To me, tho' pow'rful in a num'rous Train
Of Sisters, Sprung from Gods, who rule the Main,
My native Seas could scarce a Refuge prove,
To shun the Fury of the Cyclops' Love.
Tears choak'd her Utt'rance here; the pity'ng Maid
With Marble Fingers wip'd them off, and said;
My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know,
(For I am faithful) whence these Sorrows flow.
The Maid's Intreaties o'er the Nymph yrevail,
Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful Tale.
The Story of Acis, Polyphemus,
and Galathea.
By Mr. Dryden.
Acis, the lovely Youth, whose Loss I mourn,
From Faunis, and the Nymph Symethis born,
Was both his Parent's Pleasure; but, to me
Was all that Love could make a Lover be.
The Gods our Minds in mutual Bands did join:
I was his only Joy, and he was mine.
Now sixteen Summers the sweet Youth had seen;
And doubtful Down began to shade his Chin:
When Polyphemus first disturb'd our Joy;
And lov'd me fiercely, as I lov'd the Boy.
Ask not which Passion in my Soul was high'r,
My last Aversion, or my first Desire:
Nor this the greater was, nor that the less;
Both were alike, for both were in Excess.
Thee, Venus, thee, both Heav'n, and Earth obey;
Immense thy Pow'r, and boundless is thy Sway.
