Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/30

22 Take then, dear Ghosts, (while yet admitted new In Hell you wait my Duty) take your Due: A costly Off'ring on your Tomb is laid, When with my Blood the Price of yours is paid. Ah! whither am I hurry'd? Ah! forgive, Ye Shades, and let your Sister's Issue live: A Mother cannot give him Death; tho' he Deserves it, he deserves it not from me. Then shall th' unpunish'd Wretch insult the Slain, Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign? While you, thin Shades, the sport of Winds, are tost O'er dreary Plains, or tread the burning Coast. I cannot, cannot bear; 'tis past 'tis done; Perish this Impious, this detested Son: Perish his Sire, and perish I withal; And let the House's Heir, and the hop'd Kingdom fall. Where is the Mother fled, her pious Love, And where the Pains with which ten Months I strove! Ah! hadst thou dy'd, my Son, in tender Years, Thy little Herse had been bedew'd with Tears. Thou liv'st by me; to me thy Breath resign; Mine is the Merit, the Demerit thine. Thy Life by double Title I require, Once giv'n at Birth, and once preserv'd from Fire: One Murder pay, to add one Murder more, And me to them who fell by thee restore. I would, but cannot: My Son's Image stands Before my Sight; and now their angry Hands My Brothers hold, and Vengeance these exact, This pleads Compassion, and repents the Fact. He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his Doom: My Brothers, though unjustly, shall o'ercome. But having paid their Injur'd Ghosts their Due, My Son requires my Death, and mine shall his persue. At this, for the last Time, she lifts her Hand, Averts her Eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the Brand. The