Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/54

44 Yet I'll the melancholy Story trace; So great a Conqu'ror softens the Disgrace: Nor was it still so mean the Prize to yield, As great, and glorious to dispute the Field. Perhaps you've heard of Dëianira's Name, For all the Country spoke her Beauty's Fame. Long was the Nymph by num'rous Suiters woo'd, Each with Address his envy'd Hopes pursu'd: I joyn'd the loving Band; to gain the Fair, Reveal'd my Passion to her Father's Ear. Their vain Pretensions all the rest resign, Alcides only strove to equal mine; He boasts his Birth from Jove, recounts his Spoils, His Step-dame's Hate subdu'd, and finish'd Toils. Can Mortals then (said I) with Gods compare? Behold a God; mine is the watry Care: Through your wide Realms I take my mazy Way, Branch into Streams, and o'er the Region stray: No foreign Guest your Daughter's Charms adores, But one who rises in your native Shores. Let not his Punishment your Pity move; Is Juno's Hate an Argument for Love? Though you your Life from fair Alcmena drew; Jove's a feign'd Father, or by Fraud a true. Chuse then; confess thy Mother's Honour lost, Or thy Descent from Jove no longer boast. While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern Disdain, Nor could the Sallies of his Wrath restrain, Which thus break forth. This Arm decides our Right; Vanquish in Words, be mine the Prize in Fight. Bold he rush'd on. My Honour to maintain, I fling my verdant Garments on the Plain, My Arms stretch forth, my pliant Limbs prepare, And with bent Hands expect the furious War. O'er my sleek Skin now gather'd Dust he throws, And yellow Sand his mighty Muscles strows. Oft