At this the waken'd Image op'd her Eyes,
And view'd at once the Light, and Lover with Surprize.
The Goddess present at the Match she made,
So bless'd the Bed, such fruitfulness convey'd,
That e're ten Months had sharpen'd either Horn,
To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;
Paphos his Name, who grown to Manhood, wall'd
The City Paphos, from the Founder call'd.
The Story of Cynyras and Myrrha.
Nor him alone produc'd the fruitful Queen;
But Cinyras, who like his Sire had been
A happy Prince, had he not been a Sire.
Daughters, and Fathers from my Song retire;
I sing of Horror; and could I prevail,
You shou'd not hear or not believe my Tale.
Yet if the Pleasure of my Song be such,
That you will hear, and credit me too much,
Attentive listen to the last Event,
And with the Sin believe the Punishment:
Since Nature cou'd behold so dire a Crime,
I gratulate at least my Native Clime,
That such a Land, which such a Monster bore,
So far is distant from our Thracian Shore.
Let Araby extol her happy Coast,
Her Cinamon, and sweet Amomum boast,
Her fragrant Flow'rs, her Trees with precious Tears,
Her second Harvest, and her double Years;
How can the Land be call'd so bless'd that Myrrha bears?
Nor all her od'rous Tears can cleanse her Crime,
Her Plant alone deforms the happy Clime:
Cupid denies to have inflam'd thy Heart,
Disowns thy Love, and vindicates his Dart:
Some Fury gave thee those infernal Pains,
And shot her venom'd Vipers in thy Veins.
