that no distinction could be seen:
  So pretty, they were presents for a queen;
  And so they shall; I took them both away;
  And keep, to be companions of your play.
  
  Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above
  The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love.
  
  Come, Galatea, come, and view my face;
  I late beheld it, in the watry glass;
  And found it lovelier, than I fear'd it was.
  
  Survey my towring stature, and my size:
  Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies,
  Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread:
  My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head)
  Hang o'er my manly face; and dangling down,
  As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown.
  
  Nor think, because my limbs and body bear
  A thick-set underwood of bristling hair,
  My shape deform'd; what fouler sight can be,
  Than the bald branches of a leafless tree?
  
  Foul is the steed without a flowing mane:
  And birds, without their feathers, and their train.
  
  Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace
  From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face.
  
  My forehead with a single eye is fill'd,
  Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield.
  
  The glorious lamp of Heav'n, the radiant sun,
  Is Nature's eye; and she's content with one.
  
  Add, that my father sways your seas, and I,
  Like you, am of the watry family.
  
  I make you his, in making you my own;
  You I adore; and kneel to you alone:
  Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise,
  And only fear the lightning of your eyes.
  
  Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou'd bear to be
  Disdain'd, if others were disdain'd with me.
  
  But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer
  The love of Acis (Heav'ns!) I cannot bear.
  
  But let the stripling please himself; nay more,
  Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor;
  The boy shall find, if e'er we cope in fight,
  These giant limbs, endu'd with giant might.
  
  His living bowels from his belly torn,
  And scatter'd limbs shall on the flood be born:
  Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find,
  That way for thee, and Acis to be join'd.
  
  For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain
  Augments at once my passion, and my pain.
  
  Translated Aetna flames within my heart,
  And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart.
  
  Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode
  With furious paces to the neighb'ring wood:
  Restless his feet, distracted was his walk;
  Mad were his motions, and confus'd his talk.
  
  Mad, as the vanquish'd bull, when forc'd to yield
  His lovely mistress, and forsake the field.
  
  Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance,
  His looks directing, with a sudden glance,
  Acis and I were to his sight betray'd;
  Where, nought suspecting, we securely play'd.
  
  From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast,
  I see, I see; but this shall be your last:
  A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound:
  And all the Cyclops labour'd in the sound.
  
  Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled,
  And in the neighbouring ocean plung'd my head.
  
  Poor Acis turn'd his back, and Help, he cry'd,
  Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods,
  And take me dying to your deep abodes.
  
  The Cyclops follow'd; but he sent before
  A rib, which from the living rock he tore:
  Though but an angle reach'd him of the stone,
  The mighty fragment was enough alone,
  To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save,
  But what the Fates allow'd to give, I gave:
  That Acis to his lineage should return;
  And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn.
  
  Straight issu'd from the stone a stream of blood;
  Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood,
  Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear'd:
  The torrent too, in little space, was clear'd.
  
  The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink
  New reeds arose, on the new river's brink.
  
  The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos'd
  A sound like water in its course oppos'd,
  When (wond'rous to behold), full in the flood,
  Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood.
  
  Horns from his temples rise; and either horn
  Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn.
  
  Were not his stature taller than before,
  His bulk augmented, and his beauty more,
  His colour blue; for Acis he might pass:
  And Acis chang'd into a stream he was,
  But mine no more; he rowls along the plains
  With rapid motion, and his name retains.
  
  The Story of      Here ceas'd the nymph; the fair assembly broke,
  Glaucus and    The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook:
  Scylla       While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main,
  Swift to the safer shore returns again.
  
  There o'er the sandy margin, unarray'd,
  With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid;
  Or in some winding creek's secure retreat
  She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday's
  heat.
  
  Her Glaucus saw, as o'er the deep he rode,
  New to the seas, and late receiv'd a God.
  
  He saw, and languish'd for the virgin's love;
  With many an artful blandishment he strove
  Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove.
  
  The more he sues, the more she wings her flight,
  And nimbly gains a neighb'ring mountain's height.
  
  Steep shelving to the margin of the flood,
  A neighb'ring mountain bare, and woodless stood;
  Here, by the place secur'd, her steps she stay'd,
  And, trembling still, her lover's form survey'd.
  
  His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall,
  And dropping locks that o'er his shoulders fall;
  She sees his face divine, and manly brow,
  End in a fish's wreathy tail below:
  She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind,
  Whether he comes of God, or monster kind.
  
  This Glaucus soon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear
  (His hand supporting on a rock lay near),
  Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needless fear.
  
  Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main,
  But equal with the watry Gods I reign;
  Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell,
  Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell.
  
  My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race,
  And I my self but late a mortal was:
  Ev'n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy'd;
  The seas my hours, and all my cares employ'd,
  In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew;
  Now skilfully the slender line I threw,
  And silent sat the moving float to view.
  
  Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead,
  With herbage half, and half with water spread:
  There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray,
  Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play;
  There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull,
  Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull,
  Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place,
  To crop the flow'rs, or cut the bushy grass:
  Thither, sure first of living race came I,
  And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry.
  
  My scaly prize, in order all display'd,
  By number on the greensward there I lay'd,
  My captives, whom or in my nets I took,
  Or hung unwary on my wily hook.
  
  Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye?
  
  I saw 'em bite the grass, as I sate by;
  Then sudden darting o'er the verdant plain,
  They spread their finns, as in their native main:
  I paus'd, with wonder struck, while all my prey
  Left their new master, and regain'd the sea.
  
  Amaz'd, within my secret self I sought,
  What God, what herb the miracle had wrought:
  But sure no herbs have pow'r like this, I cry'd;
  And strait I pluck'd some neighb'ring herbs, and
  try'd.
  
  Scarce had I bit, and prov'd the wond'rous taste,
  When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast;
  I felt my heart grow fond of something strange,
  And my whole Nature lab'ring with a change.
  
  Restless I grew, and ev'ry place forsook,
  And still upon the seas I bent my look.
  
  Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said;
  And plung'd amidst the waves my sinking head.
  
  The gentle Pow'rs, who that low empire keep,
  Receiv'd me as a brother of the deep;
  To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray
  To purge my mortal earthy parts away.
  
  The watry parents to their suit agreed,
  And thrice nine times a secret charm they read,
  Then with lustrations purify my limbs,
  And bid me bathe beneath a hundred streams:
  A hundred streams from various fountains run,
  And on my head at once come rushing down.
  
  Thus far each passage I remember well,
  And faithfully thus far the tale I tell;
  But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell.
  
  Again at length my thought reviving came,
  When I no longer found my self the same;
  Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow,
  And these large honours on my spreading brow;
  My long-descending locks the billows sweep,
  And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep;
  My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue,
  And ev'ry part divinely chang'd, I view.
  
  But what avail these useless honours now?
  
  What joys can immortality bestow?
  
  What, tho' our Nereids all my form approve?
  
  What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love?
  
  Thus far the God; and more he wou'd have said;
  When from his presence flew the ruthless maid.
  
  Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort,
  He seeks Titanian Circe's horrid court.
  
  The End of the Thirteenth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphoses: Book The Twelfth Read Poem Log in to favourite

  PRIAM, to whom the story was unknown,
  As dead, deplor'd his metamorphos'd son:
  A cenotaph his name, and title kept,
  And Hector round the tomb, with all his brothers,
  wept.
  
  This pious office Paris did not share;
  Absent alone; and author of the war,
  Which, for the Spartan queen, the Grecians drew
  T' avenge the rape; and Asia to subdue.
  
  The          A thousand ships were mann'd, to sail the sea:
  Trojan War     Nor had their just resentments found delay,
  Had not the winds, and waves oppos'd their way.
  
  At Aulis, with united pow'rs they meet,
  But there, cross-winds or calms detain'd the fleet.
  
  Now, while they raise an altar on the shore,
  And Jove with solemn sacrifice adore;
  A boding sign the priests and people see:
  A snake of size immense ascends a tree,
  And, in the leafie summit, spy'd a nest,
  Which o'er her callow young, a sparrow press'd.
  
  Eight were the birds unfledg'd; their mother flew,
  And hover'd round her care; but still in view:
  'Till the fierce reptile first devour'd the brood,
  Then seiz'd the flutt'ring dam, and drunk her
  blood.
  
  This dire ostent, the fearful people view;
  Calchas alone, by Phoebus taught, foreknew
  What Heav'n decreed; and with a smiling glance,
  Thus gratulates to Greece her happy chance:
  O Argives, we shall conquer: Troy is ours,
  But long delays shall first afflict our pow'rs:
  Nine years of labour, the nine birds portend;
  The tenth shall in the town's destruction end.
  
  The serpent, who his maw obscene had fill'd,
  The branches in his curl'd embraces held:
  But, as in spires he stood, he turn'd to stone:
  The stony snake retain'd the figure still his own.
  
  Yet, not for this, the wind-bound navy weigh'd;
  Slack were their sails; and Neptune disobey'd.
  
  Some thought him loth the town should be destroy'd,
  Whose building had his hands divine employ'd:
  Not so the seer; who knew, and known foreshow'd,
  The virgin Phoebe, with a virgin's blood
  Must first be reconcil'd: the common cause
  Prevail'd; and pity yielding to the laws,
  Fair Iphigenia the devoted maid
  Was, by the weeping priests, in linnen-robes
  array'd;
  All mourn her fate; but no relief appear'd;
  The royal victim bound, the knife already rear'd:
  When that offended Pow'r, who caus'd their woe,
  Relenting ceas'd her wrath; and stop'd the coming
  blow.
  
  A mist before the ministers she cast,
  And, in the virgin's room, a hind she plac'd.
  
  Th' oblation slain, and Phoebe, reconcil'd,
  The storm was hush'd, and dimpled ocean smil'd:
  A favourable gale arose from shore,
  Which to the port desir'd, the Graecian gallies
  bore.
  
  The House of      Full in the midst of this created space,
  Fame        Betwixt Heav'n, Earth, and skies, there stands a
  place,
  Confining on all three, with triple bound;
  Whence all things, tho' remote, are view'd around;
  And thither bring their undulating sound.
  
  The palace of loud Fame, her seat of pow'r,
  Plac'd on the summet of a lofty tow'r;
  A thousand winding entries long and wide,
  Receive of fresh reports a flowing tide.
  
  A thousand crannies in the walls are made;
  Nor gate, nor bars exclude the busie trade.
  
  'Tis built of brass, the better to diffuse
  The spreading sounds, and multiply the news:
  Where eccho's in repeated eccho's play:
  A mart for ever full, and open night and day.
  
  Nor silence is within, nor voice express,
  But a deaf noise of sounds, that never cease.
  
  Confus'd and chiding, like the hollow roar
  Of tides, receding from th' insulted shore,
  Or like the broken thunder heard from far,
  When Jove at distance drives the rouling war.
  
  The courts are fill'd with a tumultuous din
  Of crouds, or issuing forth, or entring in:
  A thorough-fare of news: where some devise
  Things never heard, some mingle truth with lies;
  The troubled air with empty sounds they beat,
  Intent to hear, and eager to repeat.
  
  Error sits brooding there, with added train
  Of vain credulity, and joys as vain:
  Suspicion, with sedition join'd, are near,
  And rumours rais'd, and murmurs mix'd, and panique
  fear.
  
  Fame sits aloft, and sees the subject ground,
  And seas about, and skies above; enquiring all
  around.
  
  The Goddess gives th' alarm; and soon is known
  The Grecian fleet descending on the town.
  
  Fix'd on defence, the Trojans are not slow
  To guard their shore, from an expected foe.
  
  They meet in fight: by Hector's fatal hand
  Protesilaus falls, and bites the strand:
  Which with expence of blood the Grecians won;
  And prov'd the strength unknown of Priam's son.
  
  And to their cost the Trojan leaders felt
  The Grecian heroes; and what deaths they dealt.
  
  The Story of      From these first onsets, the Sigaean shore
  Cygnus       Was strew'd with carcasses, and stain'd with gore:
  Neptunian Cygnus troops of Greeks had slain;
  Achilles in his carr had scour'd the plain,
  And clear'd the Trojan ranks: where-e'er he fought,
  Cygnus, or Hector, through the fields he sought:
  Cygnus he found; on him his force essay'd:
  For Hector was to the tenth year delay'd.
  
  His white-main'd steeds, that bow'd beneath the
  yoke,
  He chear'd to courage, with a gentle stroke;
  Then urg'd his fiery chariot on the foe;
  And rising shook his lance; in act to throw.
  
  But first he cry'd, O youth, be proud to bear
  Thy death, ennobled by Pelides' spear.
  
  The lance pursu'd the voice without delay,
  Nor did the whizzing weapon miss the way;
  But pierc'd his cuirass, with such fury sent,
  And sign'd his bosom with a purple dint.
  
  At this the seed of Neptune: Goddess-born,
  For ornament, not use, these arms are worn;
  This helm, and heavy buckler, I can spare;
  As only decorations of the war:
  So Mars is arm'd for glory, not for need.
  
  'Tis somewhat more from Neptune to proceed,
  Than from a daughter of the sea to spring:
  Thy sire is mortal; mine is ocean's king.
  
  Secure of death, I shou'd contemn thy dart,
  Tho' naked; and impassible depart:
  He said, and threw: the trembling weapon pass'd
  Through nine bull-hides, each under other plac'd,
  On his broad shield; and stuck within the last.
  
  Achilles wrench'd it out; and sent again
  The hostile gift: the hostile gift was vain.
  
  He try'd a third, a tough well-chosen spear;
  Th' inviolable body stood sincere,
  Though Cygnus then did no defence provide,
  But scornful offer'd his unshielded side.
  
  Not otherwise th' impatient hero far'd,
  Than as a bull incompass'd with a guard,
  Amid the Circus roars, provok'd from far
  By sight of scarlet, and a sanguine war:
  They quit their ground, his bended horns elude;
  In vain pursuing, and in vain pursu'd:
  Before to farther fight he wou'd advance,
  He stood considering, and survey'd his lance.
  
  Doubts if he wielded not a wooden spear
  Without a point: he look'd, the point was there.
  
  This is my hand, and this my lance, he said;
  By which so many thousand foes are dead,
  O whither is their usual virtue fled!
  I had it once; and the Lyrnessian wall,
  And Tenedos, confess'd it in their fall.
  
  Thy streams, Caicus, rowl'd a crimson-flood;
  And Thebes ran red with her own natives' blood.
  
  Twice Telephus employ'd their piercing steel,
  To wound him first, and afterward to heal.
  
  The vigour of this arm was never vain:
  And that my wonted prowess I retain,
  Witness these heaps of slaughter on the plain.
  
  He said; and, doubtful of his former deeds,
  To some new tryal of his force proceeds.
  
  He chose Menoetes from among the rest;
  At him he launch'd his spear, and pierc'd his
  breast:
  On the hard earth the Lycian knock'd his head,
  And lay supine; and forth the spirit fled.
  
  Then thus the hero: Neither can I blame
  The hand, or jav'lin; both are still the same.
  
  The same I will employ against this foe,
  And wish but with the same success to throw.
  
  So spoke the chief; and while he spoke he threw;
  The weapon with unerring fury flew,
  At his left shoulder aim'd: nor entrance found;
  But back, as from a rock, with swift rebound
  Harmless return'd: a bloody mark appear'd,
  Which with false joy the flatter'd hero chear'd.
  
  Wound there was none; the blood that was in view,
  The lance before from slain Menoetes drew.
  
  Headlong he leaps from off his lofty car,
  And in close fight on foot renews the war.
  
  Raging with high disdain, repeats his blows;
  Nor shield, nor armour can their force oppose;
  Huge cantlets of his buckler strew the ground,
  And no defence in his bor'd arms is found,
  But on his flesh, no wound or blood is seen;
  The sword it self is blunted on the skin.
  
  This vain attempt the chief no longer bears;
  But round his hollow temples and his ears
  His buckler beats: the son of Neptune, stunn'd
  With these repeated buffets, quits his ground;
  A sickly sweat succeeds, and shades of night;
  Inverted Nature swims before his sight:
  Th' insulting victor presses on the more,
  And treads the steps the vanquish'd trod before,
  Nor rest, nor respite gives.
  
  A stone there lay
  Behind his trembling foe, and stopp'd his way:
  Achilles took th' advantage which he found,
  O'er-turn'd, and push'd him backward on the ground,
  His buckler held him under, while he press'd,
  With both his knees, above his panting breast.
  
  Unlac'd his helm: about his chin the twist
  He ty'd; and soon the strangled soul dismiss'd.
  
  With eager haste he went to strip the dead:
  The vanish'd body from his arms was fled.
  
  His sea-God sire, t' immortalize his frame,
  Had turn'd it to a bird that bears his name.
  
  A truce succeeds the labours of this day,
  And arms suspended with a long delay.
  
  While Trojan walls are kept with watch and ward;
  The Greeks before their trenches mount the guard;
  The feast approach'd; when to the blue-ey'd maid
  His vows for Cygnus slain the victor paid,
  And a white heyfer on her altar laid.
  
  The reeking entrails on the fire they threw,
  And to the Gods the grateful odour flew.
  
  Heav'n had its part in sacrifice: the rest
  Was broil'd, and roasted for the future feast.
  
  The chief-invited guests were set around!
  And hunger first asswag'd, the bowls were crown'd,
  Which in deep draughts their cares, and labours
  drown'd.
  
  The mellow harp did not their ears employ:
  And mute was all the warlike symphony:
  Discourse, the food of souls, was their delight,
  And pleasing chat prolong'd the summer's night.
  
  The subject, deeds of arms; and valour shown,
  Or on the Trojan side, or on their own.
  
  Of dangers undertaken, fame atchiev'd,
  They talk'd by turns; the talk by turns reliev'd.
  
  What things but these could fierce Achilles tell,
  Or what cou'd fierce Achilles hear so well?
  
  The last great act perform'd, of Cygnus slain,
  Did most the martial audience entertain:
  Wondring to find a body free by Fate
  From steel; and which cou'd ev'n that steel rebate:
  Amaz'd, their admiration they renew;
  And scarce Pelides cou'd believe it true.
  
  The Story of      Then Nestor thus: what once this age has known,
  Caeneus      In fated Cygnus, and in him alone,
  These eyes have seen in Caeneus long before;
  Whose body not a thousand swords cou'd bore.
  
  Caeneus, in courage, and in strength, excell'd;
  And still his Othrys with his fame is fill'd:
  But what did most his martial deeds adorn
  (Though since he chang'd his sex) a woman born.
  
  A novelty so strange, and full of Fate,
  His list'ning audience ask'd him to relate.
  
  Achilles thus commends their common sute:
  O father, first for prudence in repute,
  Tell, with that eloquence, so much thy own,
  What thou hast heard, or what of Caeneus known:
  What was he, whence his change of sex begun,
  What trophies, join'd in wars with thee, he won?
  
  Who conquer'd him, and in what fatal strife
  The youth, without a wound, cou'd lose his life?
  
  Neleides then: Though tardy age, and time,
  Have shrunk my sinews, and decay'd my prime;
  Though much I have forgotten of my store,
  Yet not exhausted, I remember more.
  
  Of all that arms atchiev'd, or peace design'd,
  That action still is fresher in my mind,
  Than ought beside.
  
  If reverend age can give
  To faith a sanction, in my third I live.
  
  'Twas in my second cent'ry, I survey'd
  Young Caenis, then a fair Thessalian maid:
  Caenis the bright, was born to high command;
  A princess, and a native of thy land,
  Divine Achilles; every tongue proclaim'd
  Her beauty, and her eyes all hearts inflam'd.
  
  Peleus, thy sire, perhaps had sought her bed,
  Among the rest; but he had either led
  Thy mother then; or was by promise ty'd;
  But she to him, and all, alike her love deny'd.
  
  It was her fortune once to take her way
  Along the sandy margin of the sea:
  The Pow'r of ocean view'd her as she pass'd,
  And, lov'd as soon as seen, by force embrac'd.
  
  So Fame reports.
  
  Her virgin-treasure seiz'd,
  And his new joys, the ravisher so pleas'd,
  That thus, transported, to the nymph he cry'd;
  Ask what thou wilt, no pray'r shall be deny'd.
  
  This also Fame relates: the haughty fair,
  Who not the rape ev'n of a God cou'd bear,
  This answer, proud, return'd: To mighty wrongs
  A mighty recompence, of right, belongs.
  
  Give me no more to suffer such a shame;
  But change the woman, for a better name;
  One gift for all: she said; and while she spoke,
  A stern, majestick, manly tone she took.
  
  A man she was: and as the Godhead swore,
  To Caeneus turn'd, who Caenis was before.
  
  To this the lover adds, without request,
  No force of steel shou'd violate his breast.
  
  Glad of the gift, the new-made warrior goes;
  And arms among the Greeks, and longs for equal
  foes.
  
  The Skirmish      Now brave Perithous, bold Ixion's son,
  between the    The love of fair Hippodame had won.
  
  Centaurs and    The cloud-begotten race, half men, half beast,
  Lapithites     Invited, came to grace the nuptial feast:
  In a cool cave's recess the treat was made,
  Whose entrance, trees with spreading boughs
  o'er-shade
  They sate: and summon'd by the bridegroom, came,
  To mix with those, the Lapythaean name:
  Nor wanted I: the roofs with joy resound:
  And Hymen, Io Hymen, rung around.
  
  Rais'd altars shone with holy fires; the bride,
  Lovely her self (and lovely by her side
  A bevy of bright nymphs, with sober grace),
  Came glitt'ring like a star, and took her place.
  
  Her heav'nly form beheld, all wish'd her joy;
  And little wanted; but in vain, their wishes all
  employ.
  
  For one, most brutal, of the brutal brood,
  Or whether wine, or beauty fir'd his blood,
  Or both at once, beheld with lustful eyes
  The bride; at once resolv'd to make his prize.
  
  Down went the board; and fastning on her hair,
  He seiz'd with sudden force the frighted fair.
  
  'Twas Eurytus began: his bestial kind
  His crime pursu'd; and each as pleas'd his mind,
  Or her, whom chance presented, took: the feast
  An image of a taken town express'd.
  
  The cave resounds with female shrieks; we rise,
  Mad with revenge to make a swift reprise:
  And Theseus first, What phrenzy has possess'd,
  O Eurytus, he cry'd, thy brutal breast,
  To wrong Perithous, and not him alone,
  But while I live, two friends conjoyn'd in one?
  
  To justifie his threat, he thrusts aside
  The crowd of centaurs; and redeems the bride:
  The monster nought reply'd: for words were vain,
  And deeds cou'd only deeds unjust maintain;
  But answers with his hand, and forward press'd,
  With blows redoubled, on his face, and breast.
  
  An ample goblet stood, of antick mold,
  And rough with figures of the rising gold;
  The hero snatch'd it up, and toss'd in air
  Full at the front of the foul ravisher.
  
  He falls; and falling vomits forth a flood
  Of wine, and foam, and brains, and mingled blood.
  
  Half roaring, and half neighing through the hall,
  Arms, arms, the double-form'd with fury call;
  To wreak their brother's death: a medley-flight
  Of bowls, and jars, at first supply the fight,
  Once instruments of feasts; but now of Fate;
  Wine animates their rage, and arms their hate.
  
  Bold Amycus, from the robb'd vestry brings
  The chalices of Heav'n; and holy things
  Of precious weight: a sconce that hung on high,
  With tapers fill'd, to light the sacristy,
  Torn from the cord, with his unhallow'd hand
  He threw amid the Lapythaean band.
  
  On Celadon the ruin fell; and left
  His face of feature, and of form bereft:
  So, when some brawny sacrificer knocks,
  Before an altar led, an offer'd ox,
  His eyes-balls rooted out, are thrown to ground;
  His nose, dismantled, in his mouth is found;
  His jaws, cheeks, front, one undistinguish'd wound.
  
  This, Belates, th' avenger, cou'd not brook;
  But, by the foot, a maple board he took;
  And hurl'd at Amycus; his chin it bent
  Against his chest, and down the centaur sent:
  Whom sputtring bloody teeth, the second blow
  Of his drawn sword, dispatch'd to shades below.
  
  Grineus was near; and cast a furious look
  On the side-altar, cens'd with sacred smoke,
  And bright with flaming fires; The Gods, he cry'd,
  Have with their holy trade our hands supply'd:
  Why use we not their gifts?
  
  Then from the floor
  An altar stone he heav'd, with all the load it
  bore:
  Altar, and altar's freight together slew,
  Where thickest throng'd the Lapythaean crew:
  And, at once, Broteas and Oryus flew.
  
  Oryus' mother, Mycale, was known
  Down from her sphere to draw the lab'ring moon.
  
  Exadius cry'd, Unpunish'd shall not go
  This fact, if arms are found against the foe.
  
  He look'd about, where on a pine were spread
  The votive horns of a stag's branching head:
  At Grineus these he throws; so just they fly,
  That the sharp antlers stuck in either eye:
  Breathless, and blind he fell; with blood
  besmear'd;
  His eye-balls beaten out, hung dangling on his
  beard.
  
  Fierce Rhoetus, from the hearth a burning brand
  Selects, and whirling waves; 'till, from his hand
  The fire took flame; then dash'd it from the right,
  On fair Charaxus' temples, near the sight:
  The whistling pest came on, and pierc'd the bone,
  And caught the yellow hair, that shrivel'd while it
  shone.
  
  Caught, like dry stubble fir'd; or like seerwood;
  Yet from the wound ensu'd no purple flood;
  But look'd a bubbling mass of frying blood.
  
  His blazing locks sent forth a crackling sound;
  And hiss'd, like red hot ir'n within the smithy
  drown'd.
  
  The wounded warrior shook his flaming hair,
  Then (what a team of horse could hardly rear)
  He heaves the threshold stone, but could not throw;
  The weight itself forbad the threaten'd blow;
  Which dropping from his lifted arms, came down
  Full on Cometes' head; and crush'd his crown.
  
  Nor Rhoetus then retain'd his joy; but said,
  So by their fellows may our foes be sped;
  Then, with redoubled strokes he plies his head:
  The burning lever not deludes his pains:
  But drives the batter'd skull within the brains.
  
  Thus flush'd, the conqueror, with force renew'd,
  Evagrus, Dryas, Corythus, pursu'd:
  First, Corythus, with downy cheeks, he slew;
  Whose fall, when fierce Evagrus had in view,
  He cry'd, What palm is from a beardless prey?
  
  Rhoetus prevents what more he had to say;
  And drove within his mouth the fi'ry death,
  Which enter'd hissing in, and choak'd his breath.
  
  At Dryas next he flew: but weary chance,
  No longer wou'd the same success advance.
  
  For while he whirl'd in fiery circles round
  The brand, a sharpen'd stake strong Dryas found;
  And in the shoulder's joint inflicts the wound.
  
  The weapon stuck; which, roaring out with pain,
  He drew; nor longer durst the fight maintain,
  But turn'd his back, for fear; and fled amain.
  
  With him fled Orneus, with like dread possess'd,
  Thaumas, and Medon wounded in the breast;
  And Mermeros, in the late race renown'd,
  Now limping ran, and tardy with his wound.
  
  Pholus, and Melaneus from fight withdrew,
  And Abas maim'd, who boars encountring slew:
  And Augur Asbolos, whose art in vain,
  From fight dissuaded the four-footed train,
  Now beat the hoof with Nessus on the plain;
  But to his fellow cry'd, Be safely slow,
  Thy death deferr'd is due to great Alcides' bow.
  
  Mean-time strong Dryas urg'd his chance so well,
  That Lycidas, Areos, Imbreus fell;
  All, one by one, and fighting face to face:
  Crenaeus fled, to fall with more disgrace:
  For, fearful, while he look'd behind, he bore,
  Betwixt his nose, and front, the blow before.
  
  Amid the noise, and tumult of the fray,
  Snoring, and drunk with wine, Aphidas lay.
  
  Ev'n then the bowl within his hand he kept,
  And on a bear's rough hide securely slept.
  
  Him Phorbas with his flying dart transfix'd;
  Take thy next draught, with Stygian waters mix'd,
  And sleep thy fill, th' insulting victor cry'd;
  Surpriz'd with death unfelt, the centaur dy'd;
  The ruddy vomit, as he breath'd his soul
  Repass'd his throat, and fill'd his empty bowl.
  
  I saw Petraeus' arms employ'd around
  A well-grown oak, to root it from the ground.
  
  This way, and that, he wrench'd the fibrous bands;
  The trunk was like a sappling, in his hands,
  And still obey'd the bent: while thus he stood,
  Perithous' dart drove on; and nail'd him to the
  wood;
  Lycus, and Chromis fell, by him oppress'd:
  Helops, and Dictis added to the rest
  A nobler palm: Helops, through either ear
  Transfix'd, receiv'd the penetrating spear.
  
  This Dictis saw; and, seiz'd with sudden fright,
  Leapt headlong from the hill of steepy height;
  And crush'd an ash beneath, that cou'd not bear his
  weight.
  
  The shatter'd tree receives his fall; and strikes,
  Within his full-blown paunch, the sharpen'd spikes.
  
  Strong Aphareus had heav'd a mighty stone,
  The fragment of a rock; and wou'd have thrown;
  But Theseus, with a club of harden'd oak,
  The cubit-bone of the bold centaur broke;
  And left him maim'd; nor seconded the stroke.
  
  Then leapt on tall Bianor's back (who bore
  No mortal burden but his own, before);
  Press'd with his knees his sides; the double man,
  His speed with spurs increas'd, unwilling ran.
  
  One hand the hero fastn'd on his locks;
  His other ply'd him with repeated strokes.
  
  The club rung round his ears, and batter'd brows;
  He falls; and lashing up his heels, his rider
  throws.
  
  The same Herculean arms, Nedymnus wound;
  And lay by him Lycotas on the ground,
  And Hippasus, whose beard his breast invades;
  And Ripheus, haunter of the woodland shades:
  And Thereus, us'd with mountain-bears to strive,
  And from their dens to draw th' indignant beasts
  alive.
  
  Demoleon cou'd not bear this hateful sight,
  Or the long fortune of th' Athenian knight:
  But pull'd with all his force, to disengage
  From Earth a pine, the product of an age:
  The root stuck fast: the broken trunk he sent
  At Theseus; Theseus frustrates his intent,
  And leaps aside; by Pallas warn'd, the blow
  To shun (for so he said; and we believ'd it so).
  
  Yet not in vain th' enormous weight was cast;
  Which Crantor's body sunder'd at the waist:
  Thy father's 'squire, Achilles, and his care;
  Whom conquer'd in the Polopeian war,
  Their king, his present ruin to prevent,
  A pledge of peace implor'd, to Peleus sent.
  
  Thy sire, with grieving eyes, beheld his Fate;
  And cry'd, Not long, lov'd Crantor, shalt thou wait
  Thy vow'd revenge.
  
  At once he said, and threw
  His ashen-spear; which quiver'd, as it flew;
  With all his force, and all his soul apply'd;
  The sharp point enter'd in the centaur's side:
  Both hands, to wrench it out, the monster join'd;
  And wrench'd it out; but left the steel behind;
  Stuck in his lungs it stood: inrag'd he rears
  His hoofs, and down to ground thy father bears.
  
  Thus trampled under foot, his shield defends
  His head; his other hand the lance portends.
  
  Ev'n while he lay extended on the dust,
  He sped the centaur, with one single thrust.
  
  Two more his lance before transfix'd from far;
  And two, his sword had slain, in closer war.
  
  To these was added Dorylas, who spread
  A bull's two goring horns around his head.
  
  With these he push'd; in blood already dy'd,
  Him fearless, I approach'd; and thus defy'd:
  Now, monster, now, by proof it shall appear,
  Whether thy horns are sharper, or my spear.
  
