Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/139

Book 11. Possess'd he was of all his Father's Slight, At Will made White look black, and black look white. Philammon born to Phœbus, like his Sire, The Muses lov'd, and finely struck the Lyre, And made his Voice, and Touch in Harmony conspire. In vain, fond Maid, you boast this double Birth, The Love of Gods, and Royal Father's Worth, And Jove among your Ancestors rehearse! Could Blessings such as these e'er prove a Curse? To her they did, who with audacious Pride, Vain of her own, Diana's Charms decry'd. Her Taunts the Goddess with resentment fill; My Face you like not, you shall try my Skill. She said; and strait her vengeful Bow she strung, And sent a Shaft that pierc'd her guilty Tongue: The bleeding Tongue in vain its Accents tries; In the red Stream her Soul reluctant flies. With Sorrow wild I ran to her Relief, And try'd to moderate my Brother's Grief, He, deaf as Rocks by stormy Surges beat, Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat. When on the Fun'ral Pile he saw her laid, Thrice he to rush into the Flames assay'd, Thrice with officious Care by us was stay'd. Now, mad with Grief, away he fled amain, Like a stung Heifer that resents the Pain, And bellowing wildly Bounds along the Plain. O'er the most rugged Ways so fast he ran, He seem'd a Bird already, not a Man: He left us breathless all behind; and now In quest of Death had gain'd Parnassus' Brow: But when from thence headlong himself he threw, He fell not, but with airy Pinions flew. Phœbus in Pity chang'd him to a Fowl, Whose crooked Beak and Claws the Birds controul Little of Bulk, but of a warlike Soul. A