Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/245

Book 14. Oh! I conjure thee, hear a Queen complain, Nor let the Sun's soft Lineage sue in vain. Whoe'er thou art, reply'd the King, forbear, None can my Passion with my Canens share. She first my ev'ry tender Wish possest, And found the soft Approaches to my Breast. In Nuptials blest, each loose Desire we shun, Nor Time can end, what Innocence begun. Think not, she cry'd, to saunter out a Life Of Form, with that domestick Drudge, a Wife; My just Revenge, dull Fool e'er long shall show What Ills we Women, if refus'd, can do: Think me a Woman, and a Lover too. From dear successful Spight we hope for Ease, Nor fail to Punish, where we fail to Please, Now twice to East she turns, as oft to West; Thrice waves her Wand, as oft a Charm exprest. On the lost Youth her magick Pow'r she tries; Aloft he springs, and wonders how he flies. On painted Plumes the Woods he seeks, and still The Monarch Oak he pierces with his Bill. Thus chang'd, no more o'er Latian Lands he reigns; Of Picus nothing but the Name remains. The Winds from drilling Damps now purge the Air, The Mist subsides, the settling Skies are fair: The Court their Sov'reign seek with Arms in Hand, They threaten Circe, and their Lord demand. Quick she invokes the Spirits of the Air, And twilight Elves, that on dun Wings repair To Charnels, and th' unhallow'd Sepulcher. Now, strange to tell, the Plants sweat Drops of Blood, The Trees are toss'd from Forests where they stood; Blue Serpents o'er the tainted Herbage slide, Pale glaring Spectres on the Æther ride; Dogs howl, Earth yawns, rent Rocks forsake their Beds, And from their Quarries heave their stubborn Heads. The