Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/121

The flying Savage, wounded, turn'd again,
Wrench'd out the gory Dart, and foam'd with Pain.
The trembling Boy by Flight his Safety sought,
And now recall'd the Lore, which Venus taught:
But now too late to fly the Boar he strove,
Who in the Groin his Tusks impetuous drove,
On the discolour'd Grass Adonis lay,
The Monster trampling o'er his beauteous Prey.
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Heard from afar his Groans, and own'd them true,
And turn'd her snowy Swans, and backward flew.
But as she saw him gasp his latest Breath,
And quiv'ring agonize in Pangs of Death,
Down with swift Flight she plung'd, nor Rage forbore,
At once her Garments, and her Hair she tore.
With cruel Blows she beat her guiltless Breast,
The Fates upbraided, and her Love confest.
Nor shall they yet (she cry'd) the Whole devour
With uncontroul'd, inexorable Pow'r:
For thee, lost Youth, my Tears and restless Pain
Shall in immortal Monuments remain.
With solemn Pomp in annual Rites return'd,
Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn'd.
Could Pluto's Queen with jealous fury storm,
And Menthé to a fragrant Herb transform?
Yet dares not Venus with a Change surprise,
And in a Flow'r bid her fall'n Hero rise;
Then on the Blood sweet Nectar she bestows,
The scented Blood in little Bubbles rose:
Little, as rainy Drops, which flutt'ring fly,
Born by the Winds, along a low'ring Sky.
Short time ensu'd, till where the Blood was shed,
A Flow'r began to rear its purple Head:
Such, as on Punick Apples is reveal'd,
Or in the filmy Rind but half conceal'd.

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