Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 1) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/94

22 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 Forests, all their Pow'rs I know; And am the great Physician call'd, below. Alas that Fields and Forests 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 fails. 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 Complement: But led by Love, and fir'd by 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