Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/274

192 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 Procné'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 prepared 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. Awhile, 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