  At this, I threw: for want of other ward,
  He lifted up his hand, his front to guard.
  
  His hand it pass'd; and fix'd it to his brow:
  Loud shouts of ours attend the lucky blow.
  
  Him Peleus finish'd, with a second wound,
  Which thro' the navel pierc'd: he reel'd around;
  And dragg'd his dangling bowels on the ground.
  
  Trod what he drag'd; and what he trod, he crush'd:
  And to his mother-Earth, with empty belly, rush'd.
  
  The Story of      Nor cou'd thy form, o Cyllarus, foreflow
  Cyllarus and    Thy Fate (if form to monsters men allow):
  Hylonome      Just bloom'd thy beard: thy beard of golden hue:
  Thy locks, in golden waves, about thy shoulders
  flew.
  
  Sprightly thy look: thy shapes in ev'ry part
  So clean, as might instruct the sculptor's art;
  As far as man extended: where began
  The beast, the beast was equal to the man.
  
  Add but a horse's head and neck; and he,
  O Castor, was a courser worthy thee.
  
  So was his back proportion'd for the seat:
  So rose his brawny chest; so swiftly mov'd his
  feet.
  
  Coal-black his colour, but like jett it shone;
  His legs, and flowing tail were white alone.
  
  Belov'd by many maidens of his kind;
  But fair Hylonome possess'd his mind;
  Hylonome, for features, and for face,
  Excelling all the nymphs of double race:
  Nor less her blandishments, than beauty, move;
  At once both loving, and confessing love.
  
  For him she dress'd: for him, with female care
  She comb'd, and set in curls, her auburn hair.
  
  Of roses, violets, and lillies mix'd,
  And sprigs of flowing rosemary betwixt,
  She form'd the chaplet, that adorn'd her front:
  In waters of the Pegasaean fount,
  And in the streams that from the fountain play,
  She wash'd her face; and bath'd her twice a-day.
  
  The scarf of furs, that hung below her side,
  Was ermin, or the panther's spotted pride;
  Spoils of no common beast: with equal flame
  They lov'd: their silvan pleasures were the same:
  All day they hunted: and when day expir'd,
  Together to some shady cave retir'd:
  Invited to the nuptials, both repair:
  And, side by side, they both engage in war.
  
  Uncertain from what hand, a flying dart
  At Cyllarus was sent; which pierc'd his heart.
  
  The jav'lin drawn from out the mortal wound,
  He faints with stagg'ring steps; and seeks the
  ground:
  The fair within her arms receiv'd his fall,
  And strove his wand'ring spirits to recall:
  And while her hand the streaming blood oppos'd,
  Join'd face to face, his lips with hers she clos'd.
  
  Stifled with kisses, a sweet death he dies;
  She fills the fields with undistinguish'd cries;
  At least her words were in her clamour drown'd;
  For my stunn'd ears receiv'd no vocal sound.
  
  In madness of her grief, she seiz'd the dart
  New-drawn, and reeking from her lover's heart;
  To her bare bosom the sharp point apply'd;
  And wounded fell; and falling by his side,
  Embrac'd him in her arms; and thus embracing dy'd.
  
  Ev'n still methinks, I see Phaeocomes;
  Strange was his habit, and as odd his dress.
  
  Six lions' hides, with thongs together fast,
  His upper part defended to his waist:
  And where man ended, the continued vest,
  Spread on his back, the houss and trappings of a
  beast.
  
  A stump too heavy for a team to draw
  (It seems a fable, tho' the fact I saw);
  He threw at Pholon; the descending blow
  Divides the skull, and cleaves his head in two.
  
  The brains, from nose, and mouth, and either ear,
  Came issuing out, as through a colendar
  The curdled milk; or from the press the whey,
  Driv'n down by weight above, is drain'd away.
  
  But him, while stooping down to spoil the slain,
  Pierc'd through the paunch, I tumbled on the plain.
  
  Then Chthonyus, and Teleboas I slew:
  A fork the former arm'd; a dart his fellow threw.
  
  The jav'lin wounded me (behold the scar,
  Then was my time to seek the Trojan war;
  Then I was Hector's match in open field;
  But he was then unborn; at least a child:
  Now, I am nothing).
  
  I forbear to tell
  By Periphantas how Pyretus fell;
  The centaur by the knight: nor will I stay
  On Amphix, or what deaths he dealt that day:
  What honour, with a pointless lance, he won,
  Stuck in the front of a four-footed man.
  
  What fame young Macareus obtain'd in fight:
  Or dwell on Nessus, now return'd from flight.
  
  How prophet Mopsus not alone divin'd,
  Whose valour equal'd his foreseeing mind.
  
  Caeneus        Already Caeneus, with his conquering hand,
  transform'd to   Had slaughter'd five the boldest of their band.
  
  an Eagle      Pyrachmus, Helymus, Antimachus,
  Bromus the brave, and stronger Stiphelus,
  Their names I number'd, and remember well,
  No trace remaining, by what wounds they fell.
  
  Laitreus, the bulki'st of the double race,
  Whom the spoil'd arms of slain Halesus grace,
  In years retaining still his youthful might,
  Though his black hairs were interspers'd with
  white,
  Betwixt th' imbattled ranks began to prance,
  Proud of his helm, and Macedonian lance;
  And rode the ring around; that either hoast
  Might hear him, while he made this empty boast:
  And from a strumpet shall we suffer shame?
  
  For Caenis still, not Caeneus, is thy name:
  And still the native softness of thy kind
  Prevails; and leaves the woman in thy mind;
  Remember what thou wert; what price was paid
  To change thy sex; to make thee not a maid:
  And but a man in shew; go, card and spin;
  And leave the business of the war to men.
  
  While thus the boaster exercis'd his pride,
  The fatal spear of Caeneus reach'd his side:
  Just in the mixture of the kinds it ran;
  Betwixt the neather beast, and upper man:
  The monster mad with rage, and stung with smart,
  His lance directed at the hero's heart:
  It struck; but bounded from his harden'd breast,
  Like hail from tiles, which the safe house invest.
  
  Nor seem'd the stroke with more effect to come,
  Than a small pebble falling on a drum.
  
  He next his fauchion try'd, in closer fight;
  But the keen fauchion had no pow'r to bite.
  
  He thrust; the blunted point return'd again:
  Since downright blows, he cry'd, and thrusts are
  vain,
  I'll prove his side; in strong embraces held
  He prov'd his side; his side the sword repell'd:
  His hollow belly eccho'd to the stroke,
  Untouch'd his body, as a solid rock;
  Aim'd at his neck at last, the blade in shivers
  broke.
  
  Th' impassive knight stood idle, to deride
  His rage, and offer'd oft his naked side;
  At length, Now monster, in thy turn, he cry'd,
  Try thou the strength of Caeneus: at the word
  He thrust; and in his shoulder plung'd the sword.
  
  Then writh'd his hand; and as he drove it down,
  Deep in his breast, made many wounds in one.
  
  The centaurs saw, inrag'd, th' unhop'd success;
  And rushing on in crowds, together press;
  At him, and him alone, their darts they threw:
  Repuls'd they from his fated body flew.
  
  Amaz'd they stood; 'till Monichus began,
  O shame, a nation conquer'd by a man!
  A woman-man! yet more a man is he,
  Than all our race; and what he was, are we.
  
  Now, what avail our nerves?
  
  th' united force,
  Of two the strongest creatures, man and horse;
  Nor Goddess-born; nor of Ixion's seed
  We seem (a lover built for Juno's bed);
  Master'd by this half man.
  
  Whole mountains throw
  With woods at once, and bury him below.
  
  This only way remains.
  
  Nor need we doubt
  To choak the soul within; though not to force it
  out:
  Heap weights, instead of wounds.
  
  He chanc'd to see
  Where southern storms had rooted up a tree;
  This, rais'd from Earth, against the foe he threw;
  Th' example shewn, his fellow-brutes pursue.
  
  With forest-loads the warrior they invade;
  Othrys, and Pelion soon were void of shade;
  And spreading groves were naked mountains made.
  
  Press'd with the burden, Caeneus pants for breath;
  And on his shoulders bears the wooden death.
  
  To heave th' intolerable weight he tries;
  At length it rose above his mouth and eyes:
  Yet still he heaves; and, strugling with despair,
  Shakes all aside, and gains a gulp of air:
  A short relief, which but prolongs his pain;
  He faints by fits; and then respires again:
  At last, the burden only nods above,
  As when an earthquake stirs th' Idaean grove.
  
  Doubtful his death: he suffocated seem'd,
  To most; but otherwise our Mopsus deem'd,
  Who said he saw a yellow bird arise
  From out the piles, and cleave the liquid skies:
  I saw it too, with golden feathers bright;
  Nor e'er before beheld so strange a sight.
  
  Whom Mopsus viewing, as it soar'd around
  Our troop, and heard the pinions' rattling sound,
  All hail, he cry'd, thy country's grace and love!
  Once first of men below, now first of birds above.
  
  Its author to the story gave belief:
  For us, our courage was increas'd by grief:
  Asham'd to see a single man, pursu'd
  With odds, to sink beneath a multitude,
  We push'd the foe: and forc'd to shameful flight,
  Part fell, and part escap'd by favour of the night.
  
  The Fate of      This tale, by Nestor told, did much displease
  Periclymenos    Tlepolemus, the seed of Hercules:
  For, often he had heard his father say,
  That he himself was present at the fray;
  And more than shar'd the glories of the day.
  
  Old Chronicle, he said, among the rest,
  You might have nam'd Alcides at the least:
  Is he not worth your praise?
  
  The Pylian prince
  Sigh'd ere he spoke; then made this proud defence.
  
  My former woes in long oblivion drown'd,
  I wou'd have lost; but you renew the wound:
  Better to pass him o'er, than to relate
  The cause I have your mighty sire to hate.
  
  His fame has fill'd the world, and reach'd the sky
  (Which, oh, I wish, with truth, I cou'd deny!);
  We praise not Hector; though his name, we know,
  Is great in arms; 'tis hard to praise a foe.
  
  He, your great father, levell'd to the ground
  Messenia's tow'rs: nor better fortune found
  Elis, and Pylos; that a neighb'ring state,
  And this my own: both guiltless of their fate.
  
  To pass the rest, twelve, wanting one, he slew;
  My brethren, who their birth from Neleus drew,
  All youths of early promise, had they liv'd;
  By him they perish'd: I alone surviv'd.
  
  The rest were easie conquest: but the fate
  Of Periclymenos, is wondrous to relate.
  
  To him, our common grandsire of the main
  Had giv'n to change his form, and chang'd, resume
  again.
  
  Vary'd at pleasure, every shape he try'd;
  And in all beasts, Alcides still defy'd:
  Vanquish'd on Earth, at length he soar'd above;
  Chang'd to the bird, that bears the bolt of Jove:
  The new-dissembled eagle, now endu'd
  With beak, and pounces, Hercules pursu'd,
  And cuff'd his manly cheeks, and tore his face;
  Then, safe retir'd, and tour'd in empty space.
  
  Alcides bore not long his flying foe;
  But bending his inevitable bow,
  Reach'd him in air, suspended as he stood;
  And in his pinion fix'd the feather'd wood.
  
  Light was the wound; but in the sinew hung
  The point, and his disabled wing unstrung.
  
  He wheel'd in air, and stretch'd his vans in vain;
  His vans no longer cou'd his flight sustain:
  For while one gather'd wind, one unsupply'd
  Hung drooping down, nor pois'd his other side.
  
  He fell: the shaft that slightly was impress'd,
  Now from his heavy fall with weight increas'd,
  Drove through his neck, aslant, he spurns the
  ground,
  And the soul issues through the weazon's wound.
  
  Now, brave commander of the Rhodian seas,
  What praise is due from me, to Hercules?
  
  Silence is all the vengeance I decree
  For my slain brothers; but 'tis peace with thee.
  
  Thus with a flowing tongue old Nestor spoke:
  Then, to full bowls each other they provoke:
  At length, with weariness, and wine oppress'd,
  They rise from table; and withdraw to rest.
  
  The Death of      The sire of Cygnus, monarch of the main,
  Achilles      Mean-time, laments his son, in battel slain,
  And vows the victor's death; nor vows in vain.
  
  For nine long years the smother'd pain he bore
  (Achilles was not ripe for Fate before):
  Then when he saw the promis'd hour was near,
  He thus bespoke the God, that guides the year:
  Immortal offspring of my brother Jove;
  My brightest nephew, and whom best I love,
  Whose hands were join'd with mine, to raise the
  wall
  Of tott'ring Troy, now nodding to her fall,
  Dost thou not mourn our pow'r employ'd in vain;
  And the defenders of our city slain?
  
  To pass the rest, could noble Hector lie
  Unpity'd, drag'd around his native Troy?
  
  And yet the murd'rer lives: himself by far
  A greater plague, than all the wasteful war:
  He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast
  Our town destroy'd, our common labour lost.
  
  O, could I meet him! But I wish too late:
  To prove my trident is not in his Fate!
  But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy dart,
  And pierce his only penetrable part.
  
  Apollo bows to the superior throne;
  And to his uncle's anger, adds his own.
  
  Then in a cloud involv'd, he takes his flight,
  Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal fight;
  And found out Paris, lurking where he stood,
  And stain'd his arrows with plebeian blood:
  Phoebus to him alone the God confess'd,
  Then to the recreant knight, he thus address'd.
  
  Dost thou not blush, to spend thy shafts in vain
  On a degenerate, and ignoble train?
  
  If fame, or better vengeance be thy care,
  There aim: and, with one arrow, end the war.
  
  He said; and shew'd from far the blazing shield
  And sword, which, but Achilles, none cou'd wield;
  And how he mov'd a God, and mow'd the standing
  field.
  
  The deity himself directs aright
  Th' invenom'd shaft; and wings the fatal flight.
  
  Thus fell the foremost of the Grecian name;
  And he, the base adult'rer, boasts the fame.
  
  A spectacle to glad the Trojan train;
  And please old Priam, after Hector slain.
  
  If by a female hand he had foreseen
  He was to die, his wish had rather been
  The lance, and double ax of the fair warriour
  queen.
  
  And now the terror of the Trojan field,
  The Grecian honour, ornament, and shield,
  High on a pile, th' unconquer'd chief is plac'd,
  The God that arm'd him first, consum'd at last.
  
  Of all the mighty man, the small remains
  A little urn, and scarcely fill'd, contains.
  
  Yet great in Homer, still Achilles lives;
  And equal to himself, himself survives.
  
  His buckler owns its former lord; and brings
  New cause of strife, betwixt contending kings;
  Who worthi'st after him, his sword to wield,
  Or wear his armour, or sustain his shield.
  
  Ev'n Diomede sat mute, with down-cast eyes;
  Conscious of wanted worth to win the prize:
  Nor Menelaus presum'd these arms to claim,
  Nor he the king of men, a greater name.
  
  Two rivals only rose: Laertes' son,
  And the vast bulk of Ajax Telamon:
  The king, who cherish'd each with equal love,
  And from himself all envy wou'd remove,
  Left both to be determin'd by the laws;
  And to the Graecian chiefs transferr'd the cause.
  
  The End of the Twelfth Book.
  
  Translated into English verse under the direction of
  Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
  William Congreve and other eminent hands

• Metamorphosis Viii, 611-724 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Baucis and Philemon
  THUS Achelous ends: his audience hear
  With admiration, and admiring, fear
  The pow'rs of heav'n; except Ixion's son,
  Who laugh'd at all the gods, believ'd in none:
  He shook his impious head, and thus replies,
  "These legends are no more than pious lies:
  You attribute too much to heavenly sway,
  To think they give us forms, and take away.
  
  "
  The rest, of better minds, their sense declar'd
  Against this doctrine, and with horrour heard.
  
  Then Lelex rose, an old experienc'd man,
  And thus with sober gravity began:
  "Heav'n's pow'r is infinite: earth, air, and sea,
  The manufacture mass, the making pow'r obey:
  By proof to clear your doubt; in Phrygian ground
  Two neighb'ring trees, with walls encompass'd round,
  Stand on a mod'rate rise, with wonder shown,
  One a hard oak, a softer linden one:
  I saw the place and them, by Pittheus sent
  To Phrygian realms, my grandsire's government.
  
  Not far from thence is seen a lake, the haunt
  Of coots, and of the fishing cormorant:
  Here Jove with Hermes came; but in disguise
  Of mortal men conceal'd their deities;
  One laid aside his thunder, one his rod;
  And many toilsome steps together trod;
  For harbour at a thousand doors they knock'd,
  Not one of all the thousand but was lock'd.
  
  At last an hospitable house they found,
  A homely shed; the roof, not far from ground,
  Was thatch'd with reeds and straw together bound.
  
  There Baucis and Philemon liv'd, and there
  Had liv'd long married and a happy pair:
  Now old in love, though little was their store,
  Inur'd to want, their poverty they bore,
  Nor aim'd at wealth, professing to be poor.
  
  For master or for servant here to call,
  Was all alike, where only two were all.
  
  Command was none, where equal love was paid,
  Or rather both commanded, both obey'd.
  
  From lofty roofs the Gods repuls'd before,
  Now stooping, enter'd through the little door:
  The man (their hearty welcome first express'd)
  A common settle drew for either guest,
  Inviting each his weary limbs to rest.
  
  But e'er they sat, officious Baucis lays
  Two cushions stuff'd with straw, the seat to raise;
  Coarse, but the best she had; then rakes the load
  Of ashes from the hearth, and spreads abroad
  The living coals, and, lest they should expire,
  With leaves and barks she feeds her infant-fire:
  It smokes; and then with trembling breath she blows,
  Till in a cheerful blaze the flames arose.
  
  With brush-wood and with chips she strengthens these,
  And adds at last the boughs of rotten trees.
  
  The fire thus form'd, she sets the kettle on,
  (Like burnish'd gold the little seether shone)
  Next took the coleworts which her husband got
  From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot;)
  She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best
  She cull'd, and then with handy-care she dress'd.
  
  High o'er the hearth a chine of bacon hung;
  Good old Philemon seiz'd it with a prong,
  And from the sooty rafter drew it down,
  Then cut a slice, but scarce enough for one;
  Yet a large portion of a little store,
  Which for their sakes alone he wish'd were more.
  
  This in the pot he plung'd without delay,
  To tame the flesh, and drain the salt away.
  
  The time between, before the fire they sat,
  And shorten'd the delay by pleasing chat.
  
  A beam there was, on which a beechen pail
  Hung by the handle, on a driven nail:
  This fill'd with water, gently warm'd, they set
  Before their guests; in this they bath'd their feet,
  And after with clean towels dry'd their sweat:
  This done, the host produc'd the genial bed,
  Sallow the feet, the borders, and the sted,
  Which with no costly coverlet they spread;
  But coarse old garments, yet such robes as these
  They laid alone, at feasts, on holydays.
  
  The good old huswife tucking up her gown,
  The table sets; th' invited gods lie down.
  
  The trivet-table of a foot was lame,
  A blot which prudent Baucis overcame,
  Who thrusts beneath the limping leg, a sherd,
  So was the mended board exactly rear'd:
  Then rubb'd it o'er with newly-gather'd mint,
  A wholesome herb, that breath'd a grateful scent.
  
  Pallas began the feast, where first were seen
  The party-colour'd olive, black and green:
  Autumnal cornels next in order serv'd,
  In lees of wine well pickl'd, and preserv'd:
  A garden-salad was the third supply,
  Of endive, radishes, and succory:
  Then curds and cream, the flow'r of country-fare,
  And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care
  Turn'd by a gentle fire, and roasted rear.
  
  All these in earthen ware were serv'd to board;
  And next in place, an earthen pitcher, stor'd
  With liquor of the best the cottage cou'd afford.
  
  This was the table's ornament and pride,
  With figures wrought: like pages at his side
  Stood beechen bowls; and these were shining clean,
  Varnish'd with wax without, and lin'd within.
  
  By this the boiling kettle had prepar'd,
  And to the table sent the smoking lard;
  On which with eager appetite they dine,
  A sav'ry bit, that serv'd to relish wine:
  The wine itself was suiting to the rest,
  Still working in the must, and lately press'd.
  
  The second course succeeds like that before,
  Plums, apples, nuts, and of their wintry store,
  Dry figs, and grapes, and wrinkl'd dates were set
  In canisters, t' enlarge the little treat
  All these a milk-white honey-comb surround,
  Which in the midst the country banquet crown'd:
  But the kind hosts their entertainment grace
  With hearty welcome, and an open face:
  In all they did, you might discern with ease,
  A willing mind, and a desire to please.
  
  Meantime the beechen bowls went round, and still,
  Though often empty'd, were observ'd to fill;
  Fill'd without hands, and of their own accord
  Ran without feet, and danc'd about the board.
  
  Devotion seiz'd the pair, to see the feast
  With wine, and of no common grape, increas'd;
  And up they held their hands, and fell to pray'r,
  Excusing, as they cou'd, their country fare.
  
  One goose they had, ('twas all they cou'd allow)
  A wakeful sent'ry, and on duty now,
  Whom to the gods for sacrifice they vow:
  Her, with malicious zeal, the couple view'd;
  She ran for life, and limping they pursu'd:
  Full well the fowl perceiv'd their bad intent,
  And wou'd not make her masters compliment;
  But persecuted, to the pow'rs she flies,
  And close between the legs of Love she lies.
  
  He with a gracious ear the suppliant heard,
  And sav'd her life; then what he was declar'd,
  And own'd the god.
  
  'The neighbourhood,' said he,
  'Shall justly perish for impiety:
  You stand alone exempted; but obey
  With speed, and follow where we lead the way:
  Leave these accurs'd; and to the mountain's height
  Ascend; nor once look backward in your flight.
  
  '
  They haste, and what their tardy feet deny'd,
  The trusty staff (their better leg) supply'd.
  
  An arrow's flight they wanted to the top,
  And there secure, but spent with travel, stop;
  Then turn their now no more forbidden eyes;
  Lost in a lake the floated level lies:
  A watry desert covers all the plains,
  Their cot alone, as in an isle, remains:
  Wondring with weeping eyes, while they deplore
  Their neighbours' fate, and country now no more,
  Their little shed, scarce large enough for two,
  Seems, from the ground increas'd, in height and bulk to grow.
  
  A stately temple shoots within the skies:
  The crotches of their cot in columns rise:
  The pavement polish'd marble they behold,
  The gates with sculpture grac'd, the spires and tiles of gold.
  
  Then thus the sire of gods, with look serene,
  'Speak thy desire, thou only just of men;
  And thou, O woman, only worthy found
  To be with such a man in marriage bound.
  
  '
  A while they whisper; then, to Jove address'd,
  Philemon thus prefers their joint request:
  'We crave to serve before your sacred shrine,
  And offer at your altars rites divine:
  And since not any action of our life
  Has been polluted with domestic strife,
  We beg one hour of death; that neither she
  With widow's tears may live to bury me,
  Nor weeping I, with wither'd arms may bear
  My breathless Baucis to the sepulcher.
  
  '
  The godheads sign their suit.
  
  They run their race
  In the same tenor all th' appointed space;
  Then, when their hour was come, while they relate
  These past adventures at the temple-gate,
  Old Baucis is by old Philemon seen
  Sprouting with sudden leaves of spritely green:
  Old Baucis look'd where old Philemon stood,
  And saw his lengthen'd arms a sprouting wood:
  New roots their fasten'd feet begin to bind,
  Their bodies stiffen in a rising rind:
  Then e'er the bark above their shoulders grew,
  They give and take at once their last adieu;
  At once, farewell, O faithful spouse, they said;
  At once th' incroaching rinds their closing lips invade.
  
  Ev'n yet, an ancient Tyanaean shows
  A spreading oak, that near a linden grows:
  The neighbourhood confirm the prodigie,
  Grave men, not vain of tongue, or like to lie.
  
  I saw myself the garlands on their boughs,
  And tablets hung for gifts of granted vows;
  And off'ring fresher up, with pious pray'r,
  The good, said I, are God's peculiar care,
  And such as honour heav'n, shall heav'nly honour share.
  
  "

• Morning Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Already over the sea from her old spouse she comes,
  the blonde goddess whose frosty wheels bring day.
  
  Why do you hurry, Aurora?
  
  Hold off, so may the birds
  shed ritual blood each year for Memnon's shade.
  
  Now it's good to lie in my mistress's tender arms;
  if ever, now it's good to feel her near.
  
  Now drowsiness is richest, the morning air is cool,
  and birds sing shrilly from their tender throats.
  
  Why do you hurry, dreaded by men and dreaded by girls?
  
  Draw back your dewy reins with your crimson hand.
  
  The sailor marks the stars more clearly before you rise,
  not raoming aimlessly across the sea;
  the traveller, though weary, arises when you come,
  and the soldier sets his savage hand to arms;
  you're first to see the farmers wield their heavy hoes
  and to call slow oxen under the curving yoke;
  you rob boys of their sleep and give them over to schools,
  where tender hands must bear the savage switch;
  and you send reckless fools to pledge themselves in court,
  where they take ruinous losses through one word;
  the lawyer and the pleader take no delight in you,
  for each must rise and wrangle with new torts;
  and you ensure that women's chores are never done,
  calling the spinner's hands back to her wool.
  
  All this I'd bear; but who would bear that girls must rise
  at dawn, unless himself he has no girl?
  
  How many times I've wished Night would not yield to you,
  the stars not fade and flee before your face!
  How many times I've wished the wind would smash your wheels,
  your steeds would stumble on a cloud and fall!
  Jealous, why do you hurry?
  
  If your son is black,
  it's since his mother's heart is that same color.
  
  How I wish Tithonus could still tell tales of you:
  no goddess would be more disgraced in heaven.
  
  Since he is endless eons old, you rise and flee
  at dawn to the chariot the old man hates,
  but if some Cephalus were lying in your arms,
  you'd cry out, 'O run slowly, steeds of night! '
  Why should this lover pay, if your husband withers with age?
  
  Was I the matchmaker who brought him to you?
  
  Remember how much sleep was given to her loved youth
  by Luna - and she's beautiful as you.
  
  The father of gods himself, to see you all the less,
  joined two nights into one for his desires.
  
  I'd finished my complaint.
  
  You could tell she'd heard: she blushed;
  and yet the day rose at its usual time.

• On fidelity Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I don't ask you to be faithful - you're beautiful, after all -
  but just that I be spared the pain of knowing.
  
  I make no stringent demands that you should really be chaste,
  but only that you try to cover up.
  
  If a girl can claim to be pure, it's the same as being pure:
  it's only admitted vice that makes for scandal.
  
  What madness, to confess by day what's wrapped in night,
  and what you've done in secret, openly tell!
  The hooker, about to bed some Roman off the street
  still locks her door first, keeping out the crowd:
  will you yourself then make your sins notorious,
  accusing and prosecuting your own crime?
  
  Be wise, and learn at least to imitate chaste girls,
  and let me believe you're good, though you are not.
  
  Do what you do, but simply deny you ever did:
  there's nothing wrong with public modesty.
  
  There is a proper place for looseness: fill it up
  with all voluptuousness, and banish shame;
  but when you're done there, then put off all playfulness
  and leave your indiscretions in your bed.
  
  There, don't be ashamed to lay your gown aside
  and press your thigh against a pressing thigh;
  there take and give deep kisses with your crimson lips;
  let love contrive a thousand ways of passion;
  there let delighted words and moans come ceaselessly,
  and make the mattress quiver with playful motion.
  
  But put on with your clothes a face that's all discretion,
  and let Shame disavow your shocking deeds.
  
  Trick everyone, trick me: leave me in ignorance;
  let me enjoy the life of a happy fool.
  
  Why must I see so often notes received - and sent?
  
  Why must I see two imprints on your bed,
  or your hair disarrayed much more than sleep could do?
  
  Why must I notice love bites on your neck?
  
  You all but flaunt your indiscretions in my face.
  
  Think of me, if not of your reputation.
  
  I lose my mind, I die, when you confess you've sinned;
  I break out in cold sweat from hand to foot;
  I love you then, and hate you - in vain, since I must love you;
  I wish then I were dead - and you were too!
  I won't investigate or check whatever you try
  to hide: I will be thankful to be deceived.
  
  But even if I catch you in the very act
  and look on your disgrace with my own eyes,
  deny that I have seen what I have clearly seen,
  and my eyes will agree with what you claim.
  
  You'll win an easy prize from a man who wants to lose,
  only remember to say, 'I didn't do it.
  
  '
  Since you can gain your victory with one short phrase,
  win on account of your judge, if not your case.

• Pygmalion And The Statue Read Poem Log in to favourite

  PYGMALION loathing their lascivious Life,
  Abhorred all Womankind, but most a Wife:
  So single chose to live, and shunned to wed,
  Well pleased to want a Consort of his Bed.
  
  Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,
  In Sculpture exercised his happy Skill;
  And carved in Ivory such a Maid, so fair,
  As Nature could not with his Art compare,
  Were she to work; but in her own Defence,
  Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.
  
  Pleased with his Idol, he commends, admires,
  Adores; and last, the Thing adored, desires.
  
  A very Virgin in her Face was seen,
  And she had moved, a living Maid had been:
  One would have thought she could have stirred; but strove
  With Modesty, and was ashamed to move.
  
  Art hid with Art, so well performed the Cheat,
  It caught the Carver with his own Deceit:
  He knows 'tis Madness, yet he must adore,
  And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
  The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
  Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
  
  Fired with his Thought, at once he strained the Breast,
  And on the Lips a burning Kiss impressed.
  
  'Tis true, the hardened Breast resists the Gripe,
  And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe:
  But when, retiring back, he looked again,
  To think it Ivory, was a thought too mean:
  So would believe she kissed, and courting more,
  Again embraced her naked Body o'er;
  And straining hard the Statue, was afraid
  His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid:
  Explored her, Limb by Limb, and feared to find
  So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind
  With Flatt'ry now he seeks her Mind to move,
  And now with Gifts (the powerful bribe of Love):
  He furnishes her Closet first; and fills
  The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells;
  Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conches he drew,
  And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue:
  And Parrots, imitating Human Tongue,
  And singing-birds in Silver Cages hung;
  And ev'ry fragrant Flower, and odorous Green,
  Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between:
  Rich, fashionable Robes her person Deck:
  Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her neck:
  Her tapered Fingers too With Rings are graced,
  And an embroidered Zone surrounds her slender Waist.
  
  Thus like a Queen arrayed, so richly dressed,
  Beauteous she shewed, but naked shewed the best.
  
  Then, from the Floor, he raised a Royal Bed,
  With Cov'rings of Sydonian Purple spread:
  The Solemn Rites performed, he calls her Bride,
  With Blandishments invites her to his Side,
  And as she were with Vital Sense possessed,
  Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest.
  
  The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day,
  To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay;
  With gilded Horns the milk-white Heifers led,
  Slaughtered before the sacred Altars, bled:
  Pygmalion offering, first approached the Shrine,
  And then with Pray'rs implored the Powers Divine:
  Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want,
  If all we can require, be yours to grant;
  Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said,
  But changed his Words for shame; and only prayed,
  Give me the likeness of my Ivory Maid.
  
  The Golden Goddess, present at the Prayer,
  Well knew he meant th' inanimated Fair,
  And gave the Sign of granting his Desire;
  For thrice in cheerful Flames ascends the Fire.
  
  The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies,
  And, impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes,
  And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies.
  
  He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss,
  And looks and thinks they redden at the Kiss:
  He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays,
  But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays:
  Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
  It seemed, the Breast beneath his Fingers bent;
  He felt again, his Fingers made a Print,
  'Twas Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it rose against the Dint:
  The pleasing Task he fails not to renew;
  Soft, and more soft at every Touch it grew;
  Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce
  The former Mass to Form, and frame for Use
  He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
  And tries his Argument of Sense again,
  Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein.
  
