Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/126

112 Soon as her frantick Eye the Lyrist spy'd, See, see! the Hater of our Sex, she cry'd. Then at his Face her missive Javelin sent, Which whiz'd along, and brusht him as it went; But the soft Wreaths of Ivy twisted round, Prevent a deep Impression of the Wound. Another, for a Weapon, hurls a Stone, Which, by the Sound subdu'd as soon as thrown, Falls at his Feet, and with a seeming Sense Implores his Pardon for its late Offence. But now their frantick Rage unbounded grows, Turns all to Madness, and no Measure knows: Yet this the Charms of Musick might subdue, But that, with all its Charms, is conquer'd too; In louder Strains their hideous Yellings rise, And squeaking Horn-pipes eccho thro' the Skies, Which, in hoarse Consort with the Drum, confound The moving Lyre, and ev'ry gentle Sound: Then 'twas the deafen'd Stones flew on with Speed, And saw, unsooth'd, their tuneful Poet bleed. The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Savage Crew Which the sweet Lyrist to Attention drew, Now, by the Female Mob's more furious Rage, Are driv'n, and forc'd to quit the shady Stage. Next their fierce Hands the Bard himself assail, Nor can his Song against their Wrath prevail: They flock, like Birds; when, in a clustring Flight, By Day they chase the boding Fowl of Night. So, crowded Amphitheatres survey The Stag to greedy Dogs a future Prey, Their steely Javelins, which soft Curls entwine Of budding Tendrils from the leafy Vine, For sacred Rites of mild Religion made, Are flung promiscuous at the Poet's Head. Those Clods or Earth of Flints discharge, and these Hurl prickly Branches sliver'd from the Trees. And,