Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/95

Book 10. Down with his masquerading Wings he flies, And bears the little Trojan to the Skies; Where now, in Robes of heav'nly Purple drest, He serves the Nectar at th' Almighty's Feast. To slighted Juno an unwelcome Guest.

Phœbus for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd A Place among the Gods, had Fate been kind: Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry Rains Are past, and vernal Breezes sooth the Plains, From the green Turf a purple Flow'r you rise, And with your fragrant Breath perfume the Skies, You when alive were Phœbus' darling Boy; In you he plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his Joy: Their God the Delphic Priests consult in vain; Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta's Plain: His Hands the use of Bow, and Harp forget, And hold the Dogs, or bear the corded Net; O'er hanging Cliffs swift he pursues the Game; Each Hour his Pleasure, each Day augments his Flame. The mid-day Sun now shone with equal Light Between the past, and the succeeding Night; They strip, then, smooth'd with suppling Oyl, essay To pitch the rounded Quoit, their wonted Play: A well pois'd Disk first hasty Phœbus threw, It cleft the Air, and whistled as it flew; It reach'd the Mark, a most surprizing Length; Which spoke an equal Share of Art, and Strength. Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager Hand Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the Sand; But the curst Orb, which met a stony Soil, Flew in his Face with violent Recoil. Both