Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/56

46 Smiles at my Threats; Such Foes my Cradle knew, He cries, dire Snakes my Infant Hand o'erthrew; A Dragon's Form might other Conquests gain, To war with me you take that Shape in vain. Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's Length, Who by his Wounds receiv'd augmented Strength? He rais'd a hundred hissing Heads in Air, When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful Pair. By his Wounds fertile, and with Slaughter strong, Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along. What canst thou do, a Form precarious, prone, To rouse my Rage with Terrors not thy own? He said; and round my Neck his Hands he cast, And with his straining Fingers wrung me fast; My Throat he tortur'd, close as Pincers clasp, In vain I strove to loose the forceful Grasp. Thus vanquish'd too, a third Form still remains, Chang'd to a Bull, my Lowing fills the Plains. Strait on the Left his nervous Arms were thrown Upon my brindled Neck, and tugg'd it down; Then deep he struck my Horn into the Sand, And fell'd my Bulk among the dusty Land. Nor yet his Fury cool'd; 'twixt Rage and Scorn, From my maim'd Front he tore the stubborn Horn: This, heap'd with Flow'rs and Fruits, the Naiads bear, Sacred to Plenty, and the bounteous Year. He spoke; when lo, a beauteous Nymph appears, Girt like Diana's Train, with flowing Hairs; The Horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd, And ruddy Apples for the second Board. Now Morn begins to dawn, the Sun's bright Fire Gilds the high Mountains and the Youths retire; Nor stay'd they, till the troubled Stream subsides, And in it's Bounds with peaceful Current glides. But Acheloüs in his oozy Bed Deep hides his Brow deform'd, and rustick Head: No