Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/234

154 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, diminutive's 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 Cyanè 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 Course shou'd fall, But, as ingrate, alike upbraids 'em 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 e'er 'tis sown, she kills. The