Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/184

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The Sire of Cygnus, Monarch of the Main, Mean time, laments his Son, in Battel slain, And vows the Victor's Death; nor vows in vain. For nine long Years the smother'd Pain he bore; (Achilles was not ripe for Fate, before:) Then when he saw the promis'd Hour was near, He thus bespoke the God, that guides the Year. Immortal Offspring of my Brother Jove; My brightest Nephew, and whom best I love, Whose Hands were join'd with mine, to raise the Wall Of tottring Troy, now nodding to her Fall, Dost thou not mourn our Pow'r employ'd in vain; And the Defenders of our City slain? To pass the rest, cou'd noble Hector lie Unpity'd, drag'd around his Native Troy? And yet the Murd'rer lives: Himself by far A greater Plague, than all the wasteful War: He lives; the proud Pelides lives, to boast Our Town destroy'd, our common Labour lost, O, could I meet him! But I wish too late: To prove my Trident is not in his Fate! But let him try (for that's allow'd) thy Dart, And pierce his only penetrable Part. Apollo bows to the superior Throne; And to his Uncle's Anger, adds his own. Then in a Cloud involv'd, he takes his Flight, Where Greeks, and Trojans mix'd in mortal Fight; And found out Paris, lurking where he stood, And stain'd his Arrows with Plebeian Blood: Phœbus to him alone the God confess'd, Then to the recreant Knight, he thus address'd. Dost thou not blush, to spend thy Shafts in vain On a degenerate, and ignoble Train? If