  Convinced, o'erjoyed, his studied Thanks and Praise,
  To her who made the Miracle, he pays:
  Then Lips to Lips he joined; now freed from Fear,
  He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere:
  At this the wakened image oped her Eyes,
  And viewed at once the Light and Lover, with surprise.
  
  The Goddess present at the Match she made,
  So blessed the Bed, such Fruitfulness conveyed,
  That e'er ten Moons had sharpened either Horn,
  To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;
  Paphos his Name, who, grown to manhood, walled
  The City Paphos, from the Founder called.

• Remedy of Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The title of this book when Cupid spied,
  "Treason! a plot against our state," he cried.
  
  Why should you thus your loyal poet wrong,
  Who in your war has serv'd so well and long?
  
  So savage and ill-bred I ne'er can prove,
  Like Diomede, to wound the queen of love.
  
  Others by fits have felt your am'rous flame,
  I still have been, and still your martyr am;
  Rules for your vot'ries I did late impart.
  
  Refining passion, and made love an art.
  
  Nor do I now of that or thee take leave,
  Nor does the muse her former web unweave.
  
  Let him who loves, where love success may find,
  Spread all his sails before the prosp'rous wind;
  But let poor youths who female scorn endure,
  And hopeless burn, repair to me for cure:
  For why should any worthy youth destroy
  Himself, because some worthless nymph is coy?
  
  Love should be nature's friend; let hemp and steel
  Hangmen and heroes use, whose trade's to kill.
  
  Where fatal it would prove, let passion cease;
  Nor love destroy, who should our race increase.
  
  A child you are, and like a child should play;
  And gentle as your years should be your sway.
  
  Keen arrows, and to wound the hardest hearts,
  You are permitted-but no mortal darts.
  
  Let your step-father, Mars, on sword and spear,
  The crimson stains of cruel conquest wear;
  You should your mother's milder laws observe,
  Who ne'er did childless parent's curse deserve;
  Or if you must employ your wanton pow'r,
  Teach youths by night to force their mistress' door:
  How lovers safe and secretly may meet,
  And subtle wives the cautious husband cheat.
  
  Let now th' excluded youth the gate caress,
  A thousand wheedling soothing plaints express;
  Then on th' ill-natur'd timber vent his spite,
  And to some doleful tune weep out the night.
  
  For tears, not blood, love's altar should require:
  Love's torch, design'd to kindle kind desire,
  Must seem profan'd to light a fun'ral fire.
  
  "
  Thus I.
  
  ——The god his purple wings display'd.
  
  And, "Forward, finish your design," he said.
  
  To me, ye injured youths, for help repair,
  Who hopeless languish for some cruel fair;
  I'll now unteach the art I taught before,
  The hand that wounded shall your health restore.
  
  One soil can herbs and pois'nous weeds disclose:
  The nettle oft is neighbour to the rose.
  
  Such was the cure the Arcadian hero found;
  The Pelian spear that wounded, made him sound.
  
  But know, the rules that I to men prescribe,
  In like distress may serve the female tribe:
  And when beyond your sphere my methods go,
  You may, at least, infer what you should do.
  
  When flames beyond their useful bounds aspire,
  'Tis charity to quench the threat'ning fire.
  
  Nine visits to the shore poor Phillis made;
  Had I advis'd, the tenth she should have paid.
  
  Nor had Demophoon, when return'd from sea,
  For his expected bride embraced a tree,
  Nor Dido, from her flaming pile, by night,
  Discover'd her ungrateful Trojan's flight.
  
  Nor had that mother dire revenge pursu'd,
  Who in her offspring's blood her hands imbu'd.
  
  Fair Philomel, preserv'd from Tereus' rape
  Her honour she had kept, and he his shape.
  
  Pasiphae ne'er had felt such wild desire,
  Nor Phoedra suffered by incestuous fire.
  
  Let me the wanton Paris take in hand,
  Helen shall be restor'd, and Troy shall stand.
  
  My wholesome precepts had lewd Scylla read,
  The purple lock had grown on Nisus' head.
  
  Learn, youths, from me, to curb the desp'rate force
  Of love, and steer, by my advice, your course.
  
  By reading me, you first receiv'd your bane;
  Now, for an antidote, read me again:
  From scornful beauty's chains I'll set you free,
  Consent but you to your own liberty.
  
  Phoebus, thou god of physic and of verse,
  Assist the healing numbers I rehearse;
  Direct at once my med'cines and my song,
  For to thy care both provinces belong.
  
  While the soft passion plays about your heart,
  Before the tickling venom turns to smart,
  Break then, (for then you may,) the treach'rous dart;
  Tear up the seeds of the unrooted ill
  While they are weak, and you have pow'r to kill.
  
  Beware delay: the tender-bladed grain,
  Shot up to stalk, can stand the wind and rain.
  
  The tree, whose branches now are grown too big
  For hands to bend, was set a slender twig;
  When planted, to your slightest touch 'twould yield,
  But now has fix'd possession of the field.
  
  Consider, ere to love you give the reins,
  If she's a mistress worth your future pains.
  
  While yet in breath, ere yet your nerves are broke,
  Cast from your gen'rous neck the shameful yoke!
  Check love's first symptoms, the weak foe surprise,
  Who, once entrench'd, will all your arts despise.
  
  Think, wretch, what you hereafter must endure,
  What certain toil, for an uncertain cure.
  
  Slip not one minute; who defers to day,
  To-morrow will be harden'd in delay.
  
  'Tis love's old practice still to sooth you on
  Till your disease gets strength, and till your strength is gone.
  
  Rivers small fountains have, and yet we find
  Vast seas, of those small fountain'd rivers join'd.
  
  Lock'd up in bark poor Myrrha ne'er had been,
  Had she the progress of her crime foreseen;
  But pleas'd with the soft kindling of love's fire,
  We day by day indulge the fond desire,
  Till like a serpent it has eat its way,
  And uncontroll'd does on our entrails prey.
  
  Yet if the proper season you have pass'd,
  Tho' hard the task, I'll use my skill at last;
  Nor see my patient perish by his grief,
  Because no sooner call'd to his relief.
  
  When Philoctetes first receiv'd his wound,
  The venom'd part cut off, had sav'd the sound;
  Yet he, e'en after tedious years of grief,
  Was cur'd, and brought the fainting Greeks relief.
  
  Thus I, who charg'd you speedy means to use,
  Will none in last extremities refuse.
  
  Or try to quench the kindling flames, or stay
  Till the spent fury on itself doth prey.
  
  While in its full career, give scope to rage,
  And circumvent the force you can't engage.
  
  What pilot would against the current strive,
  When with a side course he may safely drive?
  
  Distemper'd minds, distracted with their grief,
  Take all for foes who offer them relief;
  But when the first fermenting smart is o'er,
  They suffer you to probe the ripen'd sore.
  
  'Tis madness a fond mother to dissuade
  From tears, while on his hearse her son is laid;
  But when grief's deluge can no higher swell,
  Declining sorrow you'll with ease repel.
  
  Cures have their times; the best that can be tried
  Inflame the wound, unseasonably applied.
  
  If therefore you expect to find redress,
  In the first place take leave of idleness;
  'Tis this that kindl'd first your fond desire,
  'Tis this brings fuel to the am'rous fire.
  
  Bar idleness, you ruin Cupid's game,
  You blunt his arrows, and you quench his flame.
  
  What wine to plain-trees, streams to poplars prove,
  Marshes to reeds, is idleness to love.
  
  Mind business, if your passion you'd destroy;
  Secure is he, who can himself employ.
  
  Sleep, drinking, gaming, for the foe make way,
  And to love's ambuscade the roving heart betray.
  
  The slothful he seeks out and makes his prize.
  
  Surely as he the mall of business flies.
  
  Make business then (no matter what) your care;
  Some dear friend's cause may want you at the bar;
  Or if your courage tempts you to the field,
  Love's wanton arms to rough campaigns will yield.
  
  Parthia fresh work for triumph does afford,
  Half conquer'd to your hand by Caesar's sword.
  
  Cupid's and Parthian darts at once o'ercome,
  And to your country's gods bring double trophies home.
  
  Your sword as dreadful will to love appear,
  As to his mother the Aetolian spear.
  
  Th' adult'rous lust that did Aegisthus seize,
  And brought on murder, sprang from wanton ease;
  For he the only loiterer remain'd
  At home, when Troy's long war the rest had drain'd;
  He revell'd then at his luxurious board,
  And ne'er embark'd, and ne'er unsheath'd his sword;
  But while the Grecians did for glory rove,
  He wasted all his idle hours on love.
  
  Our country work and tillage can disarm
  Your am'rous cares, for ev'ry grief a charm.
  
  Yoke oxen, plough the painful field, you'll find
  The wounded earth will cure your love-sick mind.
  
  Then trust your grain to the new-furrow'd soil,
  That with large int'rest will requite your toll.
  
  Behold what kind returns your fruit-trees send;
  Down to your hand the burden'd branches bend.
  
  Belold a murmuring brook thro' pastures glide,
  Behold the grazing sheep on either side;
  While in the shade his pipe the shepherd tries,
  The watchfull dog his master's cares supplies;
  With loud complaints another grove is till'd
  Of heifers lowing for their firstlings killd.
  
  What pleasure 'tis with smoke of yew to drive
  The mur'ring swarm, and seize the loaden hive.
  
  All seasons friendly to the swain are found;
  Autumn withfruit, with harvest summer's crown'd
  The spring's adorn'd with flowers to charm the eye
  And winter fires the absent sun supply.
  
  At certain times you'll see the vintage full,
  And for your wine-press may choice clusters cull;
  At certain times your ponderous sheafs may bind,
  Yet for the rake leave work enough behind.
  
  In mellow ground, your plants no wat'ring need;
  The thirsty you from neighb'ring springs may feed.
  
  Then, grafting, make old stocks sprout fresh and green,
  And various fruits in one proud branch be seen.
  
  When once these pleasures have your mind possess'd,
  Love soon departs like a neglected guest.
  
  Hunt, if the dull distemper you'd remove;
  Diana will too hard for Venus prove.
  
  Thro' all her doubling shifts the hare pursue,
  Or spread your toil upon the mountain's brew:
  E'en when the stag's at bay provoke his rage,
  Or with your spear the foaming boar engage.
  
  Thus tir'd, your rest at night will prove so deep,
  Dreams of your mistress ne'er will haunt your sleep.
  
  'Tis easier work, yet 'twill require your care,
  The feather'd game with birdlime to ensnare;
  Or else for fish your bearded hook to bait,
  And for your art's success with patience wait.
  
  Thro' sports like these you'll steal into relief,
  And while your time you cozen, cheat your grief.
  
  Or travel (tho' you find your fetter strong);
  Set out betimes; your journey must be long.
  
  You'll weep at thoughts of her you left behind,
  And halting, to return be oft inclin'd.
  
  But how much more unwilling to proceed,
  Compel your feet to so much greater speed.
  
  Advance, let nothing interrupt your way,
  Nor wind nor weather, nor unlucky day.
  
  Nor count the miles you've past, but what remain;
  For loitering nigh no fond pretences feign.
  
  Nor reckon time, nor once look back on Rome,
  But fly; and, Parthian like, by flight o'ercome.
  
  You'll call my precepts hard; I grant they are;
  But for dear health who would not hardships bear;
  When sick, the bitter potion I have ta'en;
  And, for the food I've fancied, begg'd in vain.
  
  Both steel and fire you'll patiently endure,
  And thirst, more scorching, for your body's cure.
  
  Can you, who thus your earthly part redeem,
  For your immortal mind have less esteem?
  
  Yet, for my patient's comfort, I must own,
  When this first stage he manfully has run,
  The half, the worst half of his task is done.
  
  Gall'd with the yoke, at first the heifer draws;
  The curb's first trial frets the courser's jaws.
  
  Perhaps to leave your father's house you'll mourn;
  Yet go; and think, when tempted to return,
  Your kindred but the false pretence is made;
  'Tis absence from your mistress does persuade.
  
  When once set out, diversions you will meet,
  Fair country prospects, and companions sweet.
  
  Nor only travel far, but tarry long;
  Nor once look homewards while your passion's strong.
  
  Rebellious love, if he perceives you halt,
  With greater fury will renew th' assault
  Half-famish'd passion will more fiercely prey
  And all your labor past be thrown away.
  
  You'll think, when thro' Hemonian fields you rove,
  That magic arts may yield a cure for love.
  
  Old tales, of witchcraft strange effects rehearse;
  The only charm I bring is sacred verse.
  
  By my advice no jargon shall be read,
  Nor midnight hag, blaspheming, raise the dead;
  No standing crop to other fields shall range,
  No sick eclipse the sun's complexion change;
  Old Tyber shall his sacred course retain,
  And Cynthia, unmolested, gain her wain.
  
  No suffering heart to spells shall be oblig'd.
  
  Nor love resign, by sulphur streams besieg'd.
  
  Think on Medea, of all hopes bereft,
  When fled from home, and by her lover left.
  
  And what did Circe's powerful drugs avail,
  When she beheld Ulysses under sail?
  
  She tried her magic, charm on charm renew'd;
  He with a merry gale his course pursu'd;
  No force or skill the fatal dart removes,
  She raves to find she loves-but still she loves.
  
  To thousand shapes she could transform mankind,
  No means to change her hated self could find.
  
  In these soft terms, to her departing guest,
  Her passion (to detain him) was exprest.
  
  "I now no more (as when I first receiv'd
  Those hopes and you, by both alike deceiv'd)
  Expect that you with me should pass your life,
  Nor more ambitious to be made your wife;
  (Though sure my pedigree you cannot scorn;
  The daughter of the son, a goddess born)
  I but intreat you for a time to stay,
  And urge, for your own sake, the short delay.
  
  The seas are rough, which you have cause to fear;
  Wait but a friendlier season of the year.
  
  What haste?
  
  This isle does no new Troy afford,
  No second Rhesus to employ your sword.
  
  Love revels here, with peaceful myrtle crown'd,
  And mine the only heart that feels a painful wound.
  
  "
  She said-his crew the swelling sails display,
  That bear him and her fruitless pray'rs away.
  
  In vain to her enchantments she returns,
  Tries all, yet still in hopeless flames she burns.
  
  For Circe's sake, all lovers I advise,
  That spells, as senseless things, they would despise.
  
  The benefits of travel I have told,
  Which, for sick minds, the best relief I hold.
  
  But if through business you must still remain
  In town, and near the author of your pain;
  Though 'tis a dangrous neighbourhood, I'll show
  What methods there the lover must pursue.
  
  He takes the wisest course, who from his heart
  Does by mere force, wrest out the offensive dart:
  Resolv'd severely once for all to smart.
  
  A master of such courage I'll admire;
  Such patients will no more advice require.
  
  Who wants this resolution to be freed
  At once, by slower methods must proceed.
  
  To milder remedies I'll him direct,
  Which yet in time, will have the wish'd effect.
  
  Think, till the thought your indignation move,
  What damage you've receiv'd by her you love:
  How she has drain'd your purse; nor yet content,
  'Till your estate's in costly presents spent,
  And you have mortgaged your last tenement.
  
  How she did swear, and how she was forsworn;
  Not only false, but treated you with scorn:
  And, since her avarice has made you poor,
  Forc'd you to take your lodgings at her door:
  Reserv'd to you, but others she'll caress:
  The foreman of a shop shall have access.
  
  Let these reflections on your reason win;
  From seeds of anger hatred will begin;
  Your rhet'ric on these topics should be spent.
  
  Oh, that your wrongs could make you eloquent!
  But grieve, and grief will teach you to enlarge,
  And, like an orator, draw up the charge.
  
  A certain nymph did once my heart incline,
  Whose humor wholly disagreed with mine;
  (I, your physician, my disease confess)
  I from my own prescriptions found redress.
  
  Her still I represented to my mind,
  With what defects I could suppose or find,
  Oh, how ill-shaped her legs, how thick and short!
  (Though neater limbs did never nymph support,)
  Her arms, said I, how tawny brown they are!
  (Though never ivory statue had so fair.
  
  )
  How low of statue! (yet the nymph was tall)
  Oh, for what costly presents will she call!
  What change of lovers! - And of all the rest,
  I find this thought strike deepest in my breast.
  
  Such thin partitions good and ill divide,
  That one for t'other may be misapplied.
  
  E'en truth and your own judgment you must strain,
  Those blemishes you cannot find, to feign:
  Call her blackmoor, if she's but lovely brown;
  Monster, if plump; if slender, skeleton.
  
  Censure her free discourse as confidence;
  Her silence, want of breeding and good sense.
  
  Discover her blind side, and put her still
  Upon the task which she performs but ill;
  To dance, if she has neither shape nor air;
  Court her to sing, if she wants voice and ear;
  If talking misbecomes her, make her talk;
  If walking, then in malice make her walk.
  
  Commend her skill when on the lute she plays,
  Till vanity her want of skill betrays.
  
  Take care, if her large breasts offend your eyes,
  No dress does that deformity disguise.
  
  Ply her with merry tales of what you will,
  To keep her laughing, if her teeth be ill.
  
  Or if blear-eyed, some tragic story find,
  Till she has read and wept herself quite blind.
  
  But one effectual method you may take,-
  Enter her chamber ere she's well awake:
  Her beauty's art, gems, gold, and rich attire,
  Make up the pageant you so much admire:
  In all that specious figure which you see,
  The least, least part of her own self is she;
  In vain for her you love, amidst such cost,
  You search; the mistress in the dress is lost.
  
  Take her disrob'd, her real self surprise,
  I'll trust you then for cure, to your own eyes.
  
  (Yet have I known this very rule to fail,
  And beauty most, when stript of art prevail.
  
  )
  Steal to her closet, her close tiring place,
  While she makes up her artificial face.
  
  All colours of the rainbow you'll discern,
  Washes and paints, and what you're sick to learn,
  I now should treat of what may pall desire,
  And quench in love's own element the fire;
  For all advantages you ought to make,
  And arms from love's own magazine to take:
  But modesty forbids at full extent
  To prosecute this luscious argument,
  Which, to prevent your blushes, I shall leave
  For your own fancy better to conceive,
  For some of late censoriously accuse
  My am'rous liberty and wanton muse.
  
  But envy did the wit of Homer blame,
  Malice gave obscure Zoilus a name.
  
  Thus sacrilegious censure would destroy
  The pious muse, who did her heart employ
  To settle here the banish'd gods of Troy.
  
  But you who at my freedom take offence,
  Distinguish right before you speak your sense.
  
  Maeonian strains alone can war resound,
  No place is there for love and dalliance found.
  
  The tragic style requires a tale distress'd,
  And comedy consists of mirth and jest;
  The tender elegy is love's delight,
  Which to themselves pleas'd mistresses recite.
  
  Callimachus would do Achilles wrong;
  Cydippe were no theme for Homer's song.
  
  What mortal patience could endure to see
  Thais presenting chaste Andromache?
  
  Kind Thais (none of Vesta's nuns) supplies
  My song; with Thais all my business lies:
  The actress, if my muse performs with art,
  You must commend, tho' you dislike the part.
  
  Burst envy; I've already got a name,
  And, writing more, shall more advance my fame,
  Despair not then, for, as I longer live,
  Each day fresh fuel for your spleen shall give.
  
  Thus fame's increasing gale bears me on high,
  While tir'd and grovelling on the ground you lie.
  
  Soft elegy in such esteem I've plac'd,
  Not Virgil more the Epic strain has grac'd.
  
  Censure did us to this digression force;
  Now, muse, pursue thy interrupted course.
  
  When first the nymph admits your visit, stay,
  And take some other beauty in your way;
  More safely thus your passion you may trust,
  When you approach her charms with fainter gust;
  You'll otherwise misconstrue for delight
  The eagerness of your own appetite.
  
  Desire does all; the grotto's cool retreat,
  And shady grove, relieve in summer's heat;
  Warm fires in winter; thirst makes water sweet.
  
  Now is the time your artifice to try,
  Act not so much the lover as the spy;
  For vanity makes all the fair presume
  There's nothing which their charms can misbecome.
  
  Take this occasion her defects to find,
  When you can fix them deeply in your mind;
  In the dull minute of your discontents,
  (The pensive mood when sated love repents,)
  To your sick thoughts her blemishes display,
  And, for aversion, by those means make way.
  
  These helps, you'll say, are trivial; I confess,
  Singly they are, but join'd will have success.
  
  By one small viper's bite an ox is killed;
  The forest-boar by a less dog is held.
  
  Unite my precepts if apart they fail,
  And by resistless number you'll prevail.
  
  But different minds for different methods call,
  Nor what cures most will have effect on all;
  E'en that which makes another's flame expire,
  Perhaps may prove but fuel to your fire.
  
  For one disgusted with the nymph's undress,
  Grows cold and weary of her warm caress,
  Another from his wanton mistress flies,
  When he his rival's recent raptures spies,
  Like warm desire; and he but little loves,
  Whom ev'ry trifle shocks, and nothing moves.
  
  To those I write, for my advice they need,
  Whose hardy passion can unbalk'd proceed.
  
  What think you of that lover who could lie
  Concealed, to see what custom must deny?
  
  I to no such indecent means direct,
  Not to be practis'd tho' of sure effect.
  
  If to excess you find your passion rise,
  I would at once two mistresses advise:
  Divided care will give your mind relief;
  What nourish'd one may starve the twins of grief.
  
  Large rivers, drain'd in many streams, grow dry;
  Withdraw its fuel, and the flame will die.
  
  What ship can safely with one anchor ride?
  
  With several cables she can brave the tide.
  
  Who can at once two passions entertain,
  May free himself at will from either chain.
  
  If treated ill by her whom you adore,
  A kinder nymph your freedom must restore.
  
  No sooner Minos did fair Procris view,
  But scandal on Pasiphae's fame he threw.
  
  From his first charmer soon Alcmaen fled,
  Callirhoe once admitted to his bed.
  
  Oenone still had Paris' mistress been,
  Had Paris fairer Helen never seen.
  
  So Progne's beauty, tho' a wife, endear'd
  Her Tereus, till Philomel appear'd.
  
  But I too long on dry examples dwell,
  Some new desire your former must expel.
  
  A fruitful mother with one child can part,
  The rest surviving to support her heart;
  But she's impatiently of one bereft,
  Who has, alas! no second comfort left.
  
  But lest you think that I new laws decree
  (Tho' proud of the invention I could be),
  The same long since wise Agamemnon saw;
  (What saw he not who held all Greece in awe!)
  The beauteous captive to himself he kept;
  Her father fondly for his daughter wept.
  
  Why dost thou grieve, old sot?
  
  thy daughter's blest!
  A royal whore.
  
  But, to assuage the pest,
  When with his mistress he was forced to part,
  The prudent prince ne'er laid the loss to heart.
  
  Achilles keeps as fair a lass as she,
  Their form, their very names, almost agree.
  
  "Let him," said he "resign her by consent,
  Or he shall feel my kingly power's extent;
  If to my subjects this shall give offence,
  The name of monarch is a vain pretence.
  
  Rather than reign and have my love confin'd,
  My throne shall to Thersites be resign'd.
  
  "
  He said: and, for a charming mistress lost,
  Repair'd his sufferings at another's cost.
  
  Do you this royal precedent pursue,
  And quench your former passions by a new.
  
  If you're a stranger to the sex, enquire
  Where you may find a mistress to admire.
  
  To learn their haunts my books of love peruse,
  Where from a swarm of beauties you may choose.
  
  But if my precepts have the least pretence
  To truth, and if I speak Apollo's sense,
  Tho' Aetna's fires within your bosom glow,
  Dissemble, and appear more cold than snow.
  
  In spite of torture, still from tears refrain;
  Laugh when you have most reason to complain.
  
  Nor do I such severe commands impart,
  At once to bid you tear her from your heart:
  But counterfeit; you'll prove in the event,
  That careless lover whom you represent.
  
  Oft when the merry round I would not keep,
  I've seem'd to nod, and, seeming, fall'n asleep.
  
  I've laugh'd at him who fool'd away his heart,
  Dissembling passion, till he felt the smart.
  
  Love comes by use; disuse will love expel;
  Learn to feign health, and you will soon be well
  If she has bid you come, and fix'd the night,
  Tho' sure that she to mock you did invite,
  Yet go; and if you find the door fast lock'd,
  Endure the disappointment; be not shock'd;
  Nor curse the gate, nor fond entreaties make,
  Nor on the threshold a hard lodging take:
  And when you see her next, complaints forbear,
  Nor in your looks the least resentment wear.
  
  Her pride will stoop, and give your feign'd neglect
  What she denied to your sincere respect.
  
  Nor is't enough your mistress thus to cheat,
  You on yourself must put the same deceit:
  Acquaint not your own thoughts with the design,
  Till the work's done and you have sprung the mire.
  
  For else 'tis odd, but nature in your heart
  Will faction raise, and take your mistress' part.
  
  What you propose will soon effected be,
  Your progress sure, if made with secrecy.
  
  Conceal your nets; if they are spread in sight,
  The bird you meant to take you'll only fright.
  
  Nor suffer her you love, so much to prize
  Her charming self, that she may you despise.
  
  Take courage; conscious of your merit seem,
  And worthy you'll appear of her esteem.
  
  E'en then when you her door wide open spy,
  Nay, tho' called in, yet pass regardless by.
  
  She'll offer you her bed; refuse to take
  The favour, or a doubtful answer make.
  
  Let wisdom once but teach you to abstain
  From what you wish, you may your wish obtain.
  
  Perhaps at my severe advice you'll start,
  But know, I act a reconciler's part.
  
  Diseases in a thousand forms are rang'd;
  As tempers vary, med'cines must be chang'd.
  
  Some bodies must a sharp long course endure,
  A single drug on others works a cure.
  
  If your soft nature yield to Cupid's stroke,
  And strength is wanting to support his yoke,
  Forbear against the wind and tide to strive;
  Slacken your sail, and with the current drive.
  
  For first the raging thirst in which you fry,
  Must be assuag'd, ere other means you try:
  Drink freely then: nor can you safely trust
  To satisfaction, drink even to disgust.
  
  Visit your mistress, keep her in your sight,
  Lock'd up all day, and in your arms all night.
  
  Still sit at board, though appetite decay,
  And though you find you could be absent, stay:
  Indulge desire, till your desires are cloy'd,
  And love by too much plenty is destroy'd.
  
  Even fear with passion will some minds inspire
  Remove distrust, and passion will retire.
  
  Who fears some rival should his mistress gain,
  Machaon's skill can scarce relieve his pain.
  
  Since no fond mother for her darling son,
  Feels greater pangs, when to the wars he's gone.
  
  Near the Salarian gate a temple's plac'd,
  With Erycinian Venus' worship grac'd;
  'Tis there Lethaean love cures love's desire,
  Bedews his lamps, and water blends with fire;
  There sweet forgetfulness griev'd lovers find,
  And, injur'd nymphs, whose husbands prove unkind.
  
  There in a vision, (if a vision 'twere)
  I heard the Cupid speak, or seem'd to hear.
  
  "0, thou who dost sometimes teach youth to love,
  Then rules prescribe their passion to remove:
  One powerful precept more let me impart,
  Unknown to you a master in the art.
  
  Bid him who loves, and would love's yoke reject,
  On his own life's misfortunes oft reflect:
  For all have crosses, 'tis the common lot.
  
  Let him, who deeply into debt has got,
  Think on a gaol, and how he shall sustain
  Confinement, more severe than Cupid's chain.
  
  Let him who serves a rigid father's will
  And sees his filial duty treated ill,
  (Whate'er success in other things he find)
  Keep still his father's angry looks in mind.
  
  Let him who has that double curse of life,
  At once a shrew and beggar to his wife,
  Instead of gallantry abroad, contrive
  Domestic famine from his door to drive,
  You that are masters of a gen'rous soil,
  Look to your vines, employ your careful toil,
  Lest sudden frosts the hopeful vintage spoil.
  
  One has a trading vessel homeward bound;
  Let him imagine storms, his ship unsound,
  Bulg'd, founder'd, wreck'd, and more, some barb'rous coast
  Enrich'd with the dear cargo he has lost.
  
  Fear for your son, who serves in this campaign,
  And for your daughter be in greater pain.
  
  For mortifying cares you need not roam,
  By thousands they will throng to you at home.
  
  If, Paris, Helen's charms you would abhor,
  Behold your brothers weltering in their gore.
  
  "
  Thus spake the god, till from my fancy's view
  His youthful form, sleep from my eyes withdrew.
  
  What shall I do, my Palinurus gone,
  And left to steer through untried seas alone?
  
  But solitude must never be allow'd;
  A lover's ne'er so safe as in a crowd.
  
  For private places private griefs increase;
  What haunts you there, in company will cease.
  
  If to the gloomy desert you repair,
  Your mistress' angry form will meet you there.
  
  What makes the night less cheerful than the day?
  
  Your griefs are present, and your friends away.
  
  Nor shun discourse, nor make your house a cell;
  Despair and darkness still together dwell.
  
  To comfort you some Pylades admit,
  Which is of friendship the chief benefit.
  
  To death's cold arms what made poor Phyllis fly?
  
  'Twas less her grief than want of company.
  
  Wild as a bacchanal, her way she took,
  With hair dishevell'd, and distracted look;
  Far out to sea she cast her prying eyes;
  Now stretched upon the sandy beach she lies:
  "Faithless Demophoon!" to deaf waves she cried,
  While sighs her interrupted words divide,
  Hard by a lonesome tree its shadow cast,
  As if for solitary mischief plac'd:
  'Twas now her ninth sad visit to the shore;
  No sail appears, and she'll expect no more:
  Her nuptial girdle round her waist was tied,
  Just o'er herhead a stretching bough she spied;
  She offers, and flies back, dreads what she dares;
  And, thus confus'd, the fatal knot prepares.
  
  Now, wretched Phillis, while this deed was done,
  I could have wish'd thou hadst not been alone.
  
  Let disappointed lovers warning take
  By thee, and never company forsake.
  
  But while society I do prescribe,
  I mean not those of your own sighing tribe:
  For nothing sure can so injurious be
  To one in love, as lovers company.
  
  A patient, who my orders did obey,
  And to his cure was in a hopeful way,
  By keeping lovers' company one night,
  Relaps'd beyond my skill to set him right.
  
  Such dang'rous neighbourhood you must avoid:
  A flock's by one contagious sheep destroy'd.
  
  If health you'd keep shun those who are unsound;
  By looking on sore eyes, our own we wound;
  Dry lands are oft by neighb'ring rivers drown'd.
  
  Love's pest allows no safety but in flight;
  And the infected, to infect delight.
  
  Another, who quite through his course had gone,
  By living near his mistress was undone.
  
  Rashly his strength, ere well confirm'd, he tries,
  Too weak to stand th' encounter of her eyes.
  
  She meets, and conquers with one single view,
  And all his fresh-skin'd wounds gush forth anew.
  
  To save your house from neighb'ring fire is hard,
  Distance from danger is the surest guard.
  
  Avoid your mistress' walks, and e'en forbear
  The civil offices you paid to her.
  
  Change all your measures, new affairs pursue;
  Find out, if possible, a world that's new.
  
  A table spread in view gives appetite;
  To see a gushing rill does thirst excite.
  
  To leap their females in a neighb'ring plain,
  Your bull will break his fence, your steed his rein.
  
  Nor is't enough to quit the nymph, but you
  Must to her friends and kindred bid adieu;
  Nor to your sight admit the page or maid,
  By whom the tender billet doux's convey'd.
  
  And, though impatient, stifle your desire;
  Nor of her health, nor what she does enquire.
  
  E'en you who powerful reasons can assign,
  That 'twas ill-treatment made your love decline,
  Forbear complaints, and no invectives make;
  By scornful silence, best revenge you'll take.
  
