Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/119

Book 10. Now but a little Interval of Space Remain'd for the Decision of the Race. Fair Author of the precious Gift, he said, Be thou, O Goddess, Author of my Aid! Then of the shining Fruit the last he drew, And with his full-collected Vigour threw: The Virgin still the longer to detain, Threw not directly, but a-cross the Plain. She seem'd a-while perplex'd in dubious Thought, If the far-distant Apple should be sought: I lur'd her backward Mind to seize the Bait, And to the massie Gold gave double Weight. My Favour to my Votary was show'd, Her Speed I lessen'd, and encreas'd her Load. But least, tho' long, the rapid Race be run, Before my longer, tedious Tale is done, The Youth the Goal, and so the Virgin won. Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see His grateful Thanks pour'd out for Victory? His pious Incense on my Altars laid? But he nor grateful Thanks, nor Incense paid. Enrag'd I vow'd, that with the Youth the Fair, For his Contempt, should my keen Vengeance share; That future Lovers might my Pow'r revere, And from their sad Examples learn to fear. The silent Fanes, the sanctify'd Abodes Of Cybelé, great Mother of the Gods, Rais'd by Echion in a lonely Wood, And full of brown, religious Horror stood. By a long painful Journey faint, they chose Their weary Limbs here secret to repose. But soon my Pow'r inflam'd the lustful Boy, Careless of Rest he sought untimely Joy. A hallow'd, gloomy Cave, with Moss o'er-grown, The Temple joyn'd, of native Pumice-stone, Where