Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/153

Book 11. Think not, that flying Fame reports my Fate; I present, I appear, and my own Wreck relate. Rise, wretched Widow, rise; nor undeplor'd Permit my Soul to pass the Stygian Ford; But rise, prepar'd in Black, to mourn thy perish'd Lord. Thus said the Player-God; and adding Art Of Voice and Gesture, so perform'd his Part, She thought (so like her Love the Shape appears) That Ceyx spake the Words, and Ceyx shed the Tears; She groan'd, her inward Soul with Grief opprest, She sigh'd, she wept, and sleeping beat her Breast; Then stretch'd her Arms t'embrace his Body bare; Her clasping Arms inclose but empty Air: At this, not yet awake, she cry'd, O stay; One is our Fate, and common is our Way! So dreadful was the Dream, so loud she spoke, That starting sudden up, the Slumber broke: Then cast her Eyes around, in hope to view Her vanish'd Lord, and find the Vision true: For now the Maids, who waited her Commands, Ran in with lighted Tapers in their Hands. Tir'd with the Search, not finding what she seeks, With cruel Blows she pounds her blubber'd Cheeks; Then from her beaten Breast the Linnen tare, And cut the golden Caul that bound her Hair. Her Nurse demands the Cause; with louder Cries She prosecutes her Griefs, and thus replies. No more Alcyonè; she suffer'd Death With her lov'd Lord, when Ceyx lost his Breath: No Flatt'ry, no false Comfort, give me none, My shipwreck'd Ceyx is for ever gone: I saw, I saw him manifest in View, His Voice, his Figure, and his Gestures knew: His Lustre lost, and ev'ry living Grace, Yet I retain'd the Features of his Face; Rh