Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/272

190 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 Procné's Hand. The Slave, with Speed, the Queen's Apartment sought, And rendered up his Charge, unknowing what he brought. But