Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/276

194 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 Cuttlass drew. Then Both, with Knives, dissect each quiv'ring Part, And carve the butcher'd Limbs with cruel Art; Which, whelm'd in boiling Cauldron 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 disguife, Stiles 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 Procné, 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