Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/58

48 Yet Kindred should thy lawless Lust deny; Think not perfidious Wretch, from me to fly, Tho wing'd with Horse's speed; Wounds shall persue; Swift as his Words the fatal Arrow flew: The Centaur's Back admits the Feather'd Wood, And thro' his Breast the barbed Weapon stood; Which when in Anguish, thro' the Flesh he tore From both the Wounds gush'd forth the spumy Gore. Mix'd with Lernæan Venom; this he took, Nor dire Revenge his dying Breast forsook. His Garment, in the reeking Purple dy'd, To rouse Love's Passion, he presents the Bride.

Now a long interval of Time succeeds, When the great Son of Jove's immortal Deeds, And Stepdame's Hate had fill'd Earth's utmost round; He from OEchalia, with new Lawrels crown'd, In Triumph was return'd. He Rites prepares, And to the King of Gods directs his Pray'rs; When Fame (who Falshood cloaths in Truth's Disguise, And swells her little Bulk with growing Lies) Thy tender Ear, O Dejanira, mov'd, That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd. Her Love believes the Tale; the Truth She fears Of his new Passion, and gives way to Tears. The flowing Tears diffus'd her wretched Grief. Why seek I thus, from streaming Eyes, Relief? She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless Cares, The Harlot will but triumph in thy Tears: Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's Time; My Bed not conscious of a Rival's Crime. In Silence shall I mourn or loud complain? Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain? What