  Bury your passion in a speechless grave,
  Desist from love, but do not say you have.
  
  If over much you boast, the symptom's ill;
  Who always cries, "I've done with love," loves still.
  
  To make sure work, quench leisurely the fire;
  He's safe, who can by just degrees retire.
  
  A torrent's swift, a stream does gently glide,
  But that's a short, and this a lasting tide;
  That love must irrecoverably decay,
  Which does by atoms waste itself away.
  
  Yet, e'en humanity must needs abhor,
  That you should hate the nymph you did adore
  For he discovers a mere brutal mind,
  Whose love to enmity the way can find.
  
  A gentle cure is what I recommend;
  For he whose passion can in hatred end,
  As soon may to his first desire return;
  His fire does still beneath the embers burn.
  
  To see two lovers at outragious odds,
  Is scandal and offence to men and gods.
  
  Many have rail'd, and yet been reconcil'd,
  That minute they their mistresses revil'd.
  
  Others I've known, who parting without strife,
  Have fairly taken leave-but ta'en for life.
  
  A nymph but lately passing in her chair,
  Met with her lover (I by chance was there);
  He storm'd, and with reproaches fill'd the air.
  
  At last, " Come forth thou harlot, come," he cried
  She came; at sight of her his tongue was tied;
  The writings in his hand he flings away,
  Runs to her arms, and has but pow'r to say,
  "You've conquer'd, and no more I'll disobey.
  
  "
  Let her the presents you have sent retain
  And to a less prefer the greater gain.
  
  Weigh the advantage by that loss you reap,
  And think the purchase of your freedom cheap.
  
  If to her presence you by chance are driven,
  Straight recollect the precepts I have given.
  
  Since with your Amazon you must engage,
  To whet your courage muster all your rage.
  
  Think on your rival in her chamber kept,
  While you, excluded, on her threshold slept.
  
  How falsely she has treated you; and then
  More falsely sworn to draw you in again.
  
  Study no dress when she is to be seen,
  But wear your garments careless as your mein.
  
  Or, if the sparkish mode your fancy seize,
  Take care it be some other nymph to please.
  
  What most retards your cure, I'll now reveal;
  And to your own experience dare appeal;
  Hoping to be at last belov'd, (though vain
  Those hopes) we linger, and indulge our pain.
  
  T' our own defects, through self-opinion, blind,
  We wonder how the fair can be unkind.
  
  Ne'er think that what she says or swears is true;
  She fears the gods no more than she fears you.
  
  Nor trust her tears, though plenteous tears distil;
  Their eyes are disciplin'd to weep at will.
  
  With various arts they storm a lover's mind,
  Like some bleak rock expos'd to waves and wind.
  
  Nourish the just resentments in your heart,
  But ne'er declare the reason why you part.
  
  For tax'd with crimes, she'll plead her innocence;
  And you'll too much incline to her defence.
  
  Contract th' indictment; spinning out the charge,
  But shows you'd have her clear herself at large.
  
  Nor yet abruptly should you leave the fair
  And, like Ulysses, drive them to despair:
  To no such violent methods I'll advise,
  Nor aid a lover while his mistress dies.
  
  I mean not Cupid's purple wings to clip,
  Nor break his bow, or feather'd arrows strip.
  
  The counsels that I gave are just and true,
  Do you as faithfully my rules pursue.
  
  Phoebus, to thee once more for aid I run;
  Assist me, as thou hast already done.
  
  He comes, he comes, he'll instantly appear,
  His quiver, and his sounding harp I hear,
  Both signs most certain that the god is near.
  
  Compare your bastard scarlet with the right,
  The difference will appear, though both are bright.
  
  Your charmer so by first rate beauties place,
  And her defects by brighter lustre trace.
  
  Pallas was tall and graceful, sternly fair,
  And Juno carried a majestic air;
  Singly they pleas'd, and by each other charm'd,
  But both by Venus' presence were disarm'd.
  
  Nor manhood yet must you so far disgrace
  As to become the vassal of a face,
  Nor to mere beauty your devotion pay;
  Her breeding, humor, and her manners weigh;
  But in the scale of an impartial mind,
  Or inclination will your judgment blind.
  
  What more I have to say will lie compris'd
  In little room, but must not be despis'd.
  
  Those short receipts have cures on many done,
  And of that number, I myself am one.
  
  The letters sent you when your nymph was kind,
  Revise not, for they'll shake your constant mind:
  But say, when you commit them to the fire,
  "Be this the fun'ral pile of my desire;
  Perish, my love, in this just flame expire.
  
  "
  Althaea burnt the fatal brand, and knew,
  The brand consuming, her own son she slew.
  
  Can you whose kindness had a worse return
  Repine, a few deceitful words to burn!
  No: make a total sacrifice, nor spare
  The very seal that does her image bear.
  
  From all such places too you must remove,
  As ever have been conscious to your love.
  
  You'll say, (and grieve to think those joys are fled)
  This was th' apartment, this the happy bed!
  The dear remembrance will renew desire,
  And to fresh blaze blow up the sleeping fire.
  
  The Greeks could wish t' have shun'd th' Eubaean coast,
  And vengeful fire by which their fleet was lost.
  
  Wise sailors tack, when Scylla's rock they spy;
  So you should from your mistress' dwelling fly,
  There stands the rock, on which you split before,
  Imagine there you hear Charybdis roar.
  
  But chance itself sometimes may stand your friend,
  And give your griefs an unexpected end.
  
  Had Phaedra's wealth to poverty declin'd.
  
  She never for Hippolitus had pin'd.
  
  Or were Medea born a rural maid,
  No faithless Jason had implor'd her aid.
  
  But love in pamper'd palaces is bred,
  By pleasure and luxurious riches fed.
  
  Not Hecale or Irus could arrive
  At Hymen's joys, though long they did survive,
  For both were poor: and Cupid still shoots high,
  His shafts above the humble cottage fly.
  
  Yet so severe a cure I can't approve,
  Or bid you starve yourself, to starve your love.
  
  But ne'er frequent the wanton theatre,
  Where vain desires in all their pomp appear;
  From music, dancing, and an am'rous part,
  Perform'd to th' life, how can you guard your heart?
  
  Against myself I frank confession make;
  Into your hands no am'rous poet take,
  Whose Syren muses draw the list'ning throng,
  And charm them into ruin by their song.
  
  Callimachus first from your sight remove.
  
  Banish Philetas next; they're friends to love.
  
  How oft have Sappho's odes set me one fire!
  Who can contain, that hears Anacreon's lyre?
  
  Who reads Tibullus must his passion feel;
  Propertius can dissolve a heart of steel:
  Nor Gallus fails the coldest breast to warm;
  And e'en my muse has found the art to charm.
  
  But if Apollo, who conducts my song,
  Secure me in this point from guessing wrong,
  The pain with which most sensibly you're griev'd,
  Is on th' account of jealousy conceiv'd.
  
  No fear of rivals must your heart torment:
  For true, or false, yet for your own content,
  At least persuade yourself that you have none,
  And that the harmless creature sleeps alone.
  
  Orestes ne'er could find his nymph had charms,
  Till he beheld her in another's arms.
  
  Why, Menelaus, dost thou now take on?
  
  In Crete you long could sauntering stay alone;
  Your Helen's absence ne'er disturb'd your rest:
  No sooner fled she with her Trojan guest,
  The royal cuckold raves, and he must make
  A ten years' war, to fetch the harlot back.
  
  'Twas on this score the fierce Achilles wept;
  With Agamemnon his Briseis slept.
  
  Good cause to weep, the maiden toy was got,
  Or great Alcides was a sov'reign sot.
  
  His game of love were Ovid to have play'd,
  The poet had the better hero made.
  
  At last, with gifts he did the loss restore,
  And that she was untouch'd profoundly swore,
  Swore by his sceptre; — nor can that seem odd;
  He knew his sceptre but a wooden god.
  
  Oh, could you once arrive but to the pow'r
  As unconcern'd, to pass your mistress' door!
  Strongly resolve, though ne'er so loath to stir,
  For now's the time to stretch with whip and spur.
  
  Think there's the Syren's den, the deadly bay,
  Make all the sail you can and scud away.
  
  Your fond resentment quit, and condescend
  To take your very rival for your friend.
  
  Salute him kindly, though with deep regret;
  Embrace him, I'll pronounce your cure complete.
  
  Now to perform a true physician's part,
  And show I'm perfect master of my art;
  I will prescribe what diet you should use,
  What food you ought to take, and what refuse.
  
  Mushrooms of ev'ry sort provoke desire,
  Salacious rockets set your veins on fire;
  The plant I recommend is wholesome rue,
  It clears the sight and does the blood subdue:
  But, in a word, of all the herbs that grow,
  Take only such as keep the body low.
  
  If my opinion you would have of wine,
  It quenches love, and does to love incline.
  
  A little breath of wind but fans the fire,
  Whose flame will in a greater blast expire.
  
  In wine you must no moderation keep;
  You must not drink at all; or drink so deep,
  So large a dose, as puts your cares to sleep.
  
  Now to our port we are arriv'd; bring down
  The jolly wreath, our weary barque to crown.
  
  Your grief redrest, and now a happy throng,
  Ye nymphs and youths applaud my healing song.

• Salmacis And Hermaphroditus Read Poem Log in to favourite

  HOW Salmacis with weak enfeebling streams
  Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs,
  And what the secret cause shall here be shown;
  The cause is secret, but the effect is known.
  
  The Naiads nurst an infant heretofore,
  That Cytherea once to Hermes bore;
  From both the illustrious authors of his race
  The child was named; nor was it hard to trace
  Both the bright parents through the infant's face;
  When fifteen years, in Ida's cool retreat,
  The boy had told, he left his native seat,
  And sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil;
  The pleasure lessened the attending toil.
  
  With eager steps the Lycian fields he crossed,
  And fields that border on the Lycian coast;
  A River here he viewed so lovely bright,
  It showed the bottom in a fairer light,
  Nor kept a sand concealed from human sight.
  
  The stream produced, nor slimy ooze, nor weeds,
  Nor miry rushes nor the spiky reeds:
  But dealt encircling moisture all around,
  The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure crowned,
  And kept the spring eternal on the ground
  A nymph presides, nor practised in the chase,
  Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race;
  Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the main.
  
  The only stranger to Diana's train;
  Her sisters, often, as 'tis said, would cry,
  "Fie, Salmacis, what, always idle! Fie!
  Or take thy quiver or thy arrows seize,
  And mix the toils of hunting with thy ease.
  
  "
  But oft would bathe her in the crystal tide,
  Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide;
  Now in the limpid streams she viewed her face,
  And drest her image in the floating glass:
  On beds of leaves she now reposed her limbs,
  Now gathered flowers that grew about her streams;
  And then by chance was gathering, as she stood
  To view the boy, and longed for what she viewed.
  
  Fain would she meet the youth with hasty feet,
  She fain would meet him, but refused to meet
  Before her looks were set with nicest care,
  And well deserved to be reputed fair.
  
  "Bright youth," she cries, "whom all thy features prove
  A God, and, if a God, the God of Love;
  But if a mortal, blest thy nurse's breast,
  Blest are thy parents, and thy sisters blest:
  But, oh! how blest! how more than blest thy bride,
  Allied in bliss, if any get allied:
  If so, let mine the stolen enjoyment be;
  If not, behold a willing bride to me.
  
  "
  The boy knew nought of love, and, touched with shame,
  He strove, and blushed, but still the blush became;
  In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose;
  The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows,
  And such the moon, when all her silver white
  Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light.
  
  The Nymph still begs, if not a nobler bliss,
  A cold salute at least, a sister's kiss;
  And now prepares to take the lovely boy
  Between her arms.
  
  He, innocently coy,
  Replies, "Oh leave me to myself alone,
  You rude, uncivil nymph, or I'll begone.
  
  "
  "Fair stranger then," says she; "it shall be so";
  And, for she feared his threats, she feigned to go;
  But hid within a covert's neighboring green,
  She kept him still in sight, herself unseen.
  
  The boy now fancies all the danger o'er,
  And innocently sports about the shore,
  Playful and wanton to the stream he trips,
  And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips,
  The coolness pleases him, and with eager haste
  His airy garments on the banks he cast;
  His godlike features and his heavenly hue,
  And all his beauties were exposed to view.
  
  His naked limbs the nymph with rapture spies,
  While hotter passions in her bosom rise,
  Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her eyes.
  
  She longs, she burns to clasp him in her arms,
  And loves, and sighs, and kindles at his charms.
  
  Now all undrest upon the banks he stood,
  And clapt his sides and leapt into the flood:
  His lovely limbs the silver waves divide,
  His limbs appear more lovely through the tide;
  As lilies shut within a crystal case,
  Receive a glossy lustre from the glass.
  
  "He's mine, he's all my own," the Naiad cries,
  And flings off all, and after him she flies.
  
  And now she fastens on him as he swims,
  And holds him close, and wraps about his limbs.
  
  The more the boy resisted and was coy,
  The more she kissed and clipt the strippling boy.
  
  So when the wriggling snake is hatched on high
  In eagle's claws, and hisses in the sky,
  Around the foe his twirling tail he flings,
  And twists her legs, and writhes about her wings.
  
  The restless boy still obstinately strove
  To free himself and still refused her love.
  
  Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined,
  "And why, coy youth," she cries, "why thus unkind!
  Oh, may the Gods thus keep us ever joined!
  Oh, may we never, never part again!"
  So prayed the nymph, nor did she pray in vain:
  For now she finds him, as his limbs she prest,
  Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast;
  Till, piercing each the other's flesh, they run
  Together, and incorporate in one:
  Last in one face are both their faces joined,
  As when the stock and grafter twig combined
  Shoot up the same, and wear a common mind:
  Both bodies in a single body mix,
  A single body with a double sex.
  
  The boy, thus lost in woman, now surveyed
  The river's guilty stream, and thus he prayed.
  
  (He prayed, but wondered at his softer tone,
  Surprised to hear a voice but half his own.
  
  )
  You parent gods, whose heavenly names I bear,
  Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my prayer;
  Oh, grant that--whom so'er these streams contain,
  If man he entered, he may rise again
  Supple, unsinewed, and but half a man!
  The heavenly parents answered, from on high
  Their two-shaped son, the double votary;
  Then gave a secret virtue to the flood,
  And tinged its source to make his wishes good.

• Seeing Thou Art Fair Read Poem Log in to favourite

  SEEING thou art fair, I bar not thy false playing,
  But let not me poor soul know of thy straying.
  
  Nor do I give thee counsel to live chaste,
  But that thou would'st dissemble, when 'tis past.
  
  She hath not trod awry, that doth deny it.
  
  Such as confess have lost their good names by it.
  
  What madness is't to tell night-pranks by day?
  
  And hidden secrets openly to bewray?
  
  The strumpet with the stranger will not do,
  Before the room be clear, and door put-to,
  Will you make shipwreck of your honest name,
  And let the world be witness of the same?
  
  Be more advised, walk as a puritan,
  And I shall think you chaste, do what you can.
  
  Slip still, only deny it when 'tis done,
  And, before folk, immodest speeches shun.
  
  The bed is for lascivious toyings meet,
  There use all tricks, and tread shame under feet.
  
  When you are up and dressed, be sage and grave,
  And in the bed hide all the faults you have.
  
  Be not ashamed to strip you, being there,
  And mingle thighs, yours ever mine to bear.
  
  There in your rosy lips my tongue entomb,
  Practise a thousand sports when there you come.
  
  Forbear no wanton words you there would speak,
  And with your pastime let the bedstead creak
  But with your robes put on an honest face,
  And blush and seem as you were full of grace.
  
  Deceive all; let me err; and think I'm right,
  And like a wittol think thee void of slight.
  
  Why see I lines so oft received and given?
  
  This bed and that by tumbling made uneven?
  
  Like one start up your hair tost and displaced,
  And with a wanton's tooth your neck new-rased.
  
  Grant this, that what you do I may not see;
  If you weigh not ill speeches, yet weigh me.
  
  My soul fleets when I think what you have done.
  
  And through every vein doth cold blood run.
  
  Then thee whom I must love, I hate in vain,
  And would be dead, but dead with thee remain.
  
  I'll not sift much, but hold thee soon excused,
  Say but thou wert injuriously accused.
  
  Though while the deed be doing you be took,
  And I see when you ope the two-leaved book,
  Swear I was blind; deny, if you be wise,
  And I will trust your words more than mine eyes.
  
  From him that yields, the palm is quickly got,
  Teach but your tongue to say, "I did it not,"
  And being justified by two words think
  The cause acquits you not, but I that wink.

• The Art of Love: Book Two [Excerpt] Read Poem Log in to favourite

  hellip;Short partings do best, though: time wears out affections,
  The absent love fades, a new one takes its place.
  
  With Menelaus away, Helen's disinclination for sleeping
  Alone led her into her guest's
  Warm bed at night.
  
  Were you crazy, Menelaus?
  
  Why go off leaving your wife
  With a stranger in the house?
  
  Do you trust doves to falcons,
  Full sheepfolds to mountain wolves?
  
  Here Helen's not at fault, the adulterer's blameless -
  He did no more than you, or any man else,
  Would do yourself.
  
  By providing place and occasion
  You precipitated the act.
  
  What else did she do
  But act on your clear advice?
  
  Husband gone; this stylish stranger
  Here on the spot; too scared to sleep alone -
  Oh, Helen wins my acquittal, the blame's her husband's:
  All she did was take advantage of a man's
  Human complaisance.
  
  And yet, more savage than the tawny
  Boar in his rage, as he tosses the maddened dogs
  On lightening tusks, or a lioness suckling her unweaned
  Cubs, or the tiny adder crushed
  By some careless foot, is a woman's wrath, when some rival
  Is caught in the bed she shares.
  
  Her feelings show
  On her face.
  
  Decorum's flung to the wind, a maenadic
  Frenzy grips her, she rushes headlong off
  After fire and steel… .

• The Art of Love—Book 1 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In Cupid's school, whoe'er would take degree
  Must learn his rudiments by reading me,
  Seamen with sailing art their vessels move;
  Art guides the chariot: art instructs to love.
  
  Of ships and chariots others know the rule;
  But I am master in Love's mighty school.
  
  Cupid indeed is obstinate and wild,
  A stubborn god; but yet the god's a child:
  Easy to govern in his tender age,
  Like fierce Achilles in his pupilage:
  That hero, born for conquest, trembling stood
  Before the centaur, and receiv'd the rod.
  
  As Chiron mollified his cruel mind
  With art; and taught his warlike hands to wind
  The silver strings of his melodious lyre;
  So love's fair goddess does my soul inspire
  To teach her softer arts; to sooth the mind,
  And smooth the rugged breasts of human kind.
  
  Yet Cupid and Achilles, each with scorn
  And rage were fill'd; and both were goddess-born.
  
  The bull reclaim'd and yolk'd, the burden draws:
  The horse receives the bit within his jaws.
  
  And stubborn love shall bend beneath my sway,
  Tho' struggling oft he tries to disobey.
  
  He shakes his torch, he wounds me with his darts;
  But vain his force, and vainer are his arts.
  
  The more he burns my soul, or wounds my sight,
  The more he teaches to revenge the spite.
  
  I boast no aid the Delphian god affords,
  Nor auspice from the flight of chattering birds,
  Nor Clio, nor her sisters, have I seen,
  As Hesiod saw them on the shady green:
  Experience makes my work a truth so tried,
  You may believe; and Venus be my guide.
  
  Far hence ye vestals be, who bind your hair;
  And wives, who gowns below your ancles wear.
  
  I sing the brothels loose and unconfin'd,
  Th' unpunishable pleasures of the kind;
  Which all alike for love or money find.
  
  You, who in Cupid's roll inscribe your name,
  First seek an object worthy of your flame;
  Then strive, with art, your lady's mind to gain;
  And last, provide your love may long remain.
  
  On these three precepts all my work shall move:
  These are the rules and principles of love.
  
  Before your youth with marriage is oppress't,
  Make choice of one who suits your humour best
  And such a damsel drops not from the sky;
  She must be sought for with a curious eye.
  
  The wary angler, in the winding brook,
  Knows what the fish, and where to bait his hook.
  
  The fowler and the huntsman know by name
  The certain haunts and harbour of their game.
  
  So must the lover beat the likeliest grounds;
  Th' Assemblies where his quarries most abound:
  Nor shall my novice wander far astray;
  These rules shall put him in the ready way.
  
  Thou shalt not fail around the continent,
  As far as Perseus or as Paris went:
  For Rome alone affords thee such a store,
  As all the world can hardly shew thee more.
  
  The face of heav'n with fewer stars is crown'd,
  Than beauties in the Roman sphere are found.
  
  Whether thy love is bent on blooming youth,
  On dawning sweetness, in unartful truth;
  Or courts the juicy joys of riper growth;
  Here may'st thou find thy full desires in both:
  Or if autumnal beauties please thy sight
  (An age that knows to give and take delight
  Millions of matrons, of the graver sort,
  In common prudence, will not balk the sport.
  
  In summer's heats thou need'st but only go
  To Pompey's cool and shady portico;
  Or Concord's fane; or that proud edifice
  Whose turrets near the bawdy suburbs rise;
  Or to that other portico, where stands
  The cruel father urging his commands.
  
  And fifty daughters wait the time of rest,
  To plunge their poniards in the bridegroom's breast.
  
  Or Venus' temple; where, on annual nights,
  They mourn Adonis with Assyrian rites.
  
  Nor shun the Jewish walk, where the foul drove
  On sabbaths rest from everything but love.
  
  Nor Isis' temple; for that sacred whore
  Makes others, what to Jove she was before;
  And if the hall itself be not belied,
  E'en there the cause of love is often tried;
  Near it at least, or in the palace yard,
  From whence the noisy combatants are heard.
  
  The crafty counsellors, in formal gown,
  There gain another's cause, but lose their own.
  
  Their eloquence is nonpluss'd in the suit;
  And lawyers, who had words at will, are mute.
  
  Venus from her adjoining temple smiles
  To see them caught in their litigious wiles;
  Grave senators lead home the youthful dame,
  Returning clients when they patrons came.
  
  But above all, the Playhouse is the place;
  There's choice of quarry in that narrow chace:
  There take thy stand, and sharply looking out,
  Soon may'st thou find a mistress in the rout,
  For length of time or for a single bout.
  
  The Theatres are berries for the fair;
  Like ants or mole-hills thither they repair;
  Like bees to hives so numerously they throng,
  It may be said they to that place belong:
  Thither they swarm who have the public voice;
  There choose, if plenty not distracts thy choice.
  
  To see, and to be seen, in heaps they run;
  Some to undo, and some to be undone.
  
  From Romulus the rise of plays began,
  To his new subjects a commodious man;
  Who, his unmarried soldiers to supply,
  Took care the commonwealth should multiply;
  Providing Sabine women for his braves,
  Like a true king, to get a race of slaves.
  
  His playhouse, not of Parian marble made,
  Nor was it spread with purple sails for shade;
  The stage with rushes or with leaves they strew'd;
  No scenes in prospect, no machining god.
  
  On rows of homely turf they sat to see,
  Crown'd with the wreaths of ev'ry common tree.
  
  There, while they sit in rustic majesty,
  Each lover had his mistress in his eye;
  And whom he saw most suiting to his mind,
  For joys of matrimonial rape design'd.
  
  Scarce could they wait the plaudit in their haste;
  But ere the dances and the song were past,
  The monarch gave the signal from his throne,
  And rising, bade his merry men fall on.
  
  The martial crew, like soldiers, ready press'd,
  Just at the word (the word too was the best),
  With joyful cries each other animate;
  Some choose, and some at hazard seize their mate.
  
  As doves from eagles, or from wolves the lambs,
  So from their lawless lovers fly the dames.
  
  Their fear was one, but not one face of fear:
  Some rend the lovely tresses of the hair:
  Some shriek, and some are struck with dumb despair.
  
  Her absent mother one invokes in vain;
  One stands amaz'd, not daring to complain;
  The nimbler trust their feet, the slow remain.
  
  But nought availing, all are captives led,
  Trembling and blushing, to the genial bed.
  
  She who too long resisted or denied,
  The lusty lover made by force a bride,
  And with superior strength compell'd her to his side,
  Then sooth'd her thus! "My soul's far better part,
  Cease weeping, nor afflict thy tender heart;
  For what thy father to thy mother was,
  That faith to thee, that solemn vow I pass!
  Thus Romulus became so popular;
  This was the way to thrive in peace and war;
  To pay his army, and fresh whores to bring:
  Who wouldn't fight for such a gracious king!
  Thus love in theatres did first improve,
  And theatres are still the scene of love.
  
  Nor shun the chariots and the courser's race;
  The circus is no inconvenient place.
  
  No need is there of talking on the hands;
  Nor nods, nor signs, which lovers understand.
  
  But boldly next the fair your seat provide,
  Close as ye can to hers—and side by side.
  
  Pleas'd or unpleas'd, no matter, crowding sit;
  For so the laws of public shows permit.
  
  Then find occasion to begin discourse;
  Enquire whose chariot this, and whose that horse?
  
  To whatsoever side she is inclin'd,
  Suit all her inclinations to her mind;
  Like what she likes, from thence your court begin.
  
  And whom she favours, wish that he may win.
  
  But when the statues of the deities
  In chariots roll'd, appear before the prize;
  When Venus comes, with deep devotion rise.
  
  If dust be on her lap, or grains of sand,
  Brush both away with your officious hand.
  
  If none there be, yet brush that nothing thence,
  And still to touch her lap make some pretence.
  
  Touch any thing of hers, and if her train
  Sweep on the ground, let it not sweep in vain;
  But gently take it up and wipe it clean;
  And while you wipe it, with observing eyes,
  Who knows but you may see her naked thighs!
  Observe who sits behind her, and beware,
  Lest his encroaching knees should press the fair
  Light service takes light minds, for some can tell
  Of favours won by laying cushions well;
  By fanning faces some their fortunes meet,
  And some by laying footstools for their feet.
  
  These overtures of love the circus gives,
  Nor at the sword play less the lover thrives;
  For there the son of Venus fights his prize,
  And deepest wounds are oft receiv'd from eyes.
  
  One, while the crowd their acclamations make,
  Or while he bets and puts his ring to stake,
  Is struck from far and feels the flying dart,
  And of the spectacle is made a part.
  
  Caesar would represent a naval fight,
  For his own honour and for Rome's delight.
  
  From either sea the youths and maidens come,
  And all the world was then contain'd in Rome!
  In this vast concourse, in this choice of game,
  What Roman heart but felt a foreign flame!
  Once more our prince prepares to make us glad,
  And the remaining east to Rome will add.
  
  Rejoice, ye Roman soldiers, in your urns,
  Your ensigns from the Parthians shall return,
  And the slain Crassi shall no longer mourn.
  
  A youth is sent those trophies to demand,
  Ard bears his father's thunders in his hand;
  Doubt not th' imperial boy in wars unseen,
  In childhood all of Caesar's race are men.
  
  Celestial seeds shoot out before their day,
  Prevent their years, and brook no dull delay.
  
  Thus infant Hercules the snakes did press,
  And in his cradle did his sire confess.
  
  Bacchus a boy, yet like a hero fought,
  And early spoils from conquer'd India brought.
  
  Thus you your father's troops shall lead to fight,
  And thus shall vanquish in your father's right.
  
  These rudiments you to your lineage owe;
  Born to increase your titles as you grow.
  
  Brethren you had, revenge your brethren slain;
  You have a father, and his rights maintain.
  
  Arm'd by your country's parent and your own,
  Redeem your country and restore his throne.
  
  Your enemies assert an impious cause;
  You fight both for divine and human laws.
  
  Already in their cause they are o'ercome;
  Subject them too, by force of arms, to Rome.
  
  Great father Mars with greater Caesar join,
  To give a prosperous omen to your line;
  One of you is, and one shall be divine.
  
  I prophesy you shall, you shall o'ercome;
  My verse shall bring you back in triumph home:
  Speak in my verse, exhort to loud alarms;
  O, were my numbers equal to your arms,
  Then would I sing the Parthians' overthrow;
  Their shot averse sent from a flying bow
  The Parthians, who already flying fight,
  Already give an omen of their flight.
  
  0, when will come the day, by heaven designed,
  When thou, the best and fairest of mankind,
  Drawn by white horses, shalt in triumph ride,
  With conquer'd slaves attending on thy side;
  Slaves that no longer can be safe in flight:
  O glorious object, O surprising sight,
  O day of public joy, too good to end in night!
  On such a day, if thou, and next to thee,
  Some beauty sits the spectacle to see;
  If she enquires the names of conquer'd kings,
  Of mountains, rivers, and of hidden springs,
  Answer to all thou know'st; and if need be,
  Of things unknown seem to speak knowingly:
  This is Euphrates, crown'd with reeds; and there
  Flows the swift Tigris, with his sea-green hair.
  
  Invent new names of things unknown before:
  Call this Armenia, that the Caspian shore;
  Call this a Mede, and that a Parthian youth;
  Talk probably,-no matter for the truth.
  
  In feasts, as at our shows, new means abound;
  More pleasure there, than that of wine, is found.
  
  The Paphian goddess there her ambush lays;
  And love, betwixt the horns of Bacchus plays:
  Desires increase at ev'ry swilling draught;
  Brisk vapour add new vigour to the thought.
  
  There Cupid's purple wings no flight afford,
  But wet with wine, he flutters on the board.
  
  He shakes his pinions, but he cannot move;
  Fix'd he remains, and turns a maudlin love.
  
  Wine warms the blood, and makes the spirits flow;
  Care flies, and wrinkles from the forehead go;
  Exalts the poor, invigorates the weak,
  Gives mirth and laughter, and a rosy cheek.
  
  Bold truth it speaks; and spoken, dare maintain;
  And brings our old simplicity again.
  
  Love sparkles in the cup and fills it higher;
  Wine feeds the flames, and fuel adds to fire.
  
  But choose no mistress in thy drunken fit;
  Wine gilds too much their beauties and their wit.
  
  Nor trust thy judgment when the tapers dance;
  But sober, and by day thy suit advance.
  
  By daylight Paris judg'd the beauteous three;
  And for the fairest did the prize decree.
  
  Night is a cheat, and all deformities
  Are hid, or lessen'd, in her dark disguise.
  
  The sun's fair light each error will confess,
  In face, in shape, in jewels, and in dress.
  
  Why name I ev'ry place where youths abound?
  
  'Tis loss of time; and a true fruitful ground.
  
  The Baian baths, where ships at anchor ride,
  And wholesome streams from sulphur fountains glide;
  Where wounded youths are by experience taught,
  The waters are less healthful than they thought,
  Or Dian's fane, which near the suburb lies;
  Where priests, for their promotion, fight a prize.
  
  That maiden goddess is love's mortal foe,
  And much from her his subjects undergo.
  
  Thus far the sportful muse, with myrtle bound,
  Has sung where lovely lasses may be found,
  Now let me sing, how she who wounds your mind,
  With art, may be to cure your wounds inclined.
  
  Young nobles, to my laws attention lend,
  And all you vulgar of my school attend.
  
  First then believe, all women may be won;
  Attempt with confidence, the work is done.
  
  The grasshopper shall first forbear to sing
  In summer season, or the birds in spring;
  Than women can resist your flatt'ring skill;
  E'en she will yield who swears she never will.
  
  To secret pleasures both the sexes move;
  But women most, who most dissemble, love;
  'Twere best for us, if they would first declare;
  Avow their passion, and submit to prayer.
  
  The cow by looing tells the bull her flame;
  The neighing mare invites her stallion to the game.
  
  Man is more temp'rate in his lust than they;
  And more than woman can his passion sway.
  
  Biblis, we know, did first her love declare,
  And had recourse to death in her despair.
  
