Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/32

24 Had I a hundred Tongues, a Wit so large As could their hundred Offices discharge; Had Phæbus all his Helicon bestow'd In all the Streams inspiring all the God; Those Tongues, that Wit, those Streams, that God in vain Would offer to describe his Sisters Pain: They beat their Breasts with many a bruizing Blow, Till they turn livid, and corrupt the Snow. The Corps they cherish, while the Corps remains, And exercise, and rub with fruitless Pains; And when to fun'ral Flames 'tis born away, They kiss the Bed on which the Body lay: And when those fun'ral Flames no longer burn, (The Dust compos'd within a pious Urn) Ev'n in that Urn their Brother they confess, And hug it in their Arms, and to their Bosoms press. His Tomb is rais'd; then, stretch'd along the Ground, Those living Monuments his Tomb surround: Ev'n to that Name, inscrib'd, their Tears they pay, Till Tears, and Kisses wear his Name away. But Cynthia now had all her Fury spent, Not with less Ruin than a Race content: Excepting Gorgè, perish'd all the Seed, And her whom Heav'n for Hercules decreed. Satiate at last, no longer she persu'd The weeping Sisters; but with Wings endu'd, And horny Beaks, and sent to flit in Air; Who yearly round the Tomb in feather'd Flocks repair.

Theseus mean while acquitting well his share In the bold Chace confed'rate like a War, To