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Rh Whom, seated on their thrones of gold,

They saw the splendid gifts unfold.

Thus every care and labour past,

Rewarded by the fostering love

That guards the favour'd sons of Jove,

Their drooping hearts were raised at last.

But Cadmus, in a later age,

By his three daughters' wretched fate,

Their awful death and frantic rage,

Fell from his bless'd paternal state;

When Father Jove, in radiant flame,

To thy sweet couch, fair-arm'd Thyone, came.

While Peleus' offspring, whom on Phthia's shore

Her only son, immortal Thetis bore,

Burn'd on the funeral pyre, in cries of grief

Compell'd the Greeks to mourn their slaughter'd chief.

Whoever then of mortal kind

To certain truth directs his mind,

Let him with grateful heart enjoy

What good the blessed gods bestow:

His shortlived pleasures to destroy

Soon will the adverse tempests blow.

How great soe'er, it speeds away,

Though rushing with the tempest's sway.