  Her brother she, her father Myrrha sought;
  And lov'd; but lov'd not as a daughter ought.
  
  Now from a tree she stills her od'rous tears;
  Which yet the name of her who shed 'em bear.
  
  In Ida's shady vale a bull appeared,
  White as the snow, the fairest of the herd;
  A beauty spot of black there only rose,
  Betwixt his equal horns and ample brows;
  The love and wish of all the Cretan cows.
  
  The queen beheld him as his head he rear'd;
  And envied ev'ry leap he gave the herd.
  
  A secret fire she nourished in her breast;
  And hated ev'ry heifer he caress'd.
  
  A story known, and known for true, I tell;
  Nor Crete, though lying, can the truth conceal.
  
  She cut him grass (so much can love command)
  She strok'd, she fed him with her royal hand;
  Was pleas'd in pastures with the herd to roam,
  And Minos by the bull was overcome.
  
  Cease, Queen, with gems t'adorn thy beauteous brows,
  The monarch of thy heart no jewel knows.
  
  Nor in thy glass compose thy looks and eyes;
  Secure from all thy charms thy lover lies:
  Yet trust thy mirror, when it tells thee true,
  Thou art no heifer to allure his view.
  
  Soon wouldst thou quit thy royal diadem
  To thy fair rivals; to be horned like them.
  
  If Minos please, no lover seek to find;
  If not, at least seek one of human kind.
  
  The wretched queen the Cretan court forsakes;
  In woods and wilds her habitation makes;
  She curses ev'ry beauteous cow she sees;
  "Ah, why dost thou my lord and master please!
  And think'st, ungrateful creature as thou art,
  With frisking awkardly to gain his heart.
  
  "
  She said; and straight commands with frowning look,
  To put her, undeserving, to the yoke.
  
  Or feigns some holy rites of sacrifice,
  And sees her rival's death with joyful eyes;
  Then when the bloody priest has done his part,
  Pleas'd, in her hand she holds the beating heart;
  Nor from a scornful taunt can scarce refrain,
  Go, fool, and strive to please my love again"
  Now she would be Europa.
  
  -- Io now;
  (One bare a bull.
  
  and one was made a cow.
  
  )
  Yet she at last her brutal bliss obtain'd,
  And in a wooden cow the bull sustained;
  Fill'd with his seed, accomplish'd her desire,
  Till, by his form, the son betray'd the sire.
  
  If Atreus' wife to incest had not run,
  (But ah, how hard it is to love but one!)
  His coursers Phoebus had not driv'n away,
  To shun that sight, and interrupt the day.
  
  Thy daughter, Nissus, pull'd thy purple hair;
  And barking sea-dogs yet her bowels tear.
  
  At sea and land Atrides sav'd his life;
  Yet fell a prey to his adult'rous wife.
  
  Who knows not what revenge Medea sought,
  When the slain offspring bore the father's fault!
  Thus Phoenix did a woman's love bewail;
  And thus Hippolytus by Phaedra fell.
  
  These crimes revengeful matrons did commit!
  Hotter their lust, and sharper is their wit.
  
  Doubt not from them an easy victory;
  Scarce of a thousand dames will one deny.
  
  All women are content that men should woo;
  She who complains, and she who will not do.
  
  Rest then secure, whate'er thy luck may prove,
  Not to be hated for declaring love:
  And yet how canst thou miss, since womankind
  Is frail and vain; and still to change inclin'd?
  
  Old husbands, and stale gallants, they despise;
  And more another's than their own they prize.
  
  A larger crop adorns our neighbour's field,
  More milk his kine from swelling udders yield.
  
  First gain the maid; by her thou shalt be sure
  A free access, and easy to procure;
  Who knows what to her office does belong,
  Is in the secret, and can hold her tongue,
  Bribe her with gifts, with promises, and pray'rs;
  For her good word goes far in love affairs.
  
  The time and fit occasion leave to her,
  When she most amply can thy suit prefer.
  
  The time for maids to fire their lady's blood
  Is when they find her in a merry mood.
  
  When all things at her wish and pleasure move;
  Her heart is open then, and free to love.
  
  Then mirth and wantonness to lust betray,
  And smooth the passage to the lover's way.
  
  Troy stood the siege, when fill'd with anxious care
  One merry fit concluded all the war.
  
  If some fair rival vex her jealous mind,
  Offer thy service to revenge in kind.
  
  Instruct the damsel, while she combs her hair,
  To raise the choler of that injur'd fair;
  And sighing, make her mistress understand
  She has the means of vengeance in her hand.
  
  Then, naming thee, thy humble suit prefer;
  And swear thou languishest and diest for her.
  
  Then let her lose no time, but push at all;
  For women soon are rais'd, and soon they fall.
  
  Give their first fury leisure to relent,
  They melt like ice, and suddenly repent.
  
  T' enjoy the maid, will that thy suit advance?
  
  'Tis a hard question, and a doubtful chance.
  
  One maid corrupted, bawds the better for't;
  Another for herself would keep the sport.
  
  Thy bus'ness may be furthered or delay'd,
  But by my counsel, let alone the maid
  E'en tho' she should consent to do the feat;
  The profit's little, and the danger great.
  
  I will not lead thee through a rugged road,
  But where the way lies open, safe and broad,
  Yet if thou find'st her very much thy friend,
  And her good face her diligence commend,
  Let the fair mistress have the first embrace,
  And let the maid come after in her place.
  
  But this I will advise, and mark my words,
  For 'tis the best advice my skill affords;
  If needs thou with the damsel wilt begin,
  Before th' attempt is made, make sure to win;
  For then the secret better will be kept,
  And she can tell no tales when once she's dipt.
  
  'Tis for the fowler's int'rest to beware,
  The bird intangled, should not 'scape the snare.
  
  The fish once prick'd avoids the bearded hook,
  And spoils the sport of all the neighb'ring brook.
  
  But if the wench be thine, she makes thy way,
  And for thy sake, her mistress will betray;
  Tell all she knows, and all she hears her say
  Keep well the counsel of thy faithful spy;
  So shalt thou learn whene'er she treads awry.
  
  All things the stations of their seasons keep;
  And certain times there are to sow and reap.
  
  Ploughmen and sailors for the season stay,
  One to plough land, and one to plough the sea;
  So should the lover wait the lucky day.
  
  Then stop thy suit, it hurts not thy design;
  But think another hour she may be thine.
  
  And when she celebrates her birth at home,
  Or when she views the public shows of Rome;
  Know all thy visits then are troublesome.
  
  Defer thy work, and put not then to sea,
  For that's a boding and a stormy day.
  
  Else take thy time, and when thou canst, begin;
  To break a Jewish sabbath, think no sin;
  Nor e'en on superstitious days abstain;
  Nor when the Romans were at Allia slain.
  
  Ill omens in her frowns are understood;
  When she's in humour, ev'ry day is good.
  
  But than her birthday seldom comes a worse,
  When bribes and presents must be sent of course;
  And that's a bloody day that costs thy purse.
  
  Be stanch; yet parsimony will be vain:
  The craving sex will still the lover drain.
  
  No skill can shift them off, nor art remove;
  They will be begging when they know we love.
  
  The merchant comes upon th' appointed day,
  Who shall before thy face his wares display.
  
  To choose for her she craves thy kind advice,
  Then begs again to bargain for the price;
  But when she has her purchase in her eye,
  She hugs thee close, and kisses thee to buy;
  "'Tis what I want, and 'tis a pen'orth too;
  In many years I will not trouble you.
  
  "
  If you complain you have no ready coin,—
  No matter, 'tis but writing of a line;
  A little bill, not to be paid at sight:
  (Now curse the time when thou wert taught to write.
  
  )
  She keeps her birthday; you must send the cheer:
  And she'll be born a hundred times a year.
  
  With daily lies she dribs thee into cost;
  That ear-ring dropt a stone, that ring is lost.
  
  They often borrow what they never pay;
  What e'er you lend her, think it thrown away.
  
  Had I ten mouths and tongues to tell each art,
  All would be wearied ere I told a part.
  
  By letters, not by words, thy love begin;
  And ford the dangerous passage with thy pen;
  If to her heart thou aim'st to find the way,
  Extremely flatter and extremely pray.
  
  Priam by pray'rs did Hector's body gain;
  Nor is an angry god invok'd in vain.
  
  With promis'd gifts her early mind bewitch,
  For e'en the poor in promise may be rich.
  
  Vain hopes awhile her appetite will stay;
  'Tis a deceitful, but commodious way.
  
  Who gives is mad; but make her still believe
  'Twill come, and that's the cheapest way to give.
  
  E'en barren lands fair promises afford,
  But the lean harvest cheats the starving lord.
  
  Buy not thy first employment, lest it prove
  Of bad example to thy future love ;
  But get it gratis, and she'll give thee more,
  For fear of losing what she gave before.
  
  The losing gamester shakes the box in vain,
  And bleeds, and loses on, in hopes to gain.
  
  Write then, and in thy letter, as I said,
  Let her with mighty promises be fed.
  
  Cydyppe by a letter was betray'd,
  Writ on an apple to th' unwary maid;
  She read herself into a marriage vow,
  (And every cheat in love the gods allow.
  
  )
  Learn eloquence, ye noble youth of Rome,—
  It will not only at the bar o'ercome:
  Sweet words the people and the senate move;
  But the chief end of eloquence is love.
  
  But in thy letter hide thy moving arts,
  Affect not to be thought a man of parts;
  None but vain fools to simple women preach:
  A learned letter oft has made a breach.
  
  In a familiar style your thoughts convey,
  And write such things as, present, you would say;
  Such words as from the heart may seem to move;
  'Tis wit enough to make her think you love.
  
  If seal'd she sends it back, and will not read,
  Yet hope, in time, the business may succeed.
  
  In time the steer will to the yoke submit,
  In time the restive horse will bear the bit.
  
  E'en the hard ploughshare use will wear away,
  And stubborn steel in length of time decay.
  
  Water is soft and marble hard, and yet
  We see soft water through hard marble eat.
  
  Though late, yet Troy at length in flames expir'd;
  And ten years more, Penelope had tir'd.
  
  Perhaps she writes, and answers with disdain,
  And sharply bids you not to write again:
  What she requires, she fears you would accord;
  The jilt would not be taken at her word.
  
  Meantime, if she be carried in her chair,
  Approach, but do not seem to know she's there:
  Speak softly, to delude the standers by;
  Or, if aloud, then speak ambiguously.
  
  If sauntering in the portico she walk,
  Move slowly too, for that's a time for talk;
  And sometimes follow, sometimes be her guide,
  But when the crowds permit, go side by side.
  
  Nor in the playhouse let her sit alone,
  For she's the playhouse and the play in one;
  There thou may'st ogle, or by signs advance
  Thy hand, and seem to touch her hand by chance.
  
  Admire the dancer who her liking gains,
  And pity in the play the lover's pails;
  For her sweet sake the loss of time despise,
  Sit while she sits, and when she rises rise.
  
  But dress not like a fop, nor curl your hair,
  Nor with a pumice make your body bare;
  Leave those effeminate and useless toys
  To eunuchs, who can give no solid joys.
  
  Neglect becomes a man-this Theseus found;
  Uncurl'd, uncomb'd, the nymphs his wishes crowned.
  
  The rough Hippolytus was Phaedra's care,
  And Venus thought the rude Adonis fair.
  
  Be not too finical, but yet be clean,
  And wear well fashioned clothes, like other men;
  Let not your teeth be yellow or be foul,
  Nor in wide shoes your feet too loosely roll.
  
  Of a black muzzle and long beard beware,
  And let a skilful barber cut your hair;
  Your nails be pick'd from dirt, and even par'd;
  Nor let your nasty nostrils bud with beard.
  
  Cure your unsav'ry breath; gargle your throat;
  And free your armpits from the ram and goat.
  
  Dress not, in short, too little or too much;
  And be not wholly French nor wholly Dutch.
  
  Now Bacchus calls me to his jolly rites:
  Who would not follow when a god invites?
  
  He helps the poet, and his pen inspires;
  Kind and indulgent to his former fires.
  
  Fair Ariadne wander'd on the shore
  Forsaken now; and Theseus loves no more;
  Loose was her gown, dishevel'd was her hair,
  Her bosom naked, and her feet were bare;
  Exclaiming, on the water's brink she stood,
  Her briny tears augment the briny flood;
  She shriek'd and wept, and both became her face,
  No posture could that heav'nly form disgrace.
  
  She beat her breast:—"The traitor's gone," said she;
  "What shall become of poor forsaken me?
  
  What shall become-" She had not time for more,
  The sounding cymbals rattled on the shore.
  
  She swoons for fear, she falls upon the ground;
  No vital heat was in her body found.
  
  The Mimallonian dames about her stood,
  And scudding satyrs ran before their god.
  
  Silenus on his ass did next appear,
  And held upon the mane (the god was clear).
  
  The drunken sire pursues, the dames retire;
  Sometimes the drunken dames pursue the drunken sire.
  
  At last he topples over on the plain;
  The satyrs laugh, and bid him rise again.
  
  And now the god of wine came driving on,
  High on his chariot by swift tigers drawn.
  
  Her colour, voice, and sense forsook the fair;
  Thrice did her trembling limbs for flight prepare,
  And thrice affrighted did her flight forbear.
  
  She shook like leaves of corn when tempests blow,
  Or slender reeds that in the marshes grow.
  
  To whom the god-" Compose thy fearful mind;
  In me a truer husband thou shalt find.
  
  With heav'n I will endow thee, and thy star
  Shall with propitious light be seen afar,
  And guide on seas the doubtful mariner.
  
  "
  He said; and from his chariot leaping light,
  Lest the grim tigers should the nymph affright,
  His brawny arms around her waist he threw,
  (For gods whate'er they please with ease can do,)
  And swiftly bore her thence; th' attending throng
  Shout at the sight, and sing the nuptial song.
  
  Now in full bowls her sorrow she may steep;
  The bridegroom's liquor lays the bride asleep.
  
  But thou, when flowing cups in triumph ride,
  And the lov'd nymph is seated by thy side,
  Invoke the god and all the mighty powers,
  That wine may not defraud thy genial hours.
  
  Then in ambiguous words thy suit prefer,
  Which she may know were all address'd to her.
  
  In liquid purple letters write her name,
  Which she may read, and reading find the flame.
  
  Then may your eyes confess your mutual fires,
  (For eyes have tongues, and glances tell desires
  Whene'er she drinks, be first to take the cup;
  And where she laid her lips, the blessing sup.
  
  When she to carving does her hand advance,
  Put out thy own, and touch it as by chance.
  
  Thy service e'en the husband must attend;
  (A husband is a most convenient friend.
  
  )
  Seat the fool cuckold in the highest place,
  And with thy garland his dull temples grace'
  Whether below or equal in degree,
  Let him be lord of all the company,
  And what he says be seconded by thee.
  
  Tis common to deceive thro' friendship's name,
  But common though it be, 'tis still to blame;
  Thus factors frequently their trust betray,
  And to themselves their masters' gains convey.
  
  Drink to a certain pitch, and then give o'er;
  Thy tongue and feet may stumble, drinking more.
  
  Of drunken quarrels in her sight beware;
  Pot valour only serves to fright the fair.
  
  Eurytion justly fell, by wine oppress't,
  For his rude riot at a wedding-feast.
  
  Sing, if you have a voice; and shew your parts
  In dancing, if endu'd with dancing arts.
  
  Do anything within your power to please;
  Nay, e'en affect a seeming drunkenness;
  Clip every word; and if by chance you speak
  Too home, or if too broad a jest you break,
  In your excuse the company will join,
  And lay the fault upon the force of wine.
  
  True drunkenness is subject to offend,
  But when 'tis feign'd 'tis oft a lover's friend:
  Then safely you may praise her beauteous face,
  And call him happy who is in her grace;
  Her husband thinks himself the man design'd,
  But curse the cuckold in your secret mind.
  
  When all are risen and prepar'd to go,
  Mix with the crowd and tread upon her toe;
  This is the proper time to make thy court,
  For now she's in the vein, and fit for sport.
  
  Lay bashfulness, that rustic virtue, by;
  To manly confidence thy thoughts apply.
  
  On fortune's foretop timely fix thy hold;
  Now speak and speed.
  
  for Venus loves the bold.
  
  No rules of rhetoric here I need afford;
  Only begin, and trust the following word:
  It will be witty of its own accord.
  
  Act well the lover; let thy speech abound
  In dying words, that represent thy wound;
  Distrust not her belief; she will be mov'd:
  All women think they merit to be lov'd.
  
  Sometimes a man begins to love in jest,
  And after feels the torment he possess't.
  
  For your own sakes be pitiful, ye fair,
  For a feign'd passion may a true prepare.
  
  By flatteries we prevail on womankind,
  As hollow banks by streams are undermin'd:
  Tell her her face is fair, her eyes are sweet;
  Her taper fingers praise, and little feet.
  
  Such praises e'en the chaste are pleas'd to hear;
  Both maids and matrons hold their beauty dear.
  
  Once naked Pallas with Jove's queen appear'd,
  And still they grieve that Venus was preferr'd.
  
  Praise the proud peacock, and lie spreads his train:
  Be silent, and lie pulls it in again.
  
  Pleas'd is the courser in his rapid race;
  Applaud his running, and he mends his pace.
  
  But largely promise and devoutly swear,
  And, if need be, call ev'ry god to hear.
  
  Jove sits above, forgiving with a smile
  The perjuries that easy maids beguile.
  
  He swore to Juno by the Stygian lake;
  Forsworn, lie dares not an example make,
  Or punish falsehood, for his own dear sake.
  
  'Tis for our interest the gods should be;
  Let us believe them; I believe they see,
  And both reward and punish equally.
  
  Not that they live above like lazy drones,
  Or kings below, supine upon their thrones;
  Lead then your lives as present in their sight;
  Be just in dealings, and defend the right;
  By fraud betray not, nor oppress by might.
  
  But 'tis a venial sin to cheat the fair;
  All men have liberty of conscience there.
  
  On cheating nymphs a cheat is well design'd,
  'Tis a profane and a deceitful kind.
  
  'Tis said that Egypt for nine years was dry,
  Nor Nile did floods, nor heav'n did rain supply.
  
  That slaughter'd guests would kindly moisture bring.
  
  The king replied, "On thee the lot shall fall;
  Be thou, my guest, the sacrifice for all.
  
  "
  Thus Phalaris Perillus taught to low,
  And made him season first the brazen cow.
  
  A rightful doom, the laws of nature cry,
  'Tis, the artificers of death should die.
  
  Thus justly women suffer by deceit,
  Their practice authorises us to cheat.
  
  Beg her, with tears, thy warm desires to grant;
  For tears will pierce a heart of adamant.
  
  If tears will not be squeezed, then rub your eye,
  Or 'noint the lids, and seem at least to cry.
  
  Kiss, if you can; resistance if she make,
  And will not give you kisses, let her take.
  
  "Fy, fy, you naughty man," are words of course;
  She struggles but to be subdu'd by force.
  
  Kiss only soft, I charge you, and beware
  With your hard bristles not to brush the fair.
  
  He who has gain'd a kiss, and gains no more,
  Deserves to lose the bliss he got before.
  
  If once she kiss, her meaning is exprest;
  There wants but little pushing for the rest;
  Which if thou dost not gain, by strength or art,
  The name of clown then suits with thy desert;
  'Tis downright dulness, and a shameful part.
  
  Perhaps she calls it force, but if she 'scape,
  She will not thank you for th' omitted rape.
  
  The sex is cunning to conceal their fires;
  They would be forc'd e'en to their own desires.
  
  They seem t' accuse you with a down-cast sight,
  But in their souls confess you did them right.
  
  Who might be forc'd, and yet untouch'd depart,
  Thank with their tongues, but curse you with their heart.
  
  Fair Phoebe and her sister did prefer,
  To their dull mates, the noble ravisher.
  
  What Deidamia did in days of yore,
  The tale is old but worth the telling o'er.
  
  When Venus had the golden apple gain'd,
  And the just judge fair Helen had obtained;
  When she with triumph was at Troy receiv'd,
  The Trojans joyful, while the Grecians griev'd:
  They vow'd revenge of violated laws,
  And Greece was arming in the cuckold's cause;
  Achilles, by his mother warn'd from war,
  Disguis'd his sex, and lurk'd among the fair.
  
  What means Aeacides to spin and sew ?
  
  With spear and sword in field thy valour show!
  And leaving this, the noble Pallas know.
  
  Why dost thou in that hand the distaff wield,
  Which is more worthy to sustain the shield?
  
  Or with that other draw the woolly twine,
  The same the fates for lector's thread assign?
  
  Banish thy falchion in thy powerful hand,
  Which can alone the pond'rous lance command.
  
  In the same room by chance the royal maid
  Was lodg'd, and, by his seeming sex, betrayed,
  Close to her side the youthful hero laid.
  
  I know not how his courtship he began;
  But, to her cost, she found it was a man.
  
  'Tis thought she struggled, but withal 'tis thought
  Her wish was to be conquer'd, when she fought.
  
  For when disclos'd, and hast'ning to the field,
  He laid his distaff down and took the shield,
  With tears her humble suit she did prefer,
  And thought to stay the grateful ravisher.
  
  She sighs, she sobs, she begs him not to part;
  And now 'tis nature what before was art.
  
  She strives by force her lover to detain,
  And wishes to be ravish'd once again.
  
  This is the sex; they will not first begin,
  But when compelled, are pleas'd to suffer sin.
  
  Is there, who thinks that woman first should woo?
  
  Lay by thy self-conceit, thou foolish beau.
  
  Begin, and save their modesty the shame;
  'Tis well for thee, if they receive thy flame.
  
  'Tis decent for a man to speak his mind;
  They but expect th' occasion to be kind.
  
  Ask, that thou may'st enjoy; she waits for this:
  And on thy first advance depends thy bliss.
  
  E'en Jove himself was forc'd to sue for love;
  None of the nymphs did first solicit Jove.
  
  But if you find your pray'rs increase her pride,
  Strike sail awhile, and wait another tide.
  
  They fly when we pursue; but make delay.
  
  And when they see you shaken, they will stay.
  
  Sometimes it profits to conceal your end;
  Name not yourself her lover, but her friend.
  
  How many skittish girls have thus been caught?
  
  He prov'd a lover, who a friend was thought.
  
  Sailors by sun and wind are swarthy made;
  A tann'd complexion best becomes their trade.
  
  'Tis a disgrace to ploughmen to be fair;
  Bluff cheeks they have, and weather-beaten hair.
  
  Th' ambitious youth who seeks an olive crown,
  Is sun-burnt with his daily toil, and brown;
  But if the lover hopes to be in grace,
  Wall be his looks, and meagre be his face.
  
  That colour from the fair compassion draws;
  She thinks you sick, and thinks herself the cause.
  
  Orion wander'd in the woods for love.
  
  His paleness did the nymphs to pity move;
  His gastly visage argu'd hidden love.
  
  Nor fail a night-cap in full health to wear;
  Neglect thy dress, and discompose thy hair.
  
  All things are decent, that in love avail.
  
  Read long by night, and study to be pale.
  
  Forsake your food, refuse your needful rest;
  Be miserable that you may be blest.
  
  Shall I complain, or shall I warn you most?
  
  Faith, truth, and friendship, in the world are lost;
  A little and an empty name they boast.
  
  Trust not thy friend, much less thy mistress praise;
  If he believe, thou man'st a rival raise.
  
  'Tis true, Patroclus, by no lust misled,
  Sought not to stain his dear companion's bed.
  
  Nor Pylades Hermione embrac'd;
  Ev'n Phaedra to Pirithous still was chaste.
  
  But hope not thou, in this vile age to find
  Those rare examples of a faithful mind.
  
  The sea shall sooner with sweet honey flow;
  Or from the furze pears and apples grow.
  
  We sin with gust, we love by fraud to gain,
  And find a pleasure in our fellow's pain.
  
  From rival foes you may the fair defend;
  But would you ward the blow, beware your friend.
  
  Beware your brother, and your next of kin;
  But from your bosom friend your care begin.
  
  Here had I ended, but experience finds,
  That sundry women are of sundry minds;
  With various crotchets fill'd, and hard to please,
  They therefore must be caught by various ways.
  
  All things are not produced in any soil;
  This ground for wine is proper, that for oil.
  
  So 'tis in men, but more in woman-kind;
  Diff'rent in face, in manners, and in mind.
  
  But wise men shift their sails with ev'ry wind;
  As changeful Proteus varied oft his shape,
  And did in sundry forms and figures 'scape.
  
  A running stream, a standing tree became,
  A roaring lion, or a bleating lamb.
  
  Some fish with harpoons, some with darts, are struck
  Some drawn with nets, some hang upon the hook;
  So turn thyself; and imitating them,
  Try several tricks, and change thy stratagem.
  
  One rule will not for diff'rent ages hold;
  The jades grow cunning, as they grow more old.
  
  Then talk not bawdy to the bashful maid;
  Broad words will make her innocence afraid.
  
  Nor to an ign'rant girl of learning speak;
  She thinks you conjure when you talk in Greek.
  
  And hence 'tis often seen, the simple shun
  The learn'd, and into vile embraces run.
  
  Part of my task is done, and part to do:
  But here 'tis time to rest myself and you.

• The Art of Love—Book 2 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Now Io Paean sing! now wreaths prepare!
  And with repeated Ios fill the air:
  The prey is fall'n in my successful toils,
  My artful nets inclose the lovely spoils.
  
  My numbers now, ye smiling lovers, crown,
  And make your poet deathless in renown:
  With lasting fame my verse shall be enroll'd,
  And I preferr'd to all the bards of old.
  
  Thus Paris from the warlike Spartans bore
  Their ravish'd bride to Ida's distant shore.
  
  Victorious Pelops thus in triumph drove
  The vanquish'd maid, and thus enjoy'd his love.
  
  Stay, eager youth! your bark's but under sail;
  The distant port requires a prosp'rous gale.
  
  'Tis not enough the yielding beauty's found,
  And with my aid your artful passion crown'd;
  The conquests our successful conduct gain'd,
  With art must be secur'd, by arts maintain'd.
  
  The glory's more to guard than win the prize,
  There all the toil and threatening danger lies.
  
  If ever, Cupid, now indulgent prove;
  O Venus! aid, thou charming queen of love!
  Kind Erato, let thy auspicious name
  Inspire the work, and raise my gen'rous flame.
  
  The labour's great! a method I design
  For love, and will the fetter'd god confine;
  The god that roves the spacious world around,
  In ev'ry clime, and distant region found;
  Active and light, his wings elude our guard,
  And to confine a deity is hard.
  
  His guest from flight Minos inclos'd around,
  Yet he with wings a daring passage found.
  
  Thus Daedalus her offspring first confin'd;
  Who, with a bull, in lewd embraces join'd:
  Her teeming womb the horrid crime confess'd;
  Big with a human bull, half man half beast.
  
  Said he, " Just Minos, best of human kind,
  Thy mercy let a prostrate exile find:
  By fates compell'd my native shores to fly,
  Permit me, where I durst not live, to die,
  Enlarge my son, if you neglect my tears,
  And show compassion to his blooming years:
  Let not the youth a long confinement mourn,
  Oh, free the son, or let his sire return!"
  Thus he implor'd, but still implor'd in vain,
  Nor could the freedom that he sought, obtain.
  
  Convinc'd at length; "Now, Daedalus," he cried,
  "Here's subject for thy art that's yet untried.
  
  Minos the earth commands, and guards the sea,
  No pass the land affords, the deep no way:
  Heav'n's only free, we'll heav'n's auspicious height
  Attempt to pass, where kinder fates invite;
  Favor, ye powers above, my daring flight!"
  Misfortunes oft prove to inventions kind,
  Instruct our wit, and aid the lab'ring mind:
  For who can credit men, in wild despair,
  Should force a passage thro' the yielding air?
  
  Feathers for wings design'd the artists chose,
  And bound with thread his forming pinions close;
  With temper'd wax the pointed end he wrought,
  And to perfection his new labors brought.
  
  The finish'd wings his smiling offspring views,
  Admires the work, not conscious of their use:
  To whom the father said, "Observe aright,
  Observe, my son, these instruments of flight.
  
  In vain the tyrant our escape retards,
  The heavens he cannot, all but heav'n he guards:
  Tho' earth and seas elude a father's care,
  These wings shall waft us through the spacious air.
  
  Nor shall my son celestial signs survey,
  Far from the radient virgin take your way;
  Or where Bootes the chill'd north commands,
  And with his fau chion dread Orion stands:
  I'll go before, me still retain in sight,
  Where'er I lead securely make your flight.
  
  For should we upward soar too near the sun,
  Dissolv'd with heat the liquid wax will run;
  Or near the seas an humbler flight maintain,
  Our plumes will suffer by the streaming main.
  
  A medium keep, the winds observe aright;
  The winds will aid your advantageous flight.
  
  "
  He caution'd thus, and thus inform'd him long,
  As careful birds instruct their tender young;
  The spreading wings then to his shoulders bound,
  His body pois'd, and rais'd him from the ground.
  
  Prepar'd for flight, his aged arms embrace
  The tender youth, whilst tears o'erflow his face.
  
  A hill there was, from whence the anxious pair
  Essay'd their wings, and forth they launch'd air;
  Now his expanded plumes the artist plies,
  Regards his son, and leads along the skies;
  Pleas'd with the novelty of flight, the boy
  Bounds in the air, and upward springs with joy.
  
  The angler views them from the distant strand,
  And quits the labors of his trembling hand;
  Samos they past, and Naxos in their flight,
  And Delos, with Apollo's presence bright.
  
  Now on their right Lebintho's shores they found,
  For fruitful lakes and shady groves renown'd.
  
  When the aspiring boy forgot his fears,
  Rash with hot youth and unexperienc'd years;
  Upwards he soar'd, maintain'd a lofty stroke,
  And his directing father's way forsook.
  
  The wax, of heat impatient, melted run,
  Nor could his wings sustain the blaze of sun.
  
  From heaven he views the fatal depths below,
  Whilst killing fears prevent the distant blow.
  
  His struggling arms now no resistance find,
  Nor poise the body nor receive the wind.
  
  Falling, his father he implores in vain,
  To aid his flight, and sinking limbs sustain;
  His name invokes, till the expiring sound
  Far in the floods with Icarus was drown'd.
  
  The parent mourns, a parent now no more,
  And seeks the absent youth on ev'ry shore;
  "Where's my lov'd son, my Icarus?
  
  " he cries,
  "Say in what distant region of the skies,
  Or faithless clime the youthful wand'rer flies;"
  Then view'd his pinions scatter'd o'er the stream.
  
  The shore his bones received, the waves his name.
  
  Minos with walls attempted to detain
  His flying guests, but did attempt in vain;
  Yet the wing'd god shall to our rules submit,
  And Cupid yield to more prevailing wit.
  
  Thessalian arts in vain rash lovers use,
  In vain with drugs the scornful maid abuse;
  The skilfull'st potions ineffectual prove.
  
  Useless are magic remedies in love;
  Could charms prevail, Circe had prov'd her art,
  And fond Medea fix'd her Jason's heart;
  Nor tempt with philters the disdainful dame;
  They rage inspire, create a frantic flame:
  Abstain from guilt, all vicious arts remove,
  And make your passion worthy of her love.
  
  Distrust your empty form and boasted face,
  The nymph engage a thousand nobler ways;
  To fix her vanquish'd heart entirely thine,
  Accomplish'd graces to your native join.
  
  Beauty's but frail, a charm that soon decays,
  Its lustre fades as rolling years increase,
  And age still triumphs o'er the ruin'd face.
  
  This truth the fair but short liv'd-lily shows,
  And prickles that survive the faded rose.
  
  Learn, lovely boy, be with instruction wise!
  Beauty and youth misspent are past advice.
  
  Then cultivate thy mind with wit and fame,
  Those lasting charms survive the funeral flame.
  
  With arts and sciences your breast improve,
  Of high import are languages in love:
  The fam'd Ulysses was not fair nor young,
  But eloquent and charming with his tongue:
  And yet with him contented beauties strove,
  And ev'ry sea-nymph sought the hero's love.
  
  Calypso mourn'd when he forsook her shores,
  And with fond waves detain'd his hasty oars,
  Oft she enquir'd of ruin'd Ilium's fate,
  Making him oft the wondrous tale relate;
  Which with such grace his florid tongue could frame,
  The story still was new, tho' still the same.
  
  Now standing on the shores, "Again declare,"
  Calypso cried, "your fam'd exploits in war.
  
  "
  lie with a wand, a slender wand he bore,
  Delineates ev'ry action on the shore.
  
  "Here's Troy," says he, then draws the walls in sand.
  
  "There Simois flows, here my battalions stand.
  
  A field there was," and then describes the field,
  "Where Dolon, with rewards deceiv'd, we kill'd.
  
  Just thus entrench'd imagine Rhesus lies,
  And here we make his warlike steeds our prize.
  
  "
  Much he describ'd, when a destructive wave
  Wash'd off the slender Troy, and rolling gave
  To Rhesus and his tents one common grave.
  
  Long with delight his charming tongue she heard,
  The well-rais'd passion in her looks appear'd:
  The goddess weeps to view his spreading sails,
  So much a soldier with the sex prevails.
  
  Distrust thy form, fond youth, and learn to know,
  There's more requir'd in love than empty show.
  
  With just disdain she treats the haughty mind,
  'Tis complaisance that makes a beauty kind.
  
  The hawk we hate that always lives in arms,
  The raging wolf that ev'ry flock alarms:
  But the mild swallow none with toils infest,
  And none the soft Chaonian birds molest.
  
  Debates avoid, and rude contention shun;
  A woman's with submissive language won.
  
  Let the wife rail, and injur'd husband swear,
  Such freedoms are allow'd the married pair;
  Discord and strife to nuptial beds belong,
  The portion justifies a clam'rous tongue.
  
  With tender vows the yielding maid endear,
  And let her only sighs and wishes hear;
  Contrive with words and actions to delight,
  Still charm her ear, and still oblige her sight.
  
  I no instructions to the rich impart,
  He needs not, that presents, my useless art:
  The giving lover's handsome, valiant, wise,
  His happy fortune is above advice.
  
  And, wanting wealth, with melting language move,
  His honour storms a stubborn damsel's door;
  I'm cautious to affront, because I'm poor.
  
  With pleasing arts I court, with arts possess;
  Or if I'm bounteous, 'tis in promises.
  
  Enrag'd, I ruffl'd once Corinna's hair,
  Long was I banish'd by the injur'd fair;
  Long mournful nights for this consum'd alone,
  Nor could my tears the furious maid atone.
  
  Weeping, she vow'd, a suit of point I tore;
  Falsely she vow'd, but I must purchase more.
  
  Make not your guilty master's crime your own,
  But by my punishment my error shun.
  
  Indecent fury from her sight remove,
  No passion let your mistress know, but love.
  
  Yet if the haughty nymph's unkind, and coy,
  Or shuns your sight; have patience, and enjoy.
  
  By slow degrees we bend the stubborn bough;
  What force resists, with art will pliant grow.
  
  In vain we stem a torrent's rapid force,
  But swim with ease, complying with its course.
  
  By gentler arts we savage beasts reclaim,
  And lions, bulls, and furious tigers tame.
  
  Fiercely Atlanta o er the forest rov'd,
  Cruel and wild, and yet at last she lov'd.
  
  Melanion long deplor'd his hopeless flame,
  And weeping, in the woods pursu'd the scornful dame.
  
  On his submissive neck her toils he wore,
  And with his mistress chased the dreadful boar.
  
  Arm'd to the woods I bid you not repair,
  Nor follow over hills the savage fair:
  My soft injunctions less severe you'll find,
  Easy to learn, and fram'd to ev'ry mind.
  
  Her wishes never, nor her will withstand;
  Submit, you conquer; serve, and you'll command.
  
  Her words approve, deny what she denies,
  Like where she likes, and where she scorns, despise.
  
  Laugh when she smiles; when sad, dissolve in tears;
  Let ev'ry gesture sympathize with hers.
  
  If she delights, as women will, in play,
  Her stakes return, your ready losings pay.
  
  When she's at cards, or rattling dice she throws,
  Connive at cheats, and generously lose.
  
  A smiling winner let the nymph remain,
  Let your pleas'd mistress every conquest gain.
  
  In heat, with an umbrella ready stand;
  When walking, offer your officious hand.
  
  Her trembling hands, tho' you sustain the cold.
  
  Cherish, and to your warmer bosom hold.
  
  Think no inferior office a disgrace,
  No action that a mistress gains is base.
  
  The hero that eluded Juno's spite,
  And every monster overcame in fight;
  That pass'd so many bloody labours o'er,
  And well deserv'd that heav'n whose weight he bore;
  Amidst Ionian damsels carding stands,
  And grasps the distaff in obedient hands;
  In all commands the haughty dame obeys:
  And who disdains to act like Hercules?
  
  If she's at law, be sure commend the laws;
  Solicit with the judge, or plead her cause.
  
  With patience at the assignation wait;
  Early appear, attend her coming late.
  
  Whene'er she wants a messenger, away,
  And her commands with flying feet obey.
  
  When late from supper she's returning home,
  And calls her servant, as a servant come.
  
  She for the country's air retires from towns;
  You want a coach or horse, why foot it down:
  Let not the sultry season of the year,
  The falling snows, or constant rains deter.
  
  Love is a warfare, and ignoble sloth
  Seems equally contemptible in both:
  In both are watchings, duels, anxious cares,
  The soldier thus, and thus the lover fares;
  With rain he's drench'd, with piercing tempests shakes,
  And on the colder earth his lodging takes.
  
  Fame says that Phoebus kept Admetus' herd,
  And coarsely in an humble cottage far'd;
  No servile offices the god denied:
  Learn this ye lovers, and renounce your pride.
  
  When all access is to your mistress hard,
  When ev'ry door's secur'd, and window barr'd,
  The roof untile, some desp'rate passage find;
  You cannot be too bold to make her kind:
  Oh, how she'll clasp you when the dangers o'er,
  And value your deserving passion more.
  
  Thus thro' the boisterous seas Leander mov'd,
  Not to possess, but show how much he lov'd.
  
  Nor blushing think how low you condescend
  To court her maids, and make each slave your friend;
  Each by their names familiarly salute,
  And beg them to promote your am'rous suit.
  
  Perhaps a bribe's requir'd; your bounty show,
  And from your slender fortunes part below.
  
  A double bribe the chambermaid secures,
  And when the fav'rite's gain'd, the fair is yours.
  
  She'll add, to everything you do, a grace,
  And watch the wanton hours, and time her praise.
  
  When servants merry make, and feast, and play,
  Then give her something to keep holiday.
  
  Retain them ev'ry one, the porter most,
  And her who nightly guards the happy coast
  I no profuse nor costly gifts commend,
  But choose and time it well, whate'er you send.
  
  Provide the product of the early year,
  And let your boy the rural present bear;
  Tell her 'twas fresh, and from your manor brought,
  Tho' stale, and in the suburb market bought:
  The first ripe cluster let your mistress eat,
  With chesnut, melons, or fair peaches, treat;
  Some larger fish, or choicer fowl, present;
  They recommend your passion where they're sent.
  
  'Tis with these arts the childless miser's caught,
  Thus future legacies are basely bought;
  But may his name with infamy be curst,
  That practis'd them on love, and women first.
  
  In tender sonnets most your flame rehearse,
  But who, alas! of late are mov'd by verse?
  
  Women a wealthy treating fool admire,
  Applaud your wit,-but costly gifts require.
  
  This is the golden age, all worship gold;
  Honours are purchas'd, love and beauty sold.
  
  Should Homer come with his harmonious train,
  And not present, Homer's turn'd out again.
  
  Some of the sex have sense, their number's small,
  Most ignorant, yet vain pretenders all:
  Flatter alike, smooth empty stanzas send,
  They seldom sense, but sound and rhyme commend.
  
  Should you with art compose each polish'd line,
  And make her, like your numbers, all divine,
  Yet she'll a treat or worthless toy prefer
  To all the immortal poet's boasted care.
  
  But he that covets to retain her heart,
  Let him apply his flattery with art;
  With lasting raptures on her beauty gaze,
  And make her form the subject of his praise.
  
  Purple commend, when she's in purple dress'd;
  In scarlet, swear she looks in scarlet best;
  Array'd in gold, her graceful mien adore,
  Vowing those eyes transcend the sparkling ore.
  
  With prudence place each compliment aright;
  Tho' clad in crape, let homely crape delight.
  
  In sorted colours, praise a varied dress;
  In night-clothes or commode let either please.
  
  Or when she combs or when she curls her hair,
  Commend her curious art and gallant air.
  
  Singing, her voice, dancing, her steps, admire;
  Applaud when she desists, and still desire.
  
  Let all her words and actions wonder raise;
  View her with raptures, and with raptures praise
  Fierce as Medusa though your mistress prove,
  These arts will teach the stubborn beauty love.
  
  Be cautious lest you overact your part,
  And temper your hypocrisy with art;
  Let no false action give your words the lie,
  For once deceiv'd, she's ever after shy.
  
  In Autumn oft, when the luxurious year
  Purples the grape, and shows the vintage near;
  When sultry heats, when colder blasts arise,
  And bodies languish with inconstant skies;
  If vitious heav'n infects her tender veins,
  And in her tainted blood some fever reigns;
  Then your kind vows, your pious care bestow,
  The blessings you expect to reap then sow;
  Think nothing nauseous in her loath'd disease,
  But with your ready hand contrive to please;
  Weep in her sight, then fonder kisses give,
  And let her burning lips your tears receive;
  Much for her safety vow, but louder speak,
  Let the nymph hear the lavish vows you make.
  
  As health returns, so let your joys appear;
  Oft smile with hope, and oft confess your fear.
  
  This in her breast remains, these pleasing charms
  Secure a passage to her grateful arms.
  
  Reach nothing nauseous to her taste or sight,
  Officious only when you most delight.
  
  Nor bitter draughts nor hated med'cines give,
  Let her from rivals what she loaths receive.
  
  Those prosperous winds that launch'd our boat from shore,
  When out at sea assists its course no more:
  Time will your knowledge in our art improve,
  Give strength and vigour to your forming love.
  
  The dreadful bull was but a calf when young;
  The lofty oak but from an acorn sprung;
  From narrow springs the noblest currents flow,
  But swell their floods, and spread 'em as they go.
  
  Be conversant with love, no toils refuse,
  And conquer all fatigues with frequent use:
  Still let her hear your sighs, your passion view
  And night and day the flying maid pursue.
  
  Then pause awhile; by fallow fields we gain;
  A thirsty soil receives the welcome rain.
  
  Phyllis was calm while with Demophoon bless'd,
  His absence wounded most her raging breast:
  Thus his chaste consort for Ulysses burn'd,
  And Laodamia thus her absent husband mourn'd,
  With speed return, you're ruined by delays,
  Some happy youth may soon supply your place.
  
  When Sparta's prince was from his Helen gone,
  Could Helen be content to lie alone?
  
  She in his bed receiv'd her am'rous guest,
  And nightly clasp'd him to her panting breast.
  
  Unthinking cuckold, to a proverb blind!
  What, trust a beau and a fair wife behind!
  Let furious hawks thy trembling turtles keep,
  And to the mountain wolves commit thy sheep:
  Helen is guiltless, and the lover's crime
  But what yourself would act another time.
  
  The youth was pressing, the dull husband gone;
  Let ev'ry woman make the case her own.
  
  Who could a prince, by Venus  sent, refuse?
  
  The cuckold's negligence is her excuse.
  
  But not the foaming boar whom spears surround,
  Revenging on the dogs his mortal wound;
  Nor lioness, whose young receives the breast;
  Nor viper by unwary footsteps press'd;
  Nor drunkard by th' Aonian god possess'd,
  Transcend the woman's rage, by fury led,
  To find a rival in her injur'd bed.
  
  With fire and sword she flies; the frantic dame
  Disdains the thought of tenderness or shame.
  
  Her offspring's blood enrag'd Medea spilt;
  A cruel mother, for the father's guilt:
  And Progne's unrelenting fury proves
  That dire revenge pursues neglected loves.
  
  Where sacred ties of honour are destroy'd,
  Such errors cautious lovers must avoid.
  
  Think not my precepts constancy enjoin;
  Venus avert! far nobler's my design.
  
  At large enjoy, conceal your passion well;
  Nor use the modish vanity to tell:
  Avoid presenting of suspected toys,
  Nor to an hour confine your varied joys;
  Desert the shades you did frequent before,
  Nor make them conscious to a new amour
  The nymph, when she betrays, disdains your guilt,
  And by such falsehood taught, she learns to jilt.
  
  While with a wife Atrides liv'd content,
  Their loves were mutual, and she innocent;
  But when inflam'd with every charming face,
  Her lewdness still maintain'd an equal pace.
  
  Chryses, as fame had told her, pray'd in vain,
  Nor could by gifts his captive girl obtain;
  Mournful Briseis, thy complaints she heard,
  And how his lust the tedious war deferr'd.
  
  This tamely heard, but with resentment view'd
  The victor by his beauteous slave subdu'd;
  With rage she saw her own neglected charms,
  And took Aegisthus to her injur'd arms.
  
  To lust and shame by his example led,
  Who durst so openly profane her bed.
  
  What you conceal, her more observing eye
  Perhaps betrays: with oaths the fact deny,
  And boldly give her jealousy the lie.
  
  Not too submissive seem, nor over kind;
  These are the symptoms of a guilty mind:
  But no caresses, no endearments spare;
  Enjoyment pacifies the angry fair.
  
  There are, that strong provoking potions praise,
  And nature with pernicious med'cines raise;
  Nor drugs, nor herbs, will what you fancy prove,
  And I pronounce 'em pois'nous all in love.
  
  Some pepper bruis'd with seeds of nettle join,
  And clary steep in bowls of mellow wine:
  Venus is most averse to forced delights,
  Extorted flames pollute her genial rites.
  
  With fishes' spawn thy feeble nerves recruit,
  And with eringo's hot salacious root;
  The goddess worshipp'd by th' Erycian swains,
  Megara’s white shallot, so faint, disdains.
  
  New eggs they take, and honey's liquid juice,
  And leaves and apples of the pine infuse.
  
  Prescribe no more, my muse, nor med'cine give,
  Beauty and youth need no provocative.
  
  You that conceal'd your secret crimes before,
  Proclaim them now, now publish each amour.
  
  Nor tax me with inconstancy; we find
  The driving bark requires a veering wind:
  Now northern blasts we court, now southern gales,
  And ev'ry point befriends our shifted sails.
  
  Thus chariot drivers with a flowing rein
  Direct their steeds, then curb them in again.
  
  Indulgence oft corrupts the faithless dame,
  Secure from rivals she neglects your flame;
  The mind without variety is cloy'd,
  And nauseates pleasures it has long enjoy'd.
  
  But as a fire whose wasted strength declines,
  Converts to ashes and but faintly shines,
  When sulphur's brought the spreading flames return,
  And glowing embers with fresh fury burn:
  A rival thus th' ungrateful maid reclaims,
  Revives desire, and feeds her dying flames.
  
  Oft make her jealous, give your fondness o'er,
  And teaze her often with some new amour.
  
  Happy, thrice happy youth, with pleasure bless'd,
  Too great, too exquisite to be express'd,
  That view'st the anguish of her jealous breast
  Whene'er thy guilt the slighted beauty knows,
  She swoons; her voice, and then her colour goes.
  
  Oft would my furious nymph, in burning rage,
  Assault my locks, and with her nails engage;
  Then now she'd weep, what piercing glances east,
  And vow to hate the perjur'd wretch at last.
  
  Let not your mistress long your falsehood mourn;
  Neglected fondness sill to fury turn.
  
  But kindly clasp her in your arms again,
  And on your breast her drooping head sustain;
  Whilst weeping kiss, amidst her tears enjoy,
  And with excess of bliss her rage destroy.
  
  Let her a while lament, a while complain,
  Then die with pleasure, as she died with pain.
  
  Enjoyment cures her with its powerful charms,
  She'll sign a pardon in your active arms.
  
  First nature lay an undigested mass,
  Heaven, earth, and ocean, wore one common face;
  Then vaulted heav'n was fram'd, waves, earth, inclos'd;
  And chaos was in beauteous forms dispos'd;
  The beasts inhabit woods, the birds the air,
  And to their floods the scaly fry repair.
  
  Mankind alone enjoyed no certain place,
  On rapine lived, a rude unpolish'd race;
  Caves were their houses, herbs their food and bed,
  Whilst each a savage from the other fled.
  
  Love first disarm'd the fierceness of their mind,
  And in one bed the men and women join'd.
  
  The youth was eager, but unskill'd in joy,
  Nor was the unexperienc'd virgin coy;
  They knew no courtship, no instructor found,
  Yet they enjoy'd, and bless'd the pleasing wound.
  
  The birds with consorts propagate their kind,
  And sporting fish their finny beauties find;
  In am'rous fold the wanton serpents twine,
  And dogs with their salacious females join.
  
  The lusty bull delights his frisking dames,
  And more lascivious goat her male inflames.
  
  Mares furious grow with love, their boundaries force,
  Plunging thro' waves to meet the neighing horse.
  
  Go on, brave youth, thy gen'rous vigor try,
  To the resenting maid this charm apply;
  Love's soft'ning pleasures ev'ry grief remove,
  There's nothing that can make your peace like love.
  
  From drugs and philters no redress you'll find,
  But nature with your mistress will be kind.
  
  The love that's unconstrain'd will long endure,
  Machaon's art was false, but mine is sure.
  
  Whilst thus I sung, inflam'd with nobler fire,
  I heard the great Apollo's tuneful lyre;
  His hand a branch of spreading laurel bore,
  And on his head a laurel wreath he wore;
  Around he cast diffusive rays of light,
  Confessing all the god to human sight,
  " Thou master of lascivious arts," he said,
  "To my frequented fane thy pupils lead;
  And there inscrib'd in characters of gold,
  This celebrated sentence you'll behold.
  
  'First know yourself ;' who to himself is known,
  Shall love with conduct, and his wishes crown.
  
  Where nature has a handsome face bestow'd,
  Or graceful shape, let both be often show'd:
  Let men of wit and humor silence shun,
  The artist sing, and soldier bluster on;
  Of long harangues ye eloquent take heed,
  Nor thy damn'd works thou teazing poet read.
  
  "
  Thus Phoebus spake: ajust obedience give,
  And these injunctions from a god receive.
  
  I mysteries unfold; to my advice
  Attend, ye vulgar lovers, and grow wise.
  
  The thriving grain in harvest often fails,
  Oft prosp'rous winds turn adverse to our sails;
  Few are the pleasures, tho' the toils are great;
  With patience must submissive lovers wait.
  
  What hares on Athos, bees on Hybla feed,
  Or berries on the circling ivy breed?
  
  As shells on sandy shores, as stars above,
  So num'rous are the sure fatigues of love.
  
  The lady's gone abroad, you're told; tho' seen,
  Distrust your eyes, believe her not within.
  
  Her lodgings on the promis'd night are close,
  Resent it not, but on the earth repose.
  
  Her maid will cry with an insulting tone,
  "'What makes you saunter here?
  
  you sot, begone.
  
  "
  With moving words the cruel nymph entreat,
  And place your garland on the bolted gate.
  
  Why do I light and vulgar precepts use?
  
  A nobler subject now inspires my muse;
  Approaching joys I sing; ye youths, draw near;
  Listen ye happy lovers and give ear;
  The labor's great, and daring is my song.
  
  Labors and great attempts to love belong.
  
  As from the sacred oracles of Jove
  Receive these grand mysterious truths in love.
  
  Look down when she the ogling spark invites,
  Nor touch the conscious tablets when she writes.
  
  Appear not jealous tho' she's much from home,
  Let her at pleasure go, unquestion'd come.
  
  This crafty husbands to their wives permit,
  And learn, when she's engag'd, to wink at it.
  
  I own my frailties modestly confess;
  And blushing, give those precepts I transgress;
  Shall I, with patience, the known signal hear,
  Retire, and leave a happy rival there!
  What, tamely suffer the provoking wrong,
  And be afraid to use my hands or tongue!
  Corinna's husband kiss'd her in my sight;
  I beat the saucy fool, and seiz'd my right.
  
  I, like a fury, for my nymph engage,
  And like a madman, when I miss her, rage.
  
  My passion still prevails, convinc'd I yield!
  He that submits to this is better skill'd.
  
  Expose not, tho' you find her guilty flame,
  Lest she abandon modesty and shame;
  Conceal her faults, no secret crimes upbraid;
  Nothing's so fond as a suspected maid.
  
  Discover'd love increases with despair,
  When both alike the guilt and scandal share:
  All sense of modesty they lose in time,
  Whilst each encourages the other's crime.
  
  In heav'n this story's fam'd above the rest,
  Amongst th' immortal drolls a standing jest.
  
  How, Vucan two transgressing lovers caught
  And ev'ry god a pleas'd spectator brought.
  
  Great Mars for Venus felt a guilty flame,
  Neglected war, and own'd a lover's name,
  To his desires the queen of love inclin'd;
  No nymph in heav'n's so willing, none so kind.
  
  Oft the lascivious fair, with scornful pride,
  Would Vulcan's foot and sooty hands deride;
  Yet both with decency their passion bore,
  And modestly conceal'd the close amour,
  But by the sun betray'd in their embrace,
  (For what escapes the sun's observing rays?
  
  ）
  He told th' affronted god of his disgrace.
  
  Ah foolish sun! and much unskill'd in love,
  Thou hast an ill example set above!
  Never a fair offending nymph betray,
  She'll gratefully oblige you ev'ry way:
  The crafty spouse around his bed prepares
  Nets that deceive the eye, and secret snares:
  A journey feigns, the impatient lovers met,
  And naked were expos'd in Vulcan's net.
  
  The gods deride the criminals in chains,
  And scarce from tears the queen of love refrains;
  Nor could her hands conceal her guilty face,
  She wants that cover for another place.
  
  To burly Mars a gay spectator said,
  " Why so uneasy in that envied bed?
  
  On me transfer your chains; I'll freely come
  For your release, and suffer in your room.
  
  "
  At length, kind Neptune, freed by thy desires,
  Mars goes for Crete, to Paphos she retires,
  Their loves augmented with revengeful fires;
  Now conversant with infamy and shame,
  They set no bounds to their licentious flame.
  
  But honest Vulcan, what was thy pretence,
  To act so much unlike a god of sense?
  
  They sin in public, you the shame repent,
  Convinc'd that love increase with punishment.
  
  Tho' in your pow'r, a rival ne'er expose,
  Never his intercepted joys disclose:
  This I command, Venus commands the same,
  Who hates the snares she once sustain'd with shame.
  
  What impious wretch will Ceres' rites expose,
  Or Juno's solemn mysteries disclose!
  His witty torments Tantalus deserves,
  That thirsts in waves and viewing banquets starves.
  
  But Venus most in secresy delights:
  Away, ye babblers, from her silent rites!
  No pomp her mysteries attend, no noise!
  No sounding brass proclaims the latent joys!
  With folded arms the happy pair possess,
  Nor should the fond betraying tongue confess
  Those raptures, which no language can express.
  
  When naked Venus casts her robes aside,
  The parts obscene her hands extended hide;
  No girl on propagating beasts will gaze,
  But hangs her head, and turns away her face.
  
  We darken'd beds and doors for love provide;
  What nature cannot, decent habit hide.
  
  Love darkens courts, at most a glimm'ring light,
  To raise our joys, and just oblige the sight.
  
  Ere happy men beneath the roof were laid,
  When oaks provided them with food and shade,
  Some gloomy cave receiv'd the wanton pair;
  For light too modest, and unshaded air!
  From public view they decently retir'd,
  And secretly perform'd what love inspir'd.
  
  Now scarce a modish fop about the town,
  But boasts with whom, how oft, and where 'twas done;
  They taste no pleasure, relish no delight,
  Till they recount what pass'd the happy night.
  
  But men of honour always thought is base,
  To prostitute each kinder nymph's embrace:
  To blast her fame, and vainly hurt his own,
  And furnish scandal for a lewd lampoon.
  
  And here I must some guilty arts excuse,
  And disingenuous shifts that lovers use,
  To wrong the chaste and innocent abuse.
  
  When long repuls'd they find their courtship vain,
  Her character with infamy they stain;
  Denied her person they debauch her fame,
  And brand her innocence with public shame.
  
  Go, jealous fool, the injur'd beauty guard,
  Let ev'ry door be lock'd, and window barr'd!
  The suff'ring nymph remains expos'd to wrong,
  Her name's a prostitute to ev'ry tongue;
  For malice with joy the lie receive,
  Report, and what it wishes true, believe.
  
  With care conceal whatever defects you find,
  To all her faults seem like a lover blind.
  
  Naked Andromeda when Perseus view'd,
  He saw her faults, but yet pronounc'd them good.
  
  Andromache was tall, yet some report
  Her Hector was so blind he thought her short.
  
  At first what's nauseous lessens by degrees;
  Young loves are nice, and difficult to please.
  
  The infant plant that bears a tender rind,
  Reels to and fro with ev'ry breath of wind;
  But shooting upward to a tree at last,
  It stems the storm, and braves the strongest blast
  Time will defects and blemishes endear,
  And make them lovely to your eyes appear:
  Unusual scents at first may give offence;
  Time reconciles them to the vanquish'd sense.
  
  Her vices soften with some kinder phrase;
  If she is swarthy as the negro's face,
  Call it a graceful brown, and that complexion praise.
  
  The ruddy lass must be like Venus fair,
  Or like Minerva that has yellow hair.
  
  If pale and meagre, praise her shape and youth,
  Active when small, when gross she's plump and smooth.
  
  Ev'ry excess by soft'ning terms disguise,
  And in some neighb'ring virtue hide each vibe.
  
  Nor ask her age, consult no register,
  Under whose reign she's born, or what's the year!
  If fading youth chequers her hair with white,
  Experience makes her perfect in delight;
  In her embrace sublimer joys are found,
  A fruitful soil, and cultivated ground!
  The hours enjoy whilst youth and pleasures last,
  Age hurries on, and death pursues too fast.
  
  Or plough the seas, or cultivate the land,
  Or wield the sword in thy advent'rous hand;
  Or much in love thy nervous strength employ,
  Embrace the fair, the grateful maid enjoy;
  Pleasure and wealth reward thy pleasing pains,
  The labour's great, but greater far the gains.
  
  Add their experience in affairs of love,
  For years and practice do alike improve,
  Their arts repair the injuries of time,
  And still preserve them in their charming prime;
  In varied ways they act the pleasure o'er,
  Not pictur'd postures can instruct you more.
  
  They want no courtship to provoke delight,
  But meet your warmth with eager appetite;
  Give me enjoyment, when the willing dame
  Glows with desires, and burns with equal flame.
  
  I love to hear the soft transporting joys,
  The frequent sighs, the tender murm'ring voice;
  To see her eyes with varied pleasures move,
  And all the nymph confess the pow'r of love.
  
  Nature's not thus indulgent to the young,
  These joys alone to riper years belong;
  Who youth enjoys, drinks crude unready wine,
  Let age your girl and sprightly juice refine,
  Mellow their sweets, and make the taste divide.
  
  To Helen who'd Hermione prefer,
  Or Gorge think beyond her mother fair;
  But he that covets the experienc'd dame,
  Shall crown his joys and triumph in his flame.
  
  One conscious bed receives the happy pair;
  Retire, my muse; the door demands thy care.
  
  What charming words, what tender things are said,
  What language flows without the useless aid!
  There shall the roving hand employment find,
  Inspire new flames, and make e'en virgins kind.
  
  Thus Hector did Andromache delight,
  Hector in love victorious, as in fight.
  
  When weary from the field Achilles came,
  Thus with delays he rais'd Briseis' flame;
  Ah, could those arms, those fatal hands, delight!
  Inspire kind thoughts, and raise thy appetite!
  Coulds't thou, fond maid, be charm'd with his embrace,
  Stain'd with the blood of half thy royal race.
  
  Nor yet with speed the fleeting pleasures waste,
  Still moderate your love's impetuous haste;
  The bashful virgin, tho' appearing coy,
  Detains your hand, and hugs the proffer'd joy.
  
  Then view her eyes, with humid lustre bright,
  Sparkling with rage, and trembling with delight;
  Her kind complaints, her melting accents hear,
  The eye she charms, and wounds the list'ning ear.
  
  Defer not then the clasping nymphs embrace,
  But with her love maintain an equal pace;
  Raise to her heights the transports of your soul,
  And fly united to the happy goal.
  
  Observe these precepts when with leisure bless'd
  No threatening fears your private hours molest.
  
  When danger's near, your active force employ,
  And urge with eager speed the hasty joy.
  
  Then ply your oars, then practise this advice,
  And strain with whip and spur to gain the prize.
  
  The work's complete, triumphant palms prepare
  With flow'ry deaths adorn my flowing hair.
  
  As to the Greeks was Poldalirius' art,
  To heal with med'cines the afflicted part;
  Nestor's advice, Achilles' arms in field,
  Automedon for chariot-driving skill'd;
  As Calchas could explain the mystic bird,
  And Telemon could wield the brandish'd sword;
  Such to the town my fam'd instructions prove,
  So much am I renown'd for arts of love.
  
  Me ev'ry youth shall praise, extol my name,
  And o'er the globe diffuse my lasting fame.
  
  I arms provide against the scornful fair;
  Thus Vulcan arm'd Achilles for the war.
  
  Whatever youth shall with my aid o'ercome,
  And lead his Amazon in triumph home;
  Let him that conquers and enjoys the dame,
  In gratitude for his instructed flame,
  Inscribe the spoils with my auspicious name.
  
  The tender girls my precepts next demand,
  Them I commit to a more skilful hand.

• The Art of Love—Book 3 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The men are arm'd, and for the fight prepare,
  And now we must instruct and arm the fair.
  
  Both sexes, well appointed, take the field,
  And mighty love determine which shall yield.
  
  Man were ignoble when thus arm'd to show
  Unequal force against a naked foe;
  No glory from such conquest can be gain'd,
  And odds are always by the brave disdain'd.
  
  "But," some exclaim, " what phrensy rules your mind?
  
  Would you increase the craft of womankind?
  
  Teach them new wiles and arts?
  
  As well you may
  Instruct a snake to bite, or wolf to prey.
  
  "
  But sure too hard a censure they pursue
  Who charge on all the failings of a few;
  Examine first impartially each fair,
  Then, as she merits, or condemn or spare.
  
  If Menelaus, and the king of men,
  With justice of their sister-wives complain;
  If false Eriphyle forsook her faith,
  And for reward procur'd her husband's death;
  Penelope was loyal still, and chaste,
  Tho' twenty years her lord in absence pass'd.
  
  Reflect how Laodamia's truth was tried,
  Who, tho' in bloom of youth and beauty's pride,
  To share her husband's fate untimely died.
  
  Think how Alceste's piety was prov'd,
  Who lost her life to save the man she lov'd.
  
  Receive me, Capaneus," Evadne cried;
  "Nor death itself our nuptials shall divide!
  To join thy ashes pleas'd I shall expire;"
  She said, and leap'd amidst the fun'ral fire.
  
  Virtue herself a goddess we confess,
  Both female in her name and in her dress;
  No wonder then, if to her sex inclin'd,
  She cultivates with care a female mind.
  
  But these exalted souls exceed the reach
  Of that soft art which I pretend to teach.
  
  My tender bark requires a gentle gale,
  A little wind will fill a little sail.
  
  Of sportful loves I sing, and shew what ways
  The willing nymph must use her bliss to raise,
  And how to captivate the man she'd please.
  
  Woman is soft, and of a tender heart,
  Apt to receive, and to retain love's dart;
  Man has a breast robust, and more secure,
  It wounds him not so deep, nor hits so sure.
  
  Men oft are false, and, if you search with care,
  You'll find less fraud imputed to the fair.
  
  The faithless Jason from Medea fled
  And made Creusa partner of his bed.
  
  Bright Ariadne, on an unknown shore,
  Thy absence, perjur'd Theseus, did deplore.
  
  If then the wild inhabitants of air
  Forbore her tender lovely limbs to tear,
  It was not owing, Theseus, to thy care.
  
  Enquire the cause, and let Demophoon tell
  Why Phyllis by a fate untimely fell.
  
  Nine times, in vain, upon the promis'd day,
  She sought th' appointed shore, and view'd the sea;
  Her fall the fading trees consent to mourn,
  And shed their leaves round her lamented urn.
  
  The prince so far for piety renown'd,
  To thee, Eliza, was unfaithful found;
  To thee forlorn, and languishing with grief,
  His sword alone he left, thy last relief.
  
  Ye ruin'd nymphs, shall I the cause impart
  Of all your woes?
  
  'Twas want of needful art;
  Love, of itself, too quickly will expire,
  But powerful art perpetuates desire.
  
  Women had yet their ignorance bewail'd,
  Had not this art by Venus been reveal'd.
  
  Before my sight the Cyprian goddess shone
  And thus she said, "What have poor woman done!
  Why is that weak, defenceless sex expos'd;
  On ev'ry side, by men well arm'd, inclos'd?
  
  Twice are the men instructed by thy muse,
  Nor must she now to teach the sex refuse.
  
  The bard who injur'd Helen in his song,
  Recanted after, and redress'd the wrong.
  
  And you, if on my favour you depend,
  The cause of woman, while you live, defend.
  
  "
  This said, a myrtle sprig, which berries bore,
  She gave me (for a myrtle wreath she wore.
  
  )
  The gift receiv'd, my sense enlighten'd grew,
  And from her presence inspiration drew.
  
  Attend, ye nymphs, by wedlock unconfin'd,
  And hear my precepts, while she prompts my mind.
  
  E'en now, in bloom of youth, and beauty's prime,
  Beware of coming age, nor waste your time;
  Now, while you may, and rip'ning years invite,
  Enjoy the seasonable, sweet delight;
  For rolling years, like stealing waters, glide,
  For hope to stop their ever ebbing tide;
  Think not hereafter will the loss repay;
  For ev'ry morrow will the taste decay,
  And leave less relish than the former day
  I've seen the time, when, on that wither'd thorn,
  The blooming rose vied with the blushing morn.
  
  7
  With fragrant wreaths I thence have decked my head,
  And see how leafless now, and how decay'd!
  And you, who now the love-sick youth reject,
  Will prove in age, what pains attend neglect.
  
  None, then will press upon your midnight hours,
  Nor wake to strew your street with morning flow'rs.
  
  Then nightly knockings at your doors will cease,
  Whose noiseless hammer, then, may rest in peace.
  
  Alas, how soon a clear complexion fades!
  How soon a wrinkled skin plump flesh invades!
  And what avails it, tho' the fair one swears
  She from her infancy had some grey hairs?
  
  She grows all hoary in a few more years,
  And then the venerable truth appears.
  
  The snake his skin, the deer his horns may cast,
  And both renew their youth and vigor past;
  But no receipt can human-kind relieve,
  Doom'd to decrepit age, without reprieve.
  
  Then crop the flow'r which yet invites your eye,
  And which, ungather'd, on its stalk must die.
  
  Besides, the tender sex is form'd to bear,
  And frequent births too soon will youth impair;
  Continual harvest wears the fruitful field,
  And earth itself decays, too often till'd.
  
  Thou didst not, Cynthia, scorn the Latmian swain;
  Nor thou, Aurora, Cephalus disdain;
  The Paphian Queen, who, for Adonis' fate
  So deeply mourn'd, and who laments him yet,
  Has not been found inexorable since;
  Witness Harmonia, and the Dardan prince.
  
  Then take example, mortals, from above,
  And like immortals live, and like 'em love.
  
  Refuse not those delights, which men require,
  Nor let your lovers languish with desire.
  
  False tho' they prove, what loss can you sustain?
  
  Thence let a thousand take, 'twill all remain.
  
  Tho' constant use, e'en flint and steel impairs,
  What you employ no diminution fears,
  Who would, to light a torch, their torch deny?
  
  Or who can dread drinking an ocean dry?
  
  Still women lose, you cry, if men obtain;
  What do they lose, that's worthy to retain?
  
  Think not this said to prostrate the sex,
  But undeceive whom needless fears perplex.
  
  Thus far the gentle breeze supplies our sail,
  Now launch'd to sea we ask a brisker gale.
  
  And, first, we treat of dress.
  
  The well-dress'd vine
  Produces plumpest grapes, and richest wine;
  And plenteous crops of golden grain are found,
  Alone, to grace uncultivated ground.
  
  Beauty's the gift of gods, the sex's pride!
  Yet to how many is that gift deny'd?
  
  Art helps a face; a face, tho' heav'nly fair,
  May quickly fade for want of needful care.
  
  In ancient days, if women slighted dress,
  Then men were ruder too, and lik'd it less.
  
  If Hector's spouse was clad in stubborn stuff,
  A soldier's wife became it well enough.
  
  Ajax, to shield his ample breast, provides
  Seven lusty bulls, and tans their sturdy hides;
  And might not he, d'ye think, be well caress'd,
  And yet his wife not elegantly dress'd?
  
  With rude simplicity Rome first was built,
  Which now we see adorned, and gilt.
  
  This capitol with that of old compare;
  Some other Jove you'd think was worship'd there.
  
  That lofty pile where senates dictate law,
  When Tatius reign'd, was poorly thatch'd with straw;
  And where Apollo's fane refulgent stands,
  Was heretofore a tract of pasture lands.
  
  Let ancient manners other men delight;
  But me the modern please, as more polite.
  
  Not that materials now in gold are wrought,
  And distant shores for orient pearls are sought;
  Not for, that hills exhaust their marble veins,
  And structures rise whose bulks the sea retains;
  But that the world is civilis'd of late,
  And polish'd from the rust of former date.
  
  Let not the nymph with pendants load her ear,
  Nor in embroid'ry, or brocade, appear;
  Too rich a dress may sometimes check desire,
  And cleanliness more animate love's fire,
  The hair dispos'd, may gain or lose a grace,
  And much become or misbecome the face.
  
  What suits your features of your glass enquire;
  For no one rule is fixed for head attire,
  A face too long should part and flat the hair.
  
  Lest upward comb'd, the length too much appear:
  So Laodamia dress'd.
  
  A face too round
  Should show the ears, and with a tour be crown'd.
  
  On either shoulder, one, her locks displays;
  Adorn'd like Phoebus, when he sings his lays;
  Another, all her tresses tie behind;
  So dressed, Diana hunts the fearful hind.
  
  Dishevelled locks most graceful are to some;
  Others, the binding fillets more become:
  Some plait, like spiral shells, their braided hair,
  Others, the loose and waving curl prefer.
  
  But to recount the several dresses worn,
  Which artfully each several face adorn,
  Were endless as to tell the leaves on trees,
  The beasts on Alpine hills, or Hybla bees.
  
  Many there are who seem to slight all care,
  And with a pleasing negligence ensnare:
  Whole mornings, oft in such a dress are spent,
  And all is art, that looks like accident.
  
  With such disorder Iole was grac'd,
  When great Alcides first the nymph embrac'd.
  
  So Ariadne came to Bacchus' bed,
  When with the conqueror from Crete she fled.
  
  Nature indulgent to the sex, repays
  The losses they sustain by various ways.
  
  Men ill supply those hairs they shed in age,
  Lost like autumnal leaves when north winds rage.
  
  Women with juice of herbs gray locks disguise,
  And art gives colour which with nature vies;
  The well-wove tours they wear, their own art thought,
  But only are their own, as what they've bought.
  
  Nor need they blush to buy heads ready dress'd,
  And choose at public shops what suits 'em best.
  
  Costly apparel let the fair one fly,
  Enrich'd with gold, or with the Tyrian dye,
  What folly must in such expense appear,
  When more becoming colors are less dear!
  One with a die is ting'd of lovely blue,
  Such as through air serene the sky we view,
  With yellow lustre see another spread,
  As if the golden fleece compos'd the thread.
  
  Some of the sea green wave the cast display;
  With this the nymphs their beauteous forms array;
  And some the saffron hue will well adorn;
  Such is the mantle of the blushing morn.
  
  Of myrtle-berries, one, the tincture shows,
  In this, of amethysts, the purple glows,
  And that more imitates the paler rose.
  
  Nor Thracian cranes forget, whose silv'ry plumes
  Give patterns which employ the mimic looms.
  
  Nor almond nor the chesnut dye disclaim,
  Nor others which from wax derive their name.
  
  As fields you find, with various flowers o'erspread,
  When vineyards bud, and winter's frost is fled;
  So various are the colours you may try,
  Of which the thirsty wool imbibes the dye.
  
  Try ev'ry one; what best becomes you wear,
  For no complexion all alike can bear.
  
  If fair the skin, black may become it best,
  In black the lovely fair Briseis dress'd;
  If brown the nymph, let her be cloth'd in white,
  Andromeda so charm'd the wond'ring sight.
  
  I need not warn you of too powerful smells,
  Which sometimes health or kindly heat expels;
  Nor from your tender legs to pluck with care
  The casual growth of all unseemly hair.
  
  Tho' not to nymphs of Caucasus I sing,
  Nor such who taste remote the Mysian spring,
  Yet let me warn you that thro' no neglect
  You let your teeth disclose the least defect.
  
  You know the use of white to make you fair,
  And how with red lost colour to repair;
  Imperfect eyebrows you by art can mend,
  And skin, when wanting, o'er a scar extend;
  Nor need the fair one be asham'd, who tries
  By art to add new lustre to her eyes.
  
  A little book I've made, but with great care,
  How to preserve the face, and how repair.
  
  In that, the nymphs by time or chance annoy'd,
  May see what pains to please 'em I've employ'd,
  But still beware that from your lover's eye
  You keep conceal'd the med'cines you apply:
  Tho' art assists, yet must that art be hid,
  Lest whom it would invite it should forbid.
  
  Who would not take offence to see a face
  All daub'd and dripping with the melted grease?
  
  And tho' your unguents bear th' Athenian name,
  The wool's unsav'ry scent is still the same.
  
  Marrow of stags, nor your pomatums try,
  Nor clean your furry teeth when men are by;
  For many things, when done, afford delight,
  Which yet, while doing, may offend the sight.
  
  E'en Myro's statues, which for art surpass
  All others, once were but a shapeless mass;
  Rude was that gold which now in rings is worn,
  As once the robe you wear was wool unshorn;
  Think, how that stone rough in the quarry grew,
  Which now a perfect Venus shews to view.
  
  While we suppose you sleep, repair your face,
  Lock'd from observers, in some secret place;
  Add the last hand before yourselves you show,
  Your need of art why should your lover know?
  
  For many things when most conceal'd are best,
  And few of strict enquiry bear the test.
  
  Those figures which in theatres are seen,
  Gilded without, are common wood within.
  
  But no spectators are allow'd to pry
  Till all is finished which allures the eye.
  
  Yet, I must own, it oft affords delight
  To have the fair one comb her hair in sight;
  To view the flowing honours of her head
  Fall on her neck, and o'er her shoulders spread.
  
  But let her look that she with care avoid
  All fretful humours while she's so employ'd;
  Let her not still undo, with peevish haste,
  All that her woman does, who does her best.
  
  I hate a vixen that her maid assails,
  And scratches with her bodkin or her nails;
  While the poor girl in blood and tears must mourn,
  And her heart curses what her hands adorn,
  Let her who has no hair, or has but some,
  Plant sentinels before her dressing-room;
  Or in the fane of the good goddess dress,
  Where all the male kind are debarr'd access.
  
  'Tis said that I (but 'tis a tale devis'd)
  A lady at her toilet once surpris'd,
  Who starting, snatch'd in haste the tour she wore,
  And in her hurry placed the hinder part before.
  
  But on our foes fall ev'ry such disgrace,
  Or barb'rous beauties of the Parthian race.
  
  Ungraceful 'tis to see without a horn
  The lofty hart whom branches best adorn,
  A leafless tree, or an unverdant mead,
  And as ungraceful is a hairless head.
  
  But think not these instructions are design'd
  For first-rate beauties of the finish'd kind;
  Not to a Semele, or a Leda bright,
  Nor an Europa, these my rules I write;
  Nor the fair Helen do I teach, whose charms
  Stirr'd up Atrides and all Greece to arms;
  Thee to regain well was that war begun,
  And Paris well defended what he won:
  What lover or what husband would not fight
  In such a cause, where both are in the right?
  
  The crowd I teach, some homely and some fair,
  But of the former sort the larger share.
  
  The handsome least require the help of art,
  Rich in themselves, and pleas'd with nature's part.
  
  When calm the sea, at ease the pilot lies,
  But all his skill exerts when storms arise.
  
  Faults in your person or your face correct;
  And few are seen that have not some defect.
  
  The nymph too short her seat should seldom quit,
  Lest when she stands she may be thought to sit;
  And when extended on her couch she lies,
  Let length of petticoats conceal her size.
  
  The lean of thick wrought stuff her clothes should choose,
  And fuller made than what the plumper use.
  
  If pale, let her the crimson juice apply;
  If swarthy, to the Pharian varnish fly.
  
  A leg too lank tight garters still must wear,
  Nor should an ill-shap'd foot be ever bare.
  
  Round shoulders, bolster'd, will appear the least;
  And lacing straight confines too full a breast.
  
  Whose fingers are too fat, and nails too coarse,
  Should always shun much gesture in discourse;
  And you whose breath is touch'd, this caution take,
  Nor fasting, nor too near another, speak.
  
  Let not the nymph with laughter much abound,
  Whose teeth are black, uneven, or unsound.
  
  You'd hardly think how much on this depends,
  And how a laugh or spoils a face or mends.
  
  Gape not too wide, lest you disclose your gums,
  And lose the dimple which the cheek becomes.
  
  Nor let your sides too long concussions shake,
  Lest you the softness of the sex forsake:
  In some, distortions quite the face disguise;
  Another laughs, that you would think she cries.
  
  In one, too hoarse a voice we hear betray'd;
  Another's is as harsh as if she bray'd.
  
  What cannot art attain! Many, with ease,
  Have learn'd to weep, both when and how they please.
  
  Others thro' affectation lisp; and find
  In imperfection charms to catch mankind.
  
  Neglect no means which may promote your end;
  Now learn what way of walking recommends.
  
  Too masculine a motion shocks the sight;
  But female grace allures with strange delight.
  
  One has an artful swing and jut behind,
  Which helps her coats to catch the swelling wind;
  Swell'd with the wanton wind, they loosely flow,
  And ev'ry step and graceful motion show.
  
  Another, like an Umbrian's sturdy spouse,
  Strides all the space her petticoats allows.
  
  Between extremes, in this, a mean adjust,
  Nor show too nice a gait, nor too robust.
  
  If snowy white your neck, you still should wear
  That, and the shoulder of the left arm bare;
  Such sights ne'er fail to fire my am'rous heart,
  And make me pant to kiss the naked part.
  
  Sirens, tho' monsters of the stormy main,
  Can ships, when under sail, with songs detain:
  Scarce could Ulysses by his friends be bound,
  When first he listen'd to the charming sound,
  Singing insinuates, learn all ye maids;
  Oft when a face forbids, a voice persuades.
  
  Whether on theatres loud strains we hear,
  Or in Ruelles some soft Egyptian air.
  
  Well shall she sing, of whom I make my choice,
  And with her lute accompany her voice.
  
  The rocks were stirr'd, the beasts to listen staid
  When on his lyre melodious Orpheus play'd,
  Even Cerberus and hell that sound obey'd,
  And stones officious were thy walls to raise.
  
  O, Thebes, attracted by Amphion's lays.
  
  The dolphin, dumb itself, thy voice admir'd,
  And was, Arion, by thy songs inspir'd.
  
  Of sweet Callimachus the works rehearse,
  And real Philetas and Anacreon's verse,
  Terentian plays may much the mind improve;
  But softest Sappho best instructs to love.
  
  Propertius, Gallus, and Tibullus read,
  And let Varronian verse to these succeed.
  
  Then mighty Maro's work with care peruse;
  Of all the Latians boards the noblest muse,
  Even I, 'tis possible, in after-days,
  May 'scape oblivion, and be nam'd with these.
  
  My labour'd lines, some readers may approve,
  Since I've instructed either sex in love.
  
  Whatever book you read of this soft art,
  Read with a lover's voice and lover's heart.
  
  Tender epistles too, by me are fram'd,
  A work before unthought of, and unnam'd.
  
  Such was your sacred will, O, tuneful nine!
  Such thine Apollo, and Lycreus, thine!
  Still unaccomplish'd may the maid be thought,
  Who gracefully to dance was never taught:
  That active dancing may to love engage,
  Witness the well-kept dancers of the stage.
  
  Of some odd trifles I'm asham'd to tell,
  Tho' it becomes the sex to trifle well;
  To raffle prettily, or slur a die,
  Implies both cunning and dexterity;
  Nor is't amiss at chess to be expert,
  For games most thoughtful, sometimes most divert.
  
  Learn ev'ry game, you'll find it prove of use;
  Parties begun at play may love produce:
  But easier 'tis to learn how bets to lay,
  Than how to keep your temper while you play.
  
  Unguarded then, each breast is open laid,
  And while the head's intent, the heart's betray'd.
  
  Then base desire of gain, then rage appears,
  Quarrels and brawls arise, and anxious fears;
  Then clamours and revilings reach the sky,
  While losing gamsters all the gods defy.
  
  They grieve, and curse, and storm, nay weep at last.
  
  Good Jove avert such shameful faults as these,
  From ev'ry nymph whose heart's inclin'd to please
  Soft recreations fit the female kind;
  Nature, for men, has rougher sports design'd:
  To wield the sword and hurl the pointed spear;
  To stop or turn the steed in full career.
  
  Tho' martial fields ill suit your tender frames,
  Nor may you swim in Tiber's rapid streams;
  Yet when Sol's burning wheels from Leo drive,
  And at the glowing Virgin's sign arrive,
  'Tis both allow'd and fit you should repair,
  To pleasant walks, and breathe refreshing air.
  
  To Pompey's gardens, or the shady groves
  Which Caesar honours, and which Phoebus loves:
  Phoebus, who sunk the proud Egyptian fleet,
  And made Augustus' victory complete.
  
  Or seek those shades, where monuments of fame
  Are raised to Livia's or Octavia's name;
  Or where Agrippa first adorn'd the ground,
  When he with naval victory was crown'd.
  
  To Isis' fine, to theatres resort;
  And in the circus see the noble sport.
  
  In ev'ry public place, by turns be shown;
  In vain you're fair while you remain unknown.
  
  Should you in singing, Thamyras transcend;
  Your voice unheard, who will your skill commend!
  Had not Appelles drawn the sea-born queen,
  Her beauties still beneath the waves had been.
  
  Poets inspir'd write only for a name,
  And think their labours well repay'd with fame.
  
  In former days, I own, the poets were
  Of gods and king the most peculiar care:
  Majestic awe was in the name allow'd,
  And they with rich possessions were endowed
  Ennius with honours was by Scipio grac'd,
  And next his own the poets statue plac'd.
  
  But now their ivy crowns bear no esteem,
  And all their learning's thought an idle dream.
  
  Still there's a pleasure that proceeds from praise:
  What could the high renown of Homer raise,
  But that he sung his Iliad's deathless lays?
  
  Who could have been of Danae's charms assur'd,
  Had she grown old, within her tow'r immur'd?
  
  This, as a rule, let ev'ry nymph pursue,
  That 'tis her int'rest oft' to come in view.
  
  A hungry wolf at all the herd will run,
  In hopes, through many, to make sure of one.
  
  So, let the fair the gazing crowd assail,
  That over one, at least, she may prevail.
  
  In ev'ry place to please, be all her thought;
  Where, sometimes, least we think, the fish is caught.
  
  Sometimes, all day, we hunt the tedious foil,
  Anon, the stag himself shall seek the toil.
  
  How could Andromeda once doubt relief,
  Whose charms were heighten'd and adorn'd by grief?
  
  The widow'd fair, who sees her lord expire,
  While yet she weeps, may kindle new desire,
  And Hymen's torch relight the fun'ral fire.
  
  Beware of men who are too sprucely dress'd;
  And look, you fly with speed a fop profess'd.
  
  Such tools to you, and to a thousand more,
  Will tell the same dull story o'er and o'er.
  
  This way add that, unsteadily they rove,
  And never fixed, are fugitives in love.
  
  Such flutt'ring things all women sure should hate,
  Light as themselves, and more effeminate.
  
  Believe me, all I say is for your good;
  Had Priam been believ'd, Troy still had stood.
  
  Many, with base designs, will passions feign,
  Who know no love, but sordid love of gain.
  
  But let not powder'd heads, nor essenc'd hair,
  Your well-believing, easy hearts ensnare.
  
  Rich clothes are oft by common sharpers worn,
  And diamond rings felonious hands adorn.
  
  So may your lover burn with fierce desire
  Your jewels to enjoy, and best attire.
  
  Poor Chloe robb'd, runs crying thro' the streets;
  And as she runs,"Give me my own," repeats.
  
  How often, Venus, hast thou heard such cries,
  And laugh'd amidst thy Appian votaries?
  
  Some, so notorious are their very name,
  Must ev'ry nymph whom they frequent defame.
  
  Be warn'd by ills which others have destroy'd,
  And faithless men with constant care avoid.
  
  Trust not a Theseus, fair Athenian maid,
  Who has so oft th' attesting gods betray'd.
  
  And thou, Demophoon, heir to Theseus' crimes,
  Hast lost thy credit to all future times.
  
  Promise for promise equally afford,
  But once a contract made, keep well your word.
  
  For she for any act of hell is fit,
  And undismayed may sacrilege commit;
  With impious hands could quench the vestal fire
  Poison her husband in her arms for hire,
  Who first to take a lover's gift complies,
  And then defrauds him, and his claim denies.
  
  But hold, my muse, check thy unruly horse,
  And more in sight pursue th' intended course.
  
  If love epistles tender lines impart,
  And billet-doux are sent to sound your heart,
  Let all such letters by a faithful maid,
  Or confident, be secretly convey'd.
  
  Soon from the words you'll judge, if read with care,
  When feign'd a passion is, and when sincere.
  
  Ere in return you write some time require;
  Delays, if not too long, increase desire;
  Nor let the pressing youth with ease obtain,
  Nor yet refuse him with too rude disdain.
  
  Now let his hopes, now let his fears increase,
  But by degrees, let fear to hope give place.
  
  Be sure avoid set phrases when you write,
  The usual way of speech is more polite.
  
  How have I seen the puzzl'd lover vex'd,
  To read a letter with hard words perplex'd;
  A style too coarse takes from a handsome face,
  And makes us wish an uglier in its place.
  
  But since (tho' chastity be not your care)
  You from your husband still would hide th' affair,
  Write to no stranger till his truth be tried;
  Nor in a foolish messenger confide.
  
  What agonies that woman undergoes,
  Whose hand the traitor threatens to expose;
  Who rashly trusting, dreads to be deceiv'd,
  And lives for ever to that dread enslav'd!
  Such treachery can never be surpass'd,
  For those discoveries, sure as light'ning, blast.
  
  Might I advise, fraud shou'd with fraud be paid;
  Let arms repel all who with arms invade.
  
  But since your letters may be brought to light,
  What if in sev'ral hands you learn to write?
  
  My curse on him who first the sex betray'd,
  And this advice so necessary made.
  
  Nor let your pocket-book two hands contain,
  First rub your lover's out, then write again.
  
  Still one contrivance more remains behind,
  Which you may use as a convenient blind;
  As if to women writ, your letters frame,
  And let your friend, to you subscribe a female name.
  
  Now, greater things to tell, my muse prepare,
  And clap on all the sail the bark can bear.
  
  Let no rude passions in your looks find place;
  For fury will deform the finest face;
  It swells the lips, and blackens all the veins,
  While in the eye a Gorgon horror reigns.
  
  While on her flute divine Minerva play'd,
  And in a fountain saw the change it made,
  Swelling her cheek: she flung it quick aside,
  "Nor is thy music so much worth," she cried.
  
  Look in your glass when you with anger glow,
  And you'll confess, you scarce yourself can know.
  
  Nor with excessive pride insult the sight,
  For gentle looks alone to love invite.
  
  Believe it as a truth that's daily tried,
  There's nothing more detestable than pride.
  
  How have I seen some airs disgust create,
  "Like things which by antipathy we hate!"
  Let looks with looks, and smiles with smiles be paid,
  And when your lover bows incline your head.
  
  So love preluding plays at first with hearts,
  And after wounds with deeper-piercing darts.
  
  Nor me a melancholy mistress charms;
  Let sad Tecmessa weep in Ajax' arms.
  
  Let mournful beauties sullen heroes move;
  We cheerful men like gaiety in love.
  
  Let Hector in Andromache delight,
  Who, in bewailing Troy, wastes all the night.
  
  Had they not both born children (to be plain)
  I ne'er could think they'd with their husbands lain.
  
  I no idea in my mind can frame,
  That either one or t'other doleful dame,
  Could toy, could fondle, or could call their lords
  "My life, my soul;” or speak endearing words.
  
  Why from comparisons should I refrain
  Or fear small things by greater to explain?
  
  Observe what conduct prudent generals use,
  And how their several officers they choose;
  To one a charge of infantry commit,
  Another for the horse is thought more fit.
  
  So you your sev'ral lovers should select,
  And as you find 'em qualified, direct.
  
  The wealthy lover store of gold should send;
  The lawyer should, in courts, your case defend.
  
  We, who write verse, with verse alone shouldbribe;
  Most apt to love is all the tuneful tribe.
  
  By us, your fame shall thro' the world be blaz'd;
  So Nemesis, so Cynthia's name was rais'd.
  
  From east to west Lycoris' praises ring;
  Nor are Corinna's silent, whom we sing.
  
  No fraud the poet's sacred breast can bear;
  Mild are his manners, and his heart sincere,
  Nor wealth he seeks, nor feels ambition's fires,
  But shuns the bar; and books and shades requires.
  
  Too faithfully, alas! we know to love,
  With ease we fix, but we with pain remove;
  Our softer studies with our souls combine,
  And both to tenderness our hearts incline.
  
  Be gentle, virgins, to the poets pray'r,
  The god that fills him, and the muse revere;
  Something divine is in us, and from heav'n
  Th' inspiring spirit can alone be given.
  
  'Tis sin a price from poets to exact,
  But 'tis a sin no woman fears to act;
  Yet hide, howe'er, your avarice from sight,
  Lest you too soon your new admirer fright.
  
  As skilful riders rein, with diff'rent force,
  A new-back'd courser and a well-train'd horse,
  Do you by diffrent management engage
  The man in years, and youth of greener age.
  
  This, while the wiles of love are yet unknown,
  Will gladly cleave to you, and you alone;
  With kind caresses oft indulge the boy,
  And all the harvest of his heart enjoy.
  
  Alone, thus bless'd, of rivals most beware;
  Nor love nor empire can a partner bear.
  
  Men more discreetly love, when more mature,
  And many things, which youth disdains, endure;
  No windows break, nor houses set on fire,
  Nor tear their own, or mistress's attire.
  
  In youth, the boiling blood gives fury vent,
  But men in years more calmly wrong resent;
  As wood when green, or as a torch when wet,
  They slowly burn, but long retain their heat.
  
  More bright is youthful flame, but sooner dies;
  Then swiftly seize the joy that swiftly flies.
  
  Thus, all betraying to the beauteous foe,
  How surely to enslave ourselves we show.
  
  To trust a traitor you'll no scruple make,
  Who is a traitor only for your sake.
  
  Who yields too soon will soon her lover lose;
  Would you retain him long?
  
  then long refuse.
  
  Oft at your door make him for entrance wait;
  There let him lie, and threaten and entreat.
  
  When cloy'd with sweets, bitters the taste restore;
  Ships by fair winds are sometimes run ashore;
  Hence springs the coldness in a married life;
  The husband when he pleases has his wife.
  
  Bar but your gate, and let your porter cry,
  "Here's no admittance, sir; I must deny;"
  The very husband,—so repuls'd, will find
  A growing inclination to be kind.
  
  Thus far with foils you've sought those laid aside;
  I now sharp weapons for the sex provide,
  Nor doubt not 'gainst myself to see 'em tried.
  
  When first a lover you design to charm,
  Beware lest jealousies his soul alarm;
  Make him believe with all the skill you can,
  That he and only he's the happy man.
  
  Anon, by due degrees, small doubts create,
  And let him fear some rival's better fate.
  
  Such little arts make love its vigour hold,
  Which else would languish, and too soon grow old.
  
  Then strains the courser to outstrip the wind,
  When one before him runs, and one he hears behind.
  
  Love, when extinct, suspicions may revive;
  I own when mine's secure 'tis scarce alive.
  
  Yet no precaution to this rule belongs;
  Let us at most suspect, not prove our wrongs.
  
  Sometimes your lover, to incite the more,
  Pretends your husband's spies beset the door;
  Tho' free as Thais, still affect a fright,
  For seeming danger heightens the delight.
  
  Oft let the youth in thro' your windows steal,
  Tho' he might enter at the door as well;
  And sometimes let your maid surprise pretend,
  And beg you in some hole to hide your friend:
  Yet ever and anon dispel his fear,
  And let him taste of happiness sincere;
  Lest, quite dishearten'd with too much fatigue,
  He should grow weary of the dull intrigue.
  
  But I forgot to tell how you may try
  Both to evade the husband and the spy.
  
  That wives should of their husbands stand in awe,
  Agrees with justice, modesty, and law;
  But that a mistress may be lawful prize,
  None but her keeper I am sure denies.
  
  For such fair nymphs these precepts are design'd,
  Which ne'er can fail, join'd with a willing mind.
  
  Tho' stuck with Argus' eyes your keeper were,
  Advis'd by me you shall elude his care.
  
  When you to wash or bathe retire from eight,
  Can he observe what letters then you write?
  
  Or can his caution against such provide,
  Which in her breast your confidant may hide!
  Can he that note beneath her garter view,
  Or that which more conceal'd is in her shoe ?
  
  Yet, these perceived, you may her back undress,
  And writing on her skin your mind express.
  
  New milk, or pointed spires of flax when green,
  Will ink supply, and letters mark unseen.
  
  Fair will the paper, show, nor can be read,
  Till all the writing 's with warm ashes spread.
  
  Acresius was with all his care betray'd,
  And in his tow'r of brass a grandsire made.
  
  Can spies avail when you to plays resort,
  Or in the circus view the noble sport?
  
  Or can you be to Isis' fane pursu'd,
  Or Cybele's, whose rights all men exclude?
  
  Tho' watchful servants to the Bagnio come,
  They're ne'er admitted to the bathing-room.
  
  Or when some sudden sickness you pretend,
  May you not take to your sick bed a friend?
  
  False keys a private passage may procure,
  If not, there are more ways besides the door.
  
  Sometimes with wine your watchful follower treat;
  When drunk, you may with ease his care defeat:
  Or, to prevent too sudden a surprise,
  Prepare a sleeping draught to seal his eyes;
  Or let your maid, still longer time to gain,
  An inclination for his person feign;
  With faint resistance let her drill him on,
  And, after competent delays, be won.
  
  But what need all these various doubtful wiles,
  Since gold the greatest vigilance beguiles?
  
  Believe me, men and gods with gifts are pleas'd,
  E'en angry Jove with offerings is appeas'd;
  With presents fools and wise alike are caught;
  Give but enough, the husband may be bought,
  But let we warn you, when you bribe a spy,
  That you for ever his connivance buy;
  Pay him his price at once, for with such men
  You'll know no end of giving now and then.
  
  Once, I remember, I with cause complain'd
  Of jealousy occasion'd by a friend.
  
  Believe me, apprehensions of that kind
  Are not alone to our false sex confin'd.
  
  Trust not too far your she-companion's truth,
  Lest she sometimes should intercept the youth;
  The very confidant that lends the bed,
  May entertain your lover in your stead.
  
  Nor keep a servant with too fair a face,
  For such I've known supply her lady's place.
  
  But whither do I run with heedless rage,
  Teaching the foe unequal war to wage?
  
  Did ever bird the fowler's net prepare?
  
  Was ever hound instructed by the hare?
  
  But all self-ends and int'rests set apart,
  I'll faithfully proceed to teach my art;
  Defenceless and unarm'd expose my life,
  And for the Lemnian ladies whet the knife.
  
  Perpetual fondness of your lover feign,
  Nor will you find it hard belief to gain;
  Full of himself, he your design will aid!
  To what we wish 'tis easy to persuade.
  
  With dying eyes his face and form survey,
  Then sigh, and wonder he so long could stay;
  Now, drop a tear your sorrows to assuage,
  Anon, reproach him, and pretend to rage.
  
  Such proofs as these will all distrust remove,
  And make him pity your excessive love.
  
  Scarce to himself will he forbear to cry,
  "How can I let this poor fond creature die?
  
  "
  But chiefly one such fond behaviour fires,
  Who courts his glass, and his own charms admires.
  
  Proud of the homage to his merit done,
  He'll think a goddess might with ease be won.
  
  Light wrongs be sure you still with mildness bear,
  Nor straight fly out when you a rival fear.
  
  Let not your passions o'er your sense prevail,
  Nor credit lightly ev'ry idle tale.
  
  Let Procris' fate a sad example be
  Of what effects attend credulity.
  
  Near where his purple head Hymettus shows,
  And flow'ring hills, a sacred fountain flows;
  With soft and verdant turf the soil is spread,
  And sweetly smelling shrubs the ground o'ershade.
  
  There rosemary and bays their odours join,
  And with the fragrant myrtle's scent combine.
  
  There tamarisks with thick-leav'd box are found,
  And cytisus and garden pines abound.
  
  While through the boughs soft winds of Zephyr pass,
  Tremble the leaves and tender tops of grass.
  
  Hither would Cephalus retreat to rest,
  When tir'd with hunting, or with heat oppress'd;
  And, thus, to air the panting youth would pray;
  Come, gentle Aura, come, this heat allay.
  
  "
  But some tale-bearing too officious friend,
  By chance o'erheard him as he thus complain'd;
  Who with the news to Procris quick repair'd,
  Repeating word for word what she had heard.
  
  Soon as the news of Aura reach'd her ears,
  With jealousy surpris'd.
  
  and fainting fears,
  Her rosy colour fled her lovely face,
  And agonies like death supplied the place;
  Pale she appear'd as are the falling leaves
  When first the vine the winter's blast receives.
  
  Of ripen'd quinces, such the yellow hue,
  Or, when unripe, we cornel-berries view.
  
  Reviving from her swoon, her robes she tore,
  Nor her own faultless face to wound forbore;
  Now all dishevell'd to the woods she flies,
  With Bacchanalian fury in her eyes.
  
  Thither arriv'd, she leaves below her friends,
  And all alone the shady hill ascends.
  
  What fully, Procris, o'er thy mind prevail'd?
  
  What rage, thus fatally to lie conceal'd?
  
  "Who'er this Aura be," such was thy thought,
  "She now shall in the very fact be caught "
  Anon thy heart repents its rash designs,
  And now to go, and now to stay, inclines;
  Thus love with doubts perplexes still thy mind,
  And makes thee seek what thou must dread to find.
  
  But still the rival's name rings in thy ears,
  And more suspicious still the place appears;
  But more than all, excessive love deceives,
  Which all it fears too easily believes.
  
  And now a chillness runs thro' ev'ry vein,
  Soon as she saw where Cephalus had lain.
  
  'Twas noon when he again retir'd, to shun
  The scorching ardour of the mid-day's sun;
  With water first he sprinkled o'er his face
  Which glow'd with heat; then sought his usual place.
  
  Procris, with anxious but with silent care,
  View'd him extended, with his bosom bare;
  And heard him soon th' accustom'd words repeat,
  "Come Zephyr, Aura come, allay this heat.
  
  "
  Soon as she found her error, from the word,
  Her colour and her temper were restor'd;
  With joy she rose to clasp him in her arms,
  But Cephalus the rustling noise alarms;
  Some beast he thinks he in the bushes hears,
  And straight his arrows and his bow prepares.
  
  Hold, hold, unhappy youth!—I call in vain;
  With thy own hand thou hast thy Procris slain
  " Me, me,” she cries, "thou'st wounded with thy dart;
  But Cephalus was wont to wound this heart.
  
  Yet lighter on my ashes earth will lie,
  Since, tho' untimely, I unrivall'd die!
  Come, close with thy dear hand my eyes in death;
  Jealous of air, to air I yield my breath.
  
  "
  Close to his heavy heart her cheek he laid,
  And wash'd with streaming tears the wound he made;
  At length the springs of life their currents leave,
  And her last gasp her husband's lips receive.
  
  Now to pursue our voyage we must provide,
  Till safe to port our weary bark we guide.
  
  You may expect, perhaps, I now should teach
  What rules to treats and entertainments reach.
  
  Come not the first, invited to a feast;
  Rather come last, as a more grateful guest,
  For that of which we fear to be depriv'd,
  Meets with the surest welcome when arriv'd.
  
  Besides, complexions of a coarser kind,
  From candle-light no small advantage find.
  
  During the time you eat, observe some grace,
  Nor let your unwip'd hands besmear your face;
  Nor yet too squeamishly your meat avoid,
  Lest we suspect you were in private cloy'd.
  
  Of all extremes in either kind forbear
  And still, before your belly's full, beware.
  
  No glutton nymph, however fair, can wound,
  Tho' more than Helen she in charms abound.
  
  I own I think of wire the moderate use
  More suits the sex, and sooner finds excuse;
  It warms the blood, adds lustre to the eyes,
  And wine and love have always been allies.
  
  But carefully from all intemperance keep,
  Nor drink till you see double, lisp, or sleep;
  For in such sleeps brutalities are done,
  Which, tho' you loath, you have no pow'r to shun.
  
  And now th' instructed nymph from table led,
  Should next be taught how to behave in bed;—
  But modesty forbids: nor more my muse
  With weary wings the labour'd flight pursues;
  Her purple swans unyok'd, the chariot leave,
  And needful rest (their journey done) receive.
  
  Thus, with impartial care, my art I show,
  And equal arms on either sex bestow;
  White men and maids, who by my rules improve,
  Ovid, must own, their master is in love.

• To His Mistress Read Poem Log in to favourite

  YOUR husband will be with us at the Treat;
  May that be the last Supper he shall Eat.
  
  And am poor I, a Guest invited there,
  Only to see, while he may touch the Fair?
  
  To see you Kiss and Hug your nauseous Lord,
  While his lewd Hand descends below the Board?
  
  Now wonder not that Hippodamia's Charms,
  At such a sight, the Centaurs urged to Arms;
  That in a rage they threw their Cups aside,
  Assailed the Bridegroom, and would force the Bride.
  
  I am not half a Horse (I would I were):
  Yet hardly can from you my Hands forbear.
  
  Take then my Counsel; which observed, may be
  Of some Importance both to you and me.
  
  Be sure to come before your Man be there;
  There's nothing can be done; but come how e'er.
  
  Sit next him (that belongs to Decency);
  But tread upon my Foot in passing by.
  
  Read in my Looks what silently they speak,
  And slily, with your Eyes, your Answer make.
  
  My Lifted Eyebrow shall declare my Pain;
  My Right-Hand to his fellow shall complain;
  And on the Back of a Letter shall design;
  Besides a Note that shall be Writ in Wine.
  
  When e'er you think upon our last Embrace,
  With your Fore-finger gently touch your Face.
  
  If you are pleased with what I do or say,
  Handle your Rings, or with your Fingers play.
  
  As Suppliants use at Altars, hold the Board,
  When e'er you wish the Devil may take your Lord.
  
  When he fills for you, never touch the Cup;
  But bid th' officious Cuckold drink it up.
  
  The Waiter on those Services employ.
  
  Drink you, and I will snatch it from the Boy:
  Watching the part where your sweet Mouth hath been,
  And thence, with eager Lips, will suck it in.
  
  If he, with Clownish Manners, thinks it fit
  To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
  Reject his greasy Kindness, and restore
  Th' unsavory Morsel he had chewed before.
  
  Nor let his Arms embrace your Neck, nor rest
  Your tender Cheek upon his hairy Breast.
  
  Let not his Hand within your Bosom stray,
  And rudely with your pretty Bubbies play.
  
  But above all, let him no Kiss receive;
  That's an Offence I never can forgive.
  
  Do not, O do not that sweet Mouth resign,
  Lest I rise up in Arms, and cry, 'Tis mine.
  
  I shall thrust in betwixt, and void of Fear
  The manifest Adult'rer will alppear.
  
  These things are plain to Sight; but more I doubt
  What you conceal beneath your Petticoat.
  
  Take not his Leg between your tender Thighs,
  Nor, with your Hand, provoke my Foe to rise.
  
  Which I, myself, have practised all before!
  How oft have I been forced the Robe to lift
  In Company to make a homely shift
  For a bare Bout, ill huddled o'er in hast,
  While o'er my side the Fair her Mantle cast.
  
  You to your Husband shall not be so kind;
  But, lest you should, your Mantle leave behind.
  
  Encourage him to Tope; but Kiss him not,
  Nor mix one drop of Water in his Pot.
  
  If he be Fuddled well, and Snores apace
  Then we may take Advice from Time and Place,
  When all depart, when Complements are loud,
  Be sure to mix among the thickest Crowd.
  
  There I will be, and there we cannot miss,
  Alas, what length of Labour I employ,
  Just to secure a short and transient Joy!
  For Night must part us; and when Night is come,
  Tucked underneath his Arm he leads you Home.
  
  He locks you in; I follow to the Door,
  His Fortune envy, and my own deplore.
  
  He kisses you, he more than kisses too;
  Th' outrageous Cuckold thinks it all his due.
  
  But, add not to his Joy, by your consent,
  And let it not be given, but only lent.
  
  Return no Kiss, nor move in any sort;
  Make it a dull and a malignant Sport.
  
  Had I my Wish, he should no Pleasure take,
  But slubber o'er your Business for my sake.
  
  And what e'er Fortune shall this Night befall,
  Coax me to-morrow, by forswearing all.

• Beach Body Read Poem Log in to favourite

  early morning.
  
  down to the shore again
  to find a place to grieve.
  
  the place he left
  lingering.
  
  here the ropes were loosed [here
  he gave me kisses on the shore, here he left] she said
  
  and while she thought and looked and felt, looking out
  along the shore, in liquid space, she saw—far off
  not sure—a body or something in the water—
  wondered what, but then the waves pulled it by—still
  far—a body for sure.
  
  [whose?
  
  ] unknown
  but she felt sick for the shipwreck,
  wept for the stranger as a driving
  wave brought the body nearer
  and as it got bigger her soul grew smaller—now
  near, nearing land.
  
  now she could see.
  
  now she knew.
  
  it was her husband [it’s him] she breathed and
  stretched a shaking hand and tore
  her face and hair and clothes
  
  [how can you come back to me like this]
  
  in that bay a man-made pier, where the waves broke
  down she went, she leapt
  and this amazing thing: she flew,
  struck light air, bore wings compressed and turned,
  a desolate bird wave-bound
  Translated from the Latin, below____
  Translated from the Latin, below
  
  
  Mane erat: egreditur tectis ad littus; & illum
  Moesta locum repetit, de quo spectarat euntem,
  Dumque moratus ibi; dumque, Hic retinacula solvit,
  Hoc mihi discedens dedit oscula littore, dicit:
  Dumque notata oculis reminiscitur acta, fretumque
  Prospicit; in liquida spatio distante tuetur
  Nescio quid, quasi corpus, aqua; primoque, quid illud
  Esset, erat dubium.
  
  Postquam paulo appulit unda;
  Et quamvis aberat, corpus tamen esse liquebat;
  Qui foret, ignorans, quia naufragus, omine mota est;
  Et, tanquam ignoto lachrymam daret, Heu, miser, inquit,
  Quisquis es, & siqua est conjux tibi! fluctibus actum
  Fit propius corpus.
  
  Quod quo magis illa tuetur,
  Hoc minus, & minus est mentis.
  
  Iam iamque propinquae
  Admotum terrae, iam quod cognoscere posset,
  Cernit: erat conjux.
  
  Ille est, exclamat: & una
  Ora, comas, vestem lacerat: tendensque trementes
  Ad Ceyca manus, Sic, o carissime conjux,
  Sic ad me, miserande, redis?
  
  ait.
  
  Adjacet undis
  Facta manu moles: quae primas aequoris iras
  Frangit; & incursus quae praedelassat aquarium.
  
  Insilit huc: mirumque fuit potuisse; volabat:
  Percutiensque levem modo natis aera pennis,
  Stringebat summas ales miserabilis undas.

• "Either she was foul, or her attire was bad" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Either she was foul, or her attire was bad,
  Or she was not the wench I wished t’have had.
  
  Idly I lay with her, as if I loved not,
  And like a burden grieved the bed that moved not.
  
  Yet though both of us performed our true intent,
  Yet I could not cast anchor where I meant.
  
  She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,
  Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.
  
  And eagerly she kissed me with her tongue,
  And under mine her wanton thigh she flung.
  
  Yea, and she soothed me up and called me sir,
  And used all speech that might provoke and stir.
  
  Yet, like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,
  It mockèd me, hung down the head, and sunk.
  
  Like a dull cipher or rude block I lay,
  Or shade or body was I, who can say?
  
  What will my age do, age I cannot shun,
  When in my prime my force is spent and done?
  
  I blush, that being youthful, hot and lusty,
  I prove neither youth nor man, but old and rusty.
  
  Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice,
  Or one that with her tender brother lies.
  
  Yet boarded I the golden Chie twice,
  And Libas, and the white-cheeked Pitho thrice.
  
  Corinna craved it in a summer’s night,
  And nine sweet bouts we had before daylight.
  
  What, waste my limbs through some Thessalian charms?
  
  May spells and drugs do silly souls such harm?
  
  With virgin wax hath some imbaste my joints
  And pierced my liver with sharp needles’ points?
  
  Charms change corn to grass and make it die.
  
  By charms are running spring and fountains dry.
  
  By charms mast crops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,
  And fruit from trees when there’s no wind at all.
  
  Why might not then my sinews be enchanted,
  And I grow faint, as with some spirit haunted?
  
  To this add shame: shame to perform it quailed me
  And was the second cause why vigour failed me.
  
  My idle thoughts delighted her no more
  Than did the robe or garment which she wore.
  
  Yet might her touch make youthful Pylius fire
  And Tithon livelier than his years require.
  
  Even her I had, and she had me in vain;
  What might I crave more if I asked again?
  
  I think the great gods grieved they had bestowed
  The benefit which lewdly I for-slowed.
  
  I wished to be received in.
  
  In I get me
  To kiss.
  
  I kiss.
  
  To lie with her, she let me.
  
  Why was I blessed?
  
  Why made king to refuse it?
  
  Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it?
  
  So in a spring thrives he that told so much,
  And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch.
  
  Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,
  As she might straight have gone to church and prayed?
  
  Well I believe she kissed not as she should,
  Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could.
  
  Huge oaks, hard adamants might she have moved,
  And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have loved.
  
  Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
  But neither was I man, nor lived then.
  
  Can deaf ear take delight when Phaemius sings?
  
  Or Thamiras in curious painted things?
  
  What sweet thought is there but I had the same?
  
  And one gave place still as another came.
  
  Yet, notwithstanding, like one dead it lay,
  Drooping more than a rose pulled yesterday.
  
  Now, when he should not jet, he bolts upright
  And craves his task, and seeks to be at fight.
  
  Lie down with shame, and see thou stir no more,
  Seeing thou wouldst deceive me as before.
  
  Thou cozenest me, by thee surprised am I,
  And bide sore loss with endless infamy.
  
  Nay more, the wench did not disdain a whit
  To take it in her hand and play with it.
  
  But when she saw it would by no means stand,
  But still drooped down, regarding not her hand,
  ‘Why mockst thou me?
  
  ’ she cried.
  
  ‘Or, being ill,
  Who bade thee lie down here against thy will?
  
  Either thou art witch, with blood of frogs new dead,
  Or jaded camest thou from some other bed.
  
  ’
  With that, her loose gown on, from me she cast her –
  In skipping out her naked feet much graced her.
  
  And, lest her maid should know of this disgrace,
  To cover it, spilt water on the place.

• Erysichthon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Some are transformed just once
  And live their whole lives after in that shape.
  
  Others have a facility
  For changing themselves as they please.
  
  ProteusProteusA shape-shifting sea deity most famous for his role in Book 4 of Homer’sOdyssey.
  
  , who haunts the shadowy seas
  That scarf this earthThat scarf this earthDoes “scarf” here mean that the sea enwraps the earth or gulps it down?
  
  The Latin is clearer:complexi“embracing.
  
  ” But later in this poem, the voracious sea is described as draining the continents.
  
  , is glimpsed as a young man
  Who becomes of a sudden a lion
  That becomes a wild boar ripping the ground,
  
  Yet flows forward, hidden, through grass, without sound
  As a serpent, that emerges
  As a towering bull under down-bent horns,
  Or hides, among stones, a simple stone.
  
  Or stands as a tree alone.
  
  Or liquefies, and collapses, shapeless,
  Into water, a pouring river.
  
  Sometimes
  He is the river’s opposite––firefireHughes and Ovid both end their introductions to the tale with this word (ignisin Ovid’s Latin), which hints at an alternative name for Erysichthon in Greek myth: Aethon (“Burning, Blazing”).
  
  Another with a similar power
  Was Erysichthon’sdaughterdaughterNeither Ovid nor Hughes names her, though elsewhere she goes by Mestra.
  
  ,
  The wife ofAutolycusAutolycusA notorious thief and trickster of Greek myth and the maternal grandfather of Odysseus who was a strategist and survivor of the Trojan War celebrated in theOdyssey, as a master of deception.
  
  .
  
  Her father
  Gave to the gods nothing but mockery.
  
  Without a qualm he cut down every tree
  In the sacred grove ofCeresCeresThe goddess of agriculture, who when pleased provides food in abundance.
  
  ––
  An ancient wood that had never, before that day,
  Jumped to the axe’s stroke.
  
  Among those trees
  One prodigious oak was all to itself
  A tangled forest.
  
  Its boughs were bedecked with wreaths
  And votive tributes––each for a prayer
  
  Ceres had sometime granted.
  
  DryadsDryadsMinor female tree deities, who some believed lived and died with their respective trees.
  
  there
  Danced a holy circle around its bole
  Or joined hands to embrace it––
  A circumference of twenty paces.
  
  Erysichthon ignores all this as
  He assesses the volume of its timber,
  Then orders his men to fell it.
  
  Seeing their reluctance, he roars:
  
  “If this tree were your deity, that every clown adores,
  And not merely a tree you think she favours,
  Nevertheless, those twigs away there at the top
  Would have to come down now, as the rest falls.
  
  ”
  
  He snatches an axe––and hauls
  The weight of the broad head up and back.
  
  But in that moment, as the blade hangs
  Poised for the first downstroke, shudderings
  
  Swarm through the whole tree, to its outermost twigs
  And a groan bursts from the deep grain.
  
  At the same time
  Every bough goes grey––every leaf
  
  Whitens, and every acorn whitens.
  
  Then the bladebitesbitesThe biting imagery is Hughes’s addition, looking ahead to the tale’s theme of hunger.
  
  The Latin (literally translated): “his impious hand made a wound in the trunk.
  
  ”and the blood leaps
  As from the neck of a great bull when it drops
  Under the axe at the altar.
  
  Everybody stares paralysed.
  
  Only one man protests.
  
  TheThessalianThessalianErysichthon is king of Thessaly, an especially fertile region of the ancient Greek mainland.
  
  Erysichthon turns with eyes stretched
  Incredulous.
  
  “Your pious cares,” he bellows,
  
  “Are misplaced.
  
  ” And he follows
  That first swing at the oak with another
  At the protester’s neck, whose head
  Spins through the air and bounces.
  
  Then the oak, as he turns back to it, pronounces,
  In a clear voice, these words:
  “I live in this tree.
  
  I am anymphnymphAny of a variety of minor Greek deities closely tied to natural features such as trees (like the dryad speaking here), mountains, or bodies of water.
  
  ,
  Beloved by Ceres, the goddess.
  
  “With my last breath, I curse you.
  
  As this oak
  Falls on the earth, your punishment
  Will come down on you with all its weight.
  
  That is my consolation.
  
  And your fate.
  
  ”
  
  Erysichthon ignored her.
  
  He just kept going,
  Undercutting the huge trunk, till ropes
  Brought the whole mass down, jolting the earth,
  Devastating the underbrush around it.
  
  All the nymphs of the sacred grove mourned it.
  
  Dressed in black, they came to Ceres,
  Crying for the criminal to be punished,
  Bewailing the desecration.
  
  The goddess listened.
  
  Then the summer farms, the orchards, the vineyards,
  The whole flushed, ripening harvest, shivered
  As she pondered how to make his death
  A parable of her anger.
  
  If his cruelty, greed, arrogance
  Had left him a single drop of human feeling
  What the goddess did now
  Would have drained mankind of its pity.
  
  She condemned him
  To Hunger––
  But infinite, insatiable Hunger,
  The agony of Hunger as a frenzy.
  
  Destiny has separated Hunger
  So far from the goddess of abundance
  They can never meet; therefore Ceres
  Commissioned a mountain spirit, anoreadoreadCeres ventures outside her divine agricultural sphere in calling on a mountain nymph because the destination of this mission will prove to be a mountain.
  
  :
  
  “Hear what I say and do not be afraid.
  
  Far away to the north ofScythiaScythiaA region extending across the north of the Black Sea, exaggerated in Greek myth as a frozen wasteland at the edge of the earth.
  
  This description of Scythia bears striking resemblance to Ovid’s depictions elsewhere of Tomis, the town on the Black Sea to which the Roman emperor Augustus exiled him.
  
  Lies a barren country, leafless, dreadful:
  Ice permanent as iron, air that aches.
  
  “A howling land of rocks, gales and snow.
  
  There mad Hunger staggers.
  
  Go.
  
  Bid Hunger
  Take possession of Erysichthon’s belly.
  
  Tell her she has power over all my powers
  
  “To nourish Erysichthon.
  
  Let all I pour
  Or push down this fool’s gullet only deepen
  His emptiness.
  
  Go.
  
  My dragon-drawn chariot
  Will make the terrific journey seem slight.
  
  ”
  
  The nymph climbed away and her first halt
  Was the top ofCaucasusCaucasusA prominent mountain on the northeast shore of the Black Sea, in the extreme east of Scythia.
  
  .
  
  She soon found Hunger raking with her nails
  To bare the root of a tiny rock-wort
  
  Till her teeth could catch and tear it.
  
  In shape and colour her face was a skull, blueish.
  
  Her lips a stretched hole of frayed leather
  Over bleeding teeth.
  
  Her skin
  
  So glossy and so thin
  You could see the internal organs through it.
  
  Her pelvic bone was like a bare bone.
  
  The stump wings of her hip bones splayed open.
  
  As she bowed, her rib-cage swung from her backbone
  In a varnish of tissue.
  
  Her ankle joints
  And her knee joints were huge bulbs, ponderous, grotesque,
  On her spindly shanks.
  
  The oread
  
  Knew danger when she saw it.
  
  She proclaimed
  The command of the goddess from a safe distance.
  
  The whole speech only took a minute or so––
  Yet a swoon of hunger left her trembling.
  
  She got away fast.
  
  All the way back to Thessaly
  She gave the dragons their headShe gave the dragons their headA rider pulls a horse’s reins to slow or stop the animal, so the opposite, “giving horses their head,” means relaxing the reins to achieve a full gallop.
  
  .
  
  Now hear me.
  
  Though Hunger lives only in opposition
  To Ceres, yet she obeys her.
  
  She soars through darkness
  Across the earth, to the house of Erysichthon
  And bends above the pillow where his face
  
  Snores with open mouth.
  
  Her skeletal embrace goes around him.
  
  Her shrunk mouth clamps over his mouth
  And she breathes
  
  Into every channel of his body
  A hurricane of starvation.
  
  The job done, she vanishes,
  She hurtles away, out of the lands of plenty,
  
  As if sucked back
  Into the vacuum––
  Deprivation’s hollow territories
  That belong to her, and that she belongs to.
  
  Erysichthon snores on––
  But in spite of the god of sleep’s efforts
  To comfort him, he dreams he sits at a banquet
  Where the food tastes of nothing.
  
  A nightmare.
  
  He grinds his molars on air, with a dry creaking,
  Dreaming that he grinds between his molars
  A feast of nothing, food that is like air.
  
  At last he writhes awake in convulsive
  
  Cramps of hunger.
  
  His jaws
  Seem to have their own life, snapping at air
  With uncontrollable eagerness to be biting
  Into food and swallowing––like a cat
  
  Staring at a bird out of reach.
  
  His stomach feels like a fist
  Gripping and wringing out
  The mere idea of food.
  
  He calls for food.
  
  Everything edible
  Out of the sea and earth.
  
  When it comes
  Dearth is all he sees where tables bend
  Under the spilling plenty.
  
  Emptying
  
  Bowls of heaped food, all he craves for
  Is bigger bowls heaped higher.
  
  Food
  For a whole city cannot sate him.
  
  Food
  For a whole nation leaves him faint with hunger.
  
  As every river on earth
  Pours its wealth towards ocean
  That is always sweeping for more,
  Draining the continents,
  
  And as fire grows hungrier
  The more fuel it finds,
  So, famished by food,
  The gullet of Erysichthon, gulping down
  
  Whatever its diameter can manage
  Through every waking moment,
  Spares a mouthful
  Only to shout for more.
  
  This voracity, this bottomless belly,
  As if his throat opened
  Into the void of stars,
  Engulfed his entire wealth.
  
  His every possession was converted
  To what he could devour
  Till nothing remained except a daughter.
  
  This only child deserved a better father.
  
  His last chattelHis last chattelWhy do you suppose Hughes calls Erysichthon’s daughter “chattel” (personal property), a term that has no parallel in Ovid’s version?
  
  , he cashed her in for food.
  
  He sold her, at the market.
  
  But she was far too spirited
  To stay as a bought slave.
  
  Stretching her arms towards the sea, she cried:
  “You whoravished my maidenheadravished my maidenheadThis alludes to the daughter’s previous rape by Neptune, the god of the sea.
  
  Greek myth offers many examples of mortal rape by a god or goddess, who would often, as here, also grant a special favor to their victim.
  
  , save me.
  
  ”
  Neptune knew the voice of his pretty victim
  And granted the prayer.
  
  Her new owner,
  
  Who minutes ago was admiring the girl he had bought,
  Now saw only Neptune’s art––featured
  And clothed like a fisherman.
  
  Perplexed,
  He spoke to this stranger directly.
  
  “You with your fishing tackle, hiding your barbs
  In tiny gobbets of bait––may you have good weather
  And plenty of silly fish that never notice
  The hook till it's caught them!––can you tell me
  
  “Where is the girl who was here a moment ago?
  
  Her hair loose, and dressed in the cheapest things,
  She was standing right here where her footprints––
  Look––stop, and go no further.
  
  Where is she?
  
  ”
  
  The girl guessed what the god had done for her.
  
  She smiled to hear herself asked where she might be.
  
  Then to the man parted from his money:
  “I’m sorry, my attention has been fixed
  
  “On the fish in this hole.
  
  But I promise you,
  By all the help I pray for from Neptune,
  Nobody has come along this beach
  For quite a while––and certainly no woman.
  
  ”
  
  The buyer had to believe her.
  
  He went off, baffled.
  
  The girl took one step and was back
  In her own shape.
  
  Next thing,
  She was telling her father.
  
  And he,
  
  Elated, saw business.
  
  After that
  On every market he sold her in some new shape.
  
  A trader bought a horse,
  Paid for it and found the halter empty
  
  Where a girl sat selling mushrooms.
  
  A costly parrot escaped its purchaser
  Into an orchard––where a girl picked figs.
  
  One bought an ox that vanished from its pasture
  
  Where a girl gathered cowslips.
  
  So Erysichthon’s daughter plied her talent
  For taking any shape to cheat a buyer––
  Straight and crooked alike.
  
  All to feed the famine in her father.
  
  But none of it was enough.
  
  Whatever he ate
  Maddened and tormented that hunger
  To angrier, uglier life.
  
  The life
  
  Of a monster no longer a man.
  
  And so,
  At last, the inevitable.
  
  He began to savage his own limbs.
  
  And there, at a final feast, devoured himself.

• The Rape of Europa Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Majesty is incompatible truly with love; they cohabit
  Nowhere together.
  
  The father and chief of the gods, whose right hand is
  Armed with the triple-forked lightning, who shakes the whole world with a nod, laid
  Dignity down with his sceptre, adopting the guise of a bull that
  Mixed with the cattle and lowed as he ambled around the fresh fields, a
  Beautiful animal, colored like snow that no footprint has trodden
  And which no watery south wind has melted.
  
  His muscular neck bulged,
  Dewlaps hung down from his chin; his curved horns you might think had been hand carved,
  Perfect, more purely translucent than pearl.
  
  His unthreatening brow and
  Far from formidable eyes made his face appear tranquil.
  
  Agenor's
  Daughter was truly amazed that this beautiful bull did not seem to
  Manifest any hostility.
  
  Though he was gentle she trembled at first to
  Touch him, but soon she approached him, adorning his muzzle with flowers.
  
  Then he rejoiced as a lover and, while he looked forward to hoped for
  Pleasures, he slobbered all over her hands, and could hardly postpone the
  Joys that remained.
  
  So he frolicked and bounded about on the green grass,
  Laying his snowy-white flanks on the yellowish sands.
  
  As her fear was
  Little by little diminished, he offered his chest for her virgin
  Hand to caress and his horns to be decked with fresh flowers.
  
  The royal
  Maiden, not knowing on whom she was sitting, was even so bold as
  Also to climb on the back of the bull.
  
  As the god very slowly
  Inched from the shore and the dry land he planted his spurious footprints
  Deep in the shallows.
  
  Thus swimming out farther, he carried his prey off
  Into the midst of the sea.
  
  Almost fainting with terror she glanced back,
  As she was carried away, at the shore left behind.
  
  As she gripped one
  Horn in her right hand while clutching the back of the beast with the other,
  Meanwhile her fluttering draperies billowed behind on the sea